"So who's my target this week?" Emma questioned as she strolled into the small office space, tugging her leather jacket off and hanging it on the coat rack. "Deadbeat? Some adultery scandal? Come on make it good. That last case was a bust."
Benny laughed at her enthusiasm, "It's going to be a golden case for you. You might get to use some of your old skill set too." He passed the file to her, "Lorcan Morrissey, priest. A few agencies have him out for probable grand theft and identity theft."
"It's always the fucking Irish." Emma said briskly, flicking through the manila folder. Her brows creased together and she looked up, "How the hell am I supposed to know who he is? There's no picture." There was just a pretty non-specific description of the man that could have been anyone really.
"No one has got a decent shot of him. He's pretty evasive. I'm going to need you to attend the mass at the cathedral he's "working" at. Get as cozy as you can and catch him in the act."
"Great, get cozy with a priest." Emma narrowed her eyes as she read the file over again, "Is he old?"
"It's on the next page. He's thirty-two, so it would seem. It's pretty hard to nail down a definite description and write up of him, he's changed his identity a few times, moved around, and we need to be certain that this is our guy before we go in for the kill. So to speak."
She rolled her chair up to her desk, throwing the file on top of it. "Right, so I need to attend mass? When is that?"
"It's at six tonight."
"That's short notice." Emma's brows furrowed together, but there was a complete lack of care on her face. She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms across her chest. "August will just have to see the movie alone."
"Did he finally get you on a date?"
She snorted, "Only in his dreams." There was no way in hell that that was ever happening. She was long past being interested in dating anyone. It seemed if she got to that point, all hell broke loose for her and she needed a roommate to foot the bill, "So I've got two hours until I go to hell… I mean church."
Benny laughed, tucking a pencil behind his ear as he rolled his chair around to face the blond, "Not a church goer I see. Don't they, like, make you go to church when you're in prison? To reform you and all of that shit?"
Emma gave him an incredulous look, "It's not mandatory. You only go if you want to. I didn't want too." She hadn't been in a church in nigh close to ten years. And she had never planned to go back into a church until now. "Hell, I think I have some of those beads back at my place. I should swing by and pick them up. Add to the authenticity of the whole thing."
"They're called Rosary beads. And why do you have Rosary beads?"
"Ex." Emma said bluntly, giving the man a wary look. One that told him not to delve any deeper into that case file. She was a closed book on a lot of details of her past. He knew, obviously, that'd she'd been to jail for being a thief, but anything past that he could only assume and fill in the blanks.
"So are you taking this job then?" He questioned, avoiding the topic of her emphasis 'ex'. She'd mentioned him, offhandedly a few times, something about him being Irish – thus the reason for her vehement hate for an entire nation – and that he was a selfish asshole, and now clearly Catholic on top of it all.
Emma rose to her feet, leaning over and pressing her palms against the top of her desk, "I really have nothing better going on. Plus, I get to avoid August trying to make a move in a dark movie theatre."
"But that ruins the fun of shouting incest at him."
"Oh, it does ruin that." Emma snapped her fingers together, feigning disappointment. "There will be another chance for that. He never gives it a rest."
"You know you'll end up married to him right. With like four kids." Benny tucked his arms behind his head, leaning back in his chair as he let out a cackle of a laugh.
"You know, I thought hell would freeze over if I went to church again, but clearly it will actually freeze over if I end up with him." She walked backwards towards the door, snatching her jacket up as she went. "I'm going to hit the diner over by the cathedral, then get my ass into a pew and play church."
"Don't do anything God would be ashamed of."
"You mean I have to stop being Emma?"
The cathedral was on the good side of the city – the side that Emma made a concentrated effort not to go to, because it was nice and she didn't deserve nice things. She was a masochist, through and through – convinced, thanks to her past that she was pretty much set to fail. At everything. With everyone. It didn't matter what it was, but eventually it would have to come to an end. She'd break it off; because she'd sooner die rather than let someone else leave her.
In the shadow of the gothic revival cathedral's steeple, which was tarnished by the exhaust of cars, sat a small little diner. It gave the appearance of a mom and pop joint, the quintessential burger with fries and a milk shake sort of place. But Emma was pretty certain she'd seen it featured on that Diners, Dives, and Drive-Thrus show on FoodNetwork, which gave her the impression that she was going to have to pay a hefty price for a slab of cheese wedged between two slices of bread.
She stepped inside, hands tucked into her pockets as she looked around the space. It had little trinkets lining the walls, those tacky ketchup and muster containers, and a diamond print linoleum floor.
