Laurel let out a soft laugh, her tone bold and unapologetic：
“Mr. Henson, I get that you want to keep up the single-guy act in front of your girlfriend, but you can't take the rest of us for fools.”
“You live right upstairs in this building. You bring your son in here every few days for dessert. Every single time, that boy calls you 'Daddy' right in front of us. Every one of us on staff has seen it with our own eyes!”
The moment she finished, the other staff members nodded along：
“Exactly. You and your son are regulars here. We all know you.”
“Mr. Henson, you run your own company. Twenty thousand dollars is pocket change for a man like you, barely the cost of one dinner. Are you really going to stiff us?”
“Seriously. Denying your own kid over twenty grand? If your son found out, imagine how heartbroken he'd be.”
Twenty thousand dollars wasn't much to me. That was true.
But this wasn't about the money.
I wasn't about to let anyone play me for a fool.
And I sure as hell wasn't going to claim some nonexistent son.
Watching these employees back each other up in perfect harmony, I felt the frustration coiling tighter in my chest. None of it made sense.
This café was right downstairs from my building. I came here for coffee all the time. Every face on staff was familiar to me.
But I always came alone.
So why were all of them insisting, in unison, that I had a son?
I swept a hard look across the staff. Every single one of them met my gaze with steady, open eyes.
As if every word they'd said was the honest truth.
But the more convincing they looked, the more certain I became that something was very wrong.
I pointed at the security camera mounted in the upper-right corner of the café：
“You have cameras in here, don't you?”
“Since you all claim I bring my son in every few days for dessert, pull up the footage. Let everyone see for themselves.”
Laurel answered without missing a beat：
“Any regular would tell you our cameras have been broken for six months. We just haven't gotten around to calling someone to fix them. There's nothing to pull up.”
Six months. How convenient.
I had only moved into this building six months ago.
After moving in, I started coming to this café regularly.
And according to Laurel, the cameras had broken six months ago.
Which meant from the very first time I set foot in this place, that camera had never recorded me.
Which made everything Laurel claimed completely unverifiable.
I looked at her and pressed on：
“Fine. If there's no footage, then can you at least tell me how old this supposed son of mine is? What's his name? What does he look like?”
Laurel answered almost instantly：
“Your son is ten this year. We don't know his full name, but you always call him Brent.”
“He looks just like you. Fair skin, tall and slim for his age. Very handsome.”
She rattled it off like she'd rehearsed it, but the more I listened, the more absurd it sounded.
Ten years old.
Fair skin.
Tall and slim.
Those descriptions fit half the kids in any school. She was clearly being vague on purpose.
I didn't call her out. Instead, I kept going：
“Then when exactly did he rack up nearly twenty thousand dollars here? Under what circumstances?”
Laurel didn't hesitate：
“Last weekend. He brought his entire class in and ordered a ton of cakes, ice cream, and juice.”
“Here, look. This is the receipt from that day. Nineteen thousand nine hundred dollars. Add in the two coffees you ordered today, and that's an even twenty thousand.”
As she spoke, Laurel pulled a long receipt from beneath the register and waved it in front of my face.
The smug look on her face said it all. She thought she'd already won.
