Emily slid her sweaty hands along her thighs, squeezing tightly at her knees to stop them from shaking. She felt a waitress staring at her from behind the counter and prayed the woman wouldn't feel the need to ask if she was alright – the last thing she needed was to be drawn to the attention of everyone in the cafe. Her chest contracted painfully at the thought.
Deep breaths,she reminded herself, and picked up a menu to create some pretence of at least relative sanity. Hot beverages, soft drinks, an assortment of pastries and 'the soup of the day' appeared to be her only options. The limited choice was hardly surprising, considering how far off the beaten track she'd wandered just to find somewhere with not so many sets of eyes that her chances of being recognised were significantly increased, but also not so little that she'd be subject to an uncomfortable share of attention. This, as well as the fact that the clientele seemed to consist solely of elderly couples and homeless men, meant she hadn't exactly been expecting The Ritz.
Emily settled on coffee and a croissant and attempted to relax into her chair, taking a stack of newspapers out her bag while she waited for a waitress to come take her order.
Regarding the pile in front of her, a mix of tabloids and broadsheets, Emily would be the first to admit that sourcing multiple American and British newspapers every single day just to flip through them, scanning for keywords like INTERPOLand Doyleand FBI,was an unhealthy habit. Every day she used the anticipation of news from home to calm her anxiety, and every day she slipped further into a state of hopeless dread when she was forced to accept that she was still utterly in the dark. If she was profiling herself, she might go as far as to say she was exhibiting obsessive compulsive behaviours as a result of post-traumatic stress.
Of course, profiling herself was something she had to emphatically avoid if she wanted to be in with a chance of passing her psych eval when she went back to work. She knew that delving into the darker corners of her mind would've almost definitely compromised her sanity, and, in the long run, her wisest option was to play into any irrational delusions that made her near-constant state of fear even slightly less debilitating. If that happened to mean she was spending twice the amount money on newspapers as she was on food, then so be it.
As she started reading, Emily allowed the soft murmur of conversation and the gentle French music playing somewhere behind her head to dispel the nervous energy that had built up as she hurried through the streets of Paris. The illusion of usefulness, the sense of purpose, the relenting of the crippling guilt she felt when she thought about her team risking everything while she hid away in another continent – it all came with the knowledge that she was actively hunting for a hint as to any progressions in the search for Ian Doyle. The relief was intoxicating. As usual, Emily hadn't realised how tense she was until she felt her muscles relax and her heart rate begin to fall.
She was as comfortable as she could possibly be in such a public place and half-finished combing through the New York Times when a disturbance a few tables away shook her from her peaceful reverie.
A flustered waitress was explaining to a customer, with rising frustration, that the only currency she would accept was the Euro. In response, the man mumbled something too quietly for Emily to hear, but when the waitress proclaimed seconds later that she would not be bribed, no matter how generous the offer, she thought she could probably take a good guess at what he'd said.
She heard the him quietly urge her to keep her voice down and, despite his apparent lack of manners, felt a twinge of sympathy.
The man slouched in his seat, pulling the hood of his filthy sweatshirt tightly around his face, and although he wasn't facing her, she could tell that his head was bowed so low that his chin pressed against his chest.
Emily knew what a person looked like when they wanted nothing more than to be completely invisible to everyone around them, and this was obviously a man who would've given anything to disappear at that moment.
She found herself so engrossed in profiling his discomfort that she didn't notice the waitress appearing at her side to take her order. So when the woman ran her eyes over the stack of newspapers on her table before asking, "What can I get for you?", Emily nearly jumped out of her skin.
Shaking her head slightly to bring herself back to reality, Emily fixed on her best imitation of an English accent and responded, "I'll have a black coffee and a croissant, please."
Scribbling onto her notepad, the waitress checked, "Is that everything?"
She should've said yes. She meant to say yes.
She would've, if her gaze hadn't flicked towards the mysterious man who apparently had plenty of foreign money but, for some reason, didn't have enough local currency to buy a cup of coffee.
"Actually, uh, whatever he tried to order," she started, gesturing in the man's general direction, "It's on me." The woman raised her eyebrows skeptically, but set off into the kitchen without comment.
It was only when the waitress returned a few minutes later carrying both orders that a Emily felt a frisson of panic run through her.
She reminded herself that it had been three months since her death had truly been considered news, and that the stranger probably hadn't even seen it, let alone committed her face to memory.
It didn't help. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on edge and she shivered, bringing her newspaper up to cover the bottom half of her face as she gripped the edges so tight that it crinkled, tearing slightly where her nails dug in.
Emily watched as the waitress placed a mug on his table then waved in her direction. It wasn't surprising, she'd expected her to tell him who'd paid his bill, but she still couldn't help holding her breath as she waited for him to turn around.
She saw rather than heard him say something to the waitress, something that made her smile, but he didn't make a move to look behind him.
The seeming disregard for her generosity didn't bother Emily in the slightest, and she released a shaky sigh of relief, closing the New York Times and laying it to the side to make space for the waitress to place her order on table
"Thank you," she said, forcing a smile in the woman's direction.
"Can I get you anything else?" She asked, and Emily shook her head.
Just when Emily thought the uncomfortable exchange was finally over, the waitress turned back towards her. "Oh!" she exclaimed softly, already halfway to her next table. "The gentleman said, 'Tell Emily she's too kind'"
For a long few seconds, she couldn't pinpoint exactly why the words made her stomach churn, or why she suddenly felt very lightheaded, but when she did...
Tell Emily she's too kind.
Emily.
She couldn't breathe, her chest aching from the blow of hearing her name fall carelessly from a stranger's lips, and her heart pounding her ribs so hard she feared it would explode out of her chest. The idea was ludicrous, but it didn't matter; she had one coherent thought running through her mind, and it was horrifying and suffocating and paralysing, and it didn't leave space for any others:
He'd found her.
And this time, she was all on her own.