Not exactly the sort of place she ate at.
"Will that be a table or booth?"
The voice jarred Emma back into reality and she turned around to face the brunette waitress standing in front of her, "Can I just sit up at the counter?"
The waitress' lips parted and she nodded her head towards the small group behind her, "Oh, I thought you were with them. Right this way then." She snatched up a menu and walked Emma to the counter, laying it down in front of her seat. "Sorry about that." It was clear to Emma that the waitress was trying to tone down the British accent that bled through in her words, no doubt a mandatory aspect of the job. Not wanting to ruin the illusion of the 60's diner for customers.
"It's fine." Emma gave a tightlipped smile as she sat down on the stool, looking back to the group she'd been mistaken for being with. They were around her age, two men and a woman – clearly the one man was the third wheel in the situation. But they looked professional, dressed in nice business clothes, clean pressed, and she really didn't see how her rumpled blouse and jeans meshed with what they had on. "Nope, I'm alone." Which meant far more than just the fact that she'd come to eat alone.
"Oh, I know what that's like." The waitress gave Emma a sympathetic smile, that wasn't really received well on her end. She hated sympathy. She'd dealt with that her whole life. In foster homes, in prison, even occasionally at work when Benny pressed for her to live a little. "It feels like you're all alone and you're drowning."
Emma canted her head to the side, brows furrowing, "I don't feel like I'm drowning. That's a touch too dramatic, for me." Her eyes flickered to the waitress' name tag, squinting her eyes to make out the name. Milah. Clearly, it was a strange name for a strange woman.
Even though she knew exactly what feeling the woman was talking about. Sometimes it came at night; the feeling of pressure on your chest, a weight pressing hard against you, pushing air from your lungs, making your head spin and you gasp for a breath that never came.
It had been ten years since she'd breathed easily.
Milah gave a good-natured laugh, but it the laugh didn't travel up to her eyes, "I was merely joking, love. I guess too many romantics come in here and I get used to their rhapsodizing. That's what happens when you have Wi-Fi and an up and coming bohemian neighborhood around the block."
Emma gave her an uninterested smile, picking up the menu and looking it over. She wasn't here to talk. "Do you do hot cocoa here?"
"We certainly do. It's on the kid's menu."
"Can I order off of the kid's menu?" Emma questioned snidely. She hated places that looked down on you if you ordered off the kid's menu.
"I can't see why not."
"Good. I'd like a hot cocoa with cinnamon on top and a grilled cheese on white bread." The same thing she'd eaten since she was a kid, unless of course she went somewhere that gave you dirty looks for eating grilled cheese when you were over eighteen.
"Coming right up."
Emma watched the waitress as she attended to other guests, studying her out of sheer boredom. She had always been good at reading people and sometimes, when she was out eating alone – which was always – she'd sit and watch people, and guess their backstories.
She already knew she was British, though she could tell the accent had faded from being in America for some time. Mid-forties, the subtle line of gray roots where that showed, despite the effort of dying her hair dark brown, gave that away. And from the way that the woman kept rubbing her thumb absentmindedly over her ring finger she had probably been married and was now divorced. Though Emma wasn't certain for how long. She'd known people who had been eighteen years divorced and they still played with the invisible ring on their finger.
One habit she was never going to have to deal with, ever, in her life.
Benny thought she needed to get married and August, obviously, thought the perfect option was himself. But she was perfectly content with where she was in life and she didn't need anyone telling her to change.
Emma suppressed a groan when the waitress returned and not with her food. "So, what's your name?" The older woman questioned, leaning her arms against the table with a warm smile.
"Emma."
"Are you a local, I've not seen you in here before?"
She shrugged her shoulders, looking over the menu again in attempt to shoo her off. "Kind of. I live on the other side of the city."
Milah started to say something else, but the little clink of a bell from the kitchen drew her attention away from her. "Just a tick." She patted the counter, offering another friendly smile, before she moved back to the rear counter to get the order. She returned, setting the plate and the mug down in front of Emma, "Here's your order, love."
"There's no cinnamon." Emma stated, pushing the mug back towards the woman. Cinnamon wasn't that uncommon and it frequently irked her that people forgot that aspect of her order.
"Sorry about that," She left, coming back a moment later with the corrected order.
"Thanks."
"I'm hoping my shift cover gets here soon so I can go to mass tonight."
Normally she'd give the woman a glare to get her to leave her to eat in peace, but that little detail peaked her interest. "The one across the street?" She dipped her finger into the whipped cream, licking it off, "I'm going there tonight."
