The final package arrived at half-past seven.
The knock on the door startled Sydney as she sat on the couch, lost in thought while nursing a glass of pinot noir.
"Coming," she called, pushing herself up from the cushions after setting the wine on the coffee table. She entered the front hall and checked through the peephole before opening the door.
"Good evening, ma'am." A young, smiling man greeted her. "I have a delivery for you."
Sydney squeezed her eyes closed for a moment, drawing in a deep breath.
"Let me guess. A plain brown box?"
The courier shook his head. "No, ma'am," he extended his hand to her, revealing a white, business-sized envelope.
Sydney looked at it, then up at the young man's face. "Just the envelope?"
"Yes, ma'am," he nodded before extending his other hand, which held a blue computerized clipboard. "I'll need you to sign within the flashing white box, please."
Sydney accepted both the envelope and the slender yellow stylus and quickly scribbled her name.
"Thank you, ma'am," the courier tapped the LED screen twice with the stylus and then smiled up at Sydney. "You have a nice evening."
"Thanks," Sydney held the envelope against her body, the curious events of the day starting to overwhelm her. "You, too."
Back inside the apartment, Sydney carried her newest delivery to the couch and sat down, curling her legs beneath her. Inspecting the envelope, she saw that it bore no markings other than her name and address centered neatly on the front. After a gulp of wine, Sydney turned the envelope over in her hands and slipped a fingernail beneath the flap, slicing it open.
"Oh my god," Sydney muttered as an airline ticket dropped into her hand. She tossed the envelope aside and closely inspected the ticket. "First class, to Paris? At what time?" Her eyes darted to the clock across the room. The flight was in exactly two hours.
The ticket fluttered to the floor as Sydney's hands faltered, unable to hold on to paper that seemed, in that moment, inexplicably heavy. What was Sark thinking? It was the middle of the week. She couldn't just not show up at work the next day. Who did he think she worked for, anyway? If anyone found out...
It was then that she saw it, the small white business card laying next to the coffee table. It must have been tucked in between the ticket and airline information, unseen until the items had dropped to the rug at her feet. Bending forward, Sydney snatched the card from the floor. One side bore the name and address of the Paris hotel. On the other, handwritten words that caused her breath to catch in her throat.
Don't think. Just come.
An hour and a half later, Sydney was waiting to board the plane, a cup of tea in one hand and a copy of the LA Times in the other. Her eyes skimmed the front page as she took a careful sip of the beverage, its heat slipping down her throat and soothing the nervousness that buzzed just beneath her calm surface.
She set the tea aside and turned the first page of the paper, searching for distraction. Sark's note had been explicit in its instruction, but Sydney was having trouble complying. Throughout her life she had been accused of thinking too much. It wasn't something she was able to turn off, no matter how much she tried.
Sydney was about to reach for her tea when her cell phone chirped, signaling an incoming call.
"Hello?"
"Sydney." It was Dixon. "I just got your message. Is everything all right? Are you all right?"
His affectionate, fatherly tone brought a smile to Sydney's lips. "I'm okay," she assured him. "I just need a few days, is all."
"I understand," Dixon said, his voice softening. "You've been through a lot the past couple of months."
"Yeah," Sydney agreed quietly, gazing out the large, plate glass window at airplanes on the tarmac.
"You can take all the time you need," Dixon told her. "You're not in the middle of anything that can't wait. Besides, it's more important to me that you're feeling okay."
"I appreciate that," she smiled again. "I'll have my cell phone, so..." Her voice trailed off. She swallowed, hard.
"If we hear from your father, I'll let you know immediately."
"Thank you, Marcus," Sydney forced the words past the lump in her throat, hot tears stinging her eyes. "I have to go."
"I know you do," Dixon sighed. "Take care, Syd."
Sydney couldn't speak. She disconnected the call and slipped the phone back into her pocket, pausing to collect herself. She started gathering her things as the gate agent's voice crackled on the loudspeaker, echoing through the terminal.
"Boarding has now begun for first class passengers on Oceanic flight 1247, nonstop to Paris."
Sydney slung her carry-on bag over her shoulder and didn't look back.