On the third floor of an old-fashioned building in a city called Bronsted, there was a door from which hung a sign. This sign, like the others on the floor and in the building, bore the name of the current occupant as well as his profession. The door it was on was made of dark wood, framed by equally rich material. The knob was darkened with age, but obviously had a brass glimmer in its earlier years. The upper half of the wooden walls were covered with old striped, pale yellow wallpaper that had stood up against time remarkably well. The wood showing below the wallpaper was of a sandy coloring. The floor was thinly carpeted with a layer of maroon rug with detail done parallel and one inch from the edge.

The sign on the door of office number 313 was simple: black text on a white background. It was framed by wood of a lighter shade than that of the door, and a transparent, rectangular piece of plastic covered as well as kept in place the piece of paper with the text on it. At first glance the sign could easily be passed by and allowed to go unnoticed. But for the short-haired, round-faced blonde woman walking down the hall that day, it was the only thing she could see. She was, in fact, looking for the man whose office was behind this door. She seeked his services. When she found the door she put the card she'd been holding in her purse and took a deep breath. Then without giving herself a chance to doubt what she was doing, she opened it, stepped inside, and closed it quickly behind her.

The sign read, "Alan Fulbright; Private Investigator."

The rays of the afternoon sun found no obstruction in the glass window of the café on Judd Street. At one of the tables nearest this window sat a woman in her late twenties and a man who looked slightly older. The woman's hair was shoulder-length and blonde, her skin was fair, and her eyes were a chocolate mahogany. The man's hair was black and short, his skin was fair, and his eyes were a green that hinted at amber. They each had coffee cups near them, and between them on the round table were papers. The woman rested an arms on a closed laptop computer as she sipped from her white porcelain cup and listened to what the man was saying, occasionally nodding in agreement.

"Mr. Fulbright?"

Back in office 313, a man who looked to be in his early thirties looked up from his paperwork at the front desk. He had dark, curly hair and gray-blue eyes.

"Yes. What can I do for you?" he asked, stepping out from behind the desk and walking to stand in front of the woman.

"My name is Grace Janson," the blue-eyed woman said determinedly. She tucked a strand of her loose blonde hair behind her ear. "I need your help with something."

Alan nodded, smiling politely. He gestured to a door to his left.

"Right this way."

Once he and Grace were inside he closed the door.

"Take a seat," he said, extending his hand to a comfortable-looking chair in front of a desk made of dark wood.

He sat in an impossibly comfortable high-backed chair behind the cluttered desk and leaned forward, resting his arms on a few papers and his desktop calendar.

"What's this you need help with?"

Grace pulled her wallet out of her purse and proceeded to search for a picture. When she found it she leaned forward and showed it to him. It was a picture of a woman who looked a like a younger version of herself with the man who, later that day, would be sitting at the coffee shop with the woman with the laptop.

"That's my sister's fiancé, Edward Banker," she said, not even hinting at smiling or being polite.

Alan looked from the picture to Grace and back to the picture, waiting for her to go on.

"I have reason to believe he's seeing someone else."

"And these reasons are?" Alan asked, dark eyebrows raised.

Grace non-too-gently took her wallet back and snapped it shut.

"I've seen her. The woman he's with." She rolled her eyes. "She's obviously a —"

"Has Edward been acting suspiciously lately?" He leaned back in his chair, glad at having cut this woman off before he had to hear offensive comments.

Grace sighed loudly and rolled her eyes again.

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't think that, would I?" she half-snapped, placing her wallet back in her purse and closing the latter. "He's been 'going out to meet a co-worker' for three weeks now. Sometimes during the day, sometimes in the evening. Oh, sure, he's never broken a date with Jen, but he has been late a few times. And his excuses are always work-related."

"What does Edward do for a living?"

"He's a meteorologist. He's on the news at different times."

"Well…" Alan took his original position leaning forward again, sighing as he made the movement. "How can you be sure he isn't just meeting co-workers?"

"My God. Are you an idiot? Haven't you been listening to what I've been saying? I've — seen — her. And I've seen him with her."

Grace folded her arms over her chest and cast a half-glare at the man.

"You don't have to question my reasons anyway. I am the one employing you. So you had better do your job."

She pulled a white envelope from her purse and set it on top of a pile of papers on Alan's desk.

"I want you to follow Ed around. Take pictures. I want to confront him about this, since Jen's obviously not going to be doing that any time soon. My cell number's in there so you can contact me once you've got the photos."

Obviously trying to keep back an array of generally mean ways to make the woman leave, Alan took the envelope, opened it, and eyed its contents. Satisfied, he closed and pocketed it and stood. Grace followed suit. He walked around his desk, opened the door, and gestured for the blonde to exit the room, which she did. He followed and closed the door behind them.

He smiled at her as he held out his hand. She took it and he shook it lightly.

"I'll get the job done, Ms. Janson." He released her hand. "Don't worry about a thing."

Grace eyed him up and down, looking unsure.

"I'll be expecting your call soon."

She didn't see him nod because she left quickly after that, finally giving Alan the chance to roll his eyes and sigh.

"I love my job."

"I'm telling you, Claire, it's not gonna be raining tonight."

Claire Atkins laughed into her cup and put it down on the table, next to her laptop. She smiled wryly, her eyes slightly more than half open, looking up and lowering her head a bit for effect.

"No, no, no, Banker," she gently chided. "Sometimes what you see isn't what you get — and you know this."

He smiled and set a few papers on top of a small stack of print-outs of maps as if in defiance.

"No way," he said. "You're not getting this one right. There's just no way anyone can be that accurate all the time."

Claire laughed out loud.

"You're just angry because you haven't been able to win a bet on your own all week!"

"Hey, I just follow the figures. And more often than not they're right! It's why people trust me."

"That's part of the problem right there."

Edward Banker held the woman in front of him in a mock glare.

"No, Atkins — there's no way you're right. Not tonight. I can feel it," he firmly stated.

Claire sat back in her chair and crossed her arms.

"Tell you what: I'll let you tell me if it's going to be a thunderstorm or just a shower, hm?"

Edward opened his mouth to speak, pointing a finger in Claire's direction, then thought twice about what he was going to say and made a fist on which he rested his chin, his elbow supporting him on the table. His gaze was cast upward in thought.

"Thunderstorm," he said finally and suddenly, looking straight into Claire's eyes. "But that's assuming you're right, which you aren't."

She chuckled and shrugged.

"I give up," she said and placed her hands flat on the table, leaning forward as she did so. "I can't change your mind — but the weather will."

"Just you wait, Claire," Edward said challengingly. "All your 'intuition' stuff is going to get you nowhere, and I'm going to prove it to you."

"Ha! That'll be the day." She shook her head while laughing a bit. He did the same.

<FIX>
At a table across the room from them sat Alan Fulbright. He snapped yet another photo of the half-bickering pair, all the while pretending he was photographing a painting that hung on the wall next to them.

It was impossible to hear what they were discussing from where he sat. He had very little experience in lip reading, so he resorted to reading their expressions.

Reluctant though he was to admit it to himself, it seemed as though Grace was right about Edward's questionable actions.