"First time?"
"It's been a long time." Emma's reply lacked enthusiasm, but the waitress thankfully didn't implore further, distracted by another customer calling her down the counter.
She was nice enough, but she had that typical waitress personality that rubbed Emma the wrong way. She didn't like divulging life details and some people didn't catch the simplest nonverbal cues that told them to fuck off. Really it was a wonder that August and Benny halfway liked her. She could scare off even the most accepting person with her walls.
The waitress never returned and Emma assumed she'd scurried off to the cathedral early, probably putting in those extra hours to get to heaven. She couldn't say she was upset; she got to eat the rest of her meal in silence and not play the twenty-five questions game with her. She hated people like that. But generally, anymore, she hated most people she met.
Everyone got happily ever afters and she got, well, shit.
She waited until she'd seen enough people slip into the church, that she didn't think she be awkwardly accosted by priests who were overly concerned about her eternal soul. The sanctuary was just as she expected. Painfully ornate – clearly they'd spent their money on making themselves seem like a bigshit church and they didn't send any of it to the starving children of Africa.
She pulled out the beads she'd grabbed on her way across the city, threading them through her fingers as she sat back against the pew and watched the priests milling about, greeting the congregation. She kept her head down when one of the older ones started to make his way towards her and he didn't come over to bother her.
He was old and clearly not thirty-two. Not who she was on the lookout for. Truthfully she didn't know what she was looking for. If he was supposed to be thirty-two, with black hair, and around six foot tall, no one there fit the bill. Most of them were balding fifty somethings and none of them were Irish.
It would be just her luck that he wasn't working this mass which meant she'd have to come back again. That was just how it worked in the world of Emma. Nothing was easy.
The Father started preaching, droning on and on about the immorality of America today, and Emma lost focus completely. The last mass she had attended had been Easter – ten years ago. It was a decent service, but she remembered, all too well, that anything was decent if he was beside her.
She had been with a good Irish boy who wore his little Catholic cross nestled against the fine dusting of black hair at the 'v' of his shirt. Growing up in foster care she'd been forced to go to many church services, different denominations, and that had been the first service that she'd gone to of her own freewill. He had even offered to let her sleep in and not wake her up. After he was gone she had more or less sworn that she would never step foot in a sanctuary again.
The offerings were taken, the incense was burned, and finally they were dismissed. But still she hadn't seen a single damn priest that fit the description of Lorcan Morrissey.
She was caught by a few people, forced to shake their hands and make nice. If she was going to have to come here more than once, she had to show herself friendly. At least somewhat so.
Her story was simple; Emma, backslidden Catholic, wanting to get right with the Lord and come back again, liked the way the church looked on its website. No one protested and they all welcomed her to the congregation, chatting idly about programs they offered.
She didn't have a kid, she didn't care if they had nursery. That ship sailed long ago. She didn't have a significant other; she didn't give a rat's ass if they had couple's Bible study at one of the Father's houses. Because it wasn't Father Morrissey that offered it.
She had started to give up hope that she'd find the priest in question, when she turned around and finally spotted a dark haired man in a clerical collar talking to one of the other priests. His back was turned to her, but she was certain that that was her guy.
He had an offering plate in his hand and her eyes trained on the money in the plate. If he was a thief there was every chance he was pinching from the tithes and the church was none the wiser. She watched his fingers, looking for any movement that suggested casually slipping bills into his pocket or pushing them up his sleeve.
Her eyes lifted as he turned around and the plate fell to the floor, throwing the money against the title.
"Fuck," Emma swore under her breath as her eyes met the priest's piercing blue eyes. She knew them all too well. That was the feeling that the waitress had mentioned – drowning. Her head was reeling, her pulse hammering in her ears, heart pounding in her chest.
Speaking of the waitress from the diner, she was the woman on her knees in front of him, gathering up the money that had dropped. And everything about his body language towards her, brought the world crashing down over her.
"Emma!"
She tried to duck her head, turn away and high tail it out of there with some shred of respect left. But he had seen her and there was no escape now. She had to face her past.
The fact that he could so coolly approach her made her heart clench – as if ten years had meant nothing to him. No ounce of remorse or even a sign that he had missed her.
"It's been awhile." He offered, holding his hand out to shake hers.
"You know her, Father Morrissey?"
Emma swallowed thickly; she should have known it would be him. She should have known.
"Aye, I do, she was a… friend a very long time ago."
Emma shook his hand, cringing as her skin brushed against his, and every emotion she'd suppressed came right back to the surface. "It feels like we were different people back then." She offered with a tight lipped smile, "She and I met at the diner across the street. Milah was it?"
"Yes." She smiled, though now she saw that the smile didn't quite meet her eyes. Much like her own. "So did you enjoy mass?"
"I did. It's been… a very long time since I've stepped foot inside of a sanctuary, I suppose it's time to get back into it." Emma's eyes flickered to Killian – Lorcan, whoever the hell he was, and offered no niceties to him.
She was going to get his ass hauled off to jail, but she couldn't let him know that she knew.
"I never thought you'd end up a priest."
He gave a casual shrug, tugging at the collar of his neck with a slight laugh, "Yes, well, times change I suppose." He nodded his head towards the woman at his side, "Milah here is our secretary during the day. The poor thing has to take up shifts at the diner to make ends meet."
Emma frowned, hearing that tone of compassion that went far past his 'priestly duties'. She knew that tone all too well, hell she'd been on the receiving end of it for nearly a year and a half.
"Well, we all have to do what we must to keep our head above the water." Emma put her hands on her hips, her guard completely up. "Right, well, it was nice to catch up… I have other places to be tonight."
Truthfully the only place she wanted to be right then was knocking back a shot or two and numbing that pain that had set in. Just from the very sight of him.
Of seeing him with someone else – someone who was the polar opposite of herself. Milah was older, dark hair, and despite her air of niceness Emma sensed she had an edge to her – one that gave her the impression you wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of her being angry.
Which was completely unlike herself; young – well at least when they'd been a pair of thieves, blond hair, and hard on the outside but kind on the inside. She'd become harder after he left. She'd become harder after tonight.
"Emma."
"Yeah?" Emma glanced over her shoulder as she reached for the door. She met his gaze and no words were needed. Words had always failed them in the past. His eyes could convey a thousand things before a word even passed his lips.
He could never tell her why so there was no point in asking him.
She took the long way home, needing time to cool off and clear her head, before facing August when she got back to the apartment. He was going to be mad about the movie, but he was surprisingly coolheaded and he'd be fine with the whole thing before the evening finished out. That was what made him easy to life with, even if he had a thing for her. He understood, to some degree, about what went on in her head.
Emma found him writing in his little office when she came in, she knocked on the open door, offering an apologetic smile. "I did leave a voicemail. You weren't home when I swung by."
"I had a writer's meeting I was at. Went ahead to the theatre, you were a no show." He scratched the back of his head, turning the wheel on his typewriter with the other, "The movie was lame anyways."
"I bet you could write a better one." Emma offered up with a laugh, waving her hand towards the machine. "Then again, you crank out kid's stories. Maybe Disney will hire you."
August gave a snort of laughter at that, "You can't get hired by Disney when you're rewriting fairytales, Emma."
"Hey, it was just an idea!"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah." August rolled his eyes at her, "You haven't even read them have you?"
"You mean the stupid one about Snow White and Prince Charming having a kid? Disney sequels blow." Emma said dryly, hands on her hips, and her brows rising high on her face. "You should try to write more of what's in your head."
"Then I'd be writing saucy tales about two roommates."
"Who are siblings." Emma winked at him, before retreating from his office. "I've had a long night, I'm having a drink and heading off." She called as she walked through the apartment, into the kitchen.
It was easy to forget about this evening once she was back in the somewhat safe atmosphere of the apartment. It still didn't feel like home, no matter how hard she tried to make it feel like one. She hadn't found her place yet.
She poured a decent sized glass of whiskey, downing it with a satisfied hiss as the amber colored liquor burned the back of her throat. There was no way in hell that any amount of whiskey could put her to sleep tonight. She rarely slept well as it were, without the added irritation of seeing Killian Jones for the first time in ten years.
She'd loved him. Probably still loved him, even though it was clear he'd moved on. Because that's what masochists do, love people that will never love them back. Which she assumed had been the whole reason he'd left her to begin with. He'd promised to take her to some small town by the coast, up in Maine that he had heard was a perfect place to settle down – start over. But the day they were supposed to leave, he'd vanished and the cops had shown up.
Emma could only thank August for being there for her when she got out of prison. He had been the only connection she'd kept since her days in the system and when the going got tough, she was thankful that she had. Because Killian sure as hell never came back.
She was never going to find out why he had left her and maybe, it was better that way. Because assuming probably hurt less than knowing the actual truth.