This story is dedicated to my wonderful friend, WordBug, who sent a prompt that triggered the idea for this piece.
My biggest thanks go to tmb510 for passing her red pen over it.
This piece is also a huge thank you to all of you, for welcoming me into this community four years ago today (UK time)! I'm so happy to be celebrating another anniversary with you all.
Emma set down her mug of coffee and flicked open the notepad beside her laptop. She was determined to make the most of her morning and finally finish the last of the research she needed for her latest book, before her publisher started making more demands of her time.
Of course, by the time she'd finished her first coffee of the day, Emma had already gotten distracted scrolling through Facebook and reading about the drama Lily was broadcasting for all to see. Emma hadn't even gotten as far as opening Google to search for what she needed.
"Okay," she whispered to herself, as she waited for her second mug of coffee to brew. "This time, no distractions!"
When she sat down at her laptop for the second time that day, Emma quickly closed all of her social media tabs before opening another and pulling up Google. While her editor had assured her that she wouldn't need too many details to make her book feel realistic, Emma knew that she would at least need a basic understanding of what she was writing about, to make the events in her world feel at least plausible. So the first thing she typed into Google that morning was, What household ingredients can be combined to make an explosion?
After skipping over all of the articles about how adding Mentos to a bottle of Cola would make a mini-explosion, Emma decided to change tactics. Instead, she Googled, Where can I purchase explosive materials?
This search seemed a little more helpful as she read about small explosives used in construction work. If she set her main antagonist up as someone who worked in the building trade, she could use that to her advantage - but she didn't want him to seem too obvious. Maybe he should be an architect instead?
Emma took a small break from outlining when her phone began ringing a little before lunchtime.
"Hey, Ash," she greeted, partially distracted by the information she was scanning about architects and what their job would entail.
"Hey, Ems. Fancy grabbing a spot of lunch?" her friend asked.
Emma's eyes moved down the page of notes she'd made and then over to the clock in the corner of her screen. "I wish I could, Ash, but I really need to get on with this outline. If I don't send it to my publisher by the end of the month, they're going to terminate my contract - and I can't afford for that to happen. If I'm gonna make this partnership work, I need to build their trust in me. I'm not George RR Martin."
"I have no idea who that is," Ashley replied dismissively. "What else do you have left to do? I thought you already had most of the book planned out."
"Oh, I do," Emma assured her. "I'm just trying to come up with a realistic cover for the bad guy. One that won't be too easily seen through."
"And how's that going?" Ashley asked.
"Eh. Not bad? I think I'm gonna make him an architect. According to Google, the building industry has relatively easy access to small explosives. If he used his connections through that, he could probably steal enough to build a larger device. One capable of bringing down a national landmark. I might have to Google that, though."
"You're not seriously gonna Google that, are you?" her friend snorted. "Jesus Christ, Ems. You'd better hope there really isn't an NSA agent out there reviewing your internet activity or you might just find yourself carted off in the middle of the night, never to be seen again."
"Oh, come off it," Emma giggled. "Even you can't believe that nonsense."
"You say nonsense, I say national security," Ashley argued. She sighed heavily over the line and then added, "I suppose I should let you get back to your research while I go and grab some lunch. If I stand here arguing with you for too long, I won't have enough time to eat."
"Alright, Ash. Next time, I promise. If I can finish plotting this today then you'll have my full attention for the rest of the week. Have fun at work."
"Fuck you," Ashley snapped back, and Emma laughed harder as she disconnected the call and then typed her next search into Google – How much explosive would be needed to bring down a building the size of the Empire State Building?
By the time she'd finished typing up the last of her proposal that evening, it was inching closer to dinner time, and Emma's tummy was beginning to grumble. After quickly reviewing the document for any silly little mistakes, she attached it to an email and sent it over to both her editor and her publisher, hoping that they would be happy to finally have a full plan for her latest book in front of them. Then she switched tabs and opened up Google once more.
Ashley's words from earlier that day flitted through her mind as she brought up her favorite takeout restaurant and placed her usual order. Emma had read the report on Operation PRISM just like her friends had, but she was pretty certain there wasn't a dedicated NSA agent somewhere in D.C., reviewing every single thing she typed into a search engine. However, before she closed her laptop that evening, Emma took to Google to search one last term, just to cover her bases.
I promise I'm not a psychopath, I'm just an author researching my next book.
Then she logged off her computer and picked up her television remote, turning on Netflix to watch the next episode of her show while she waited for her food to be delivered.
The following morning, Emma woke a little later than planned, thanks to her late-night spent scribbling down ideas on the notepad beside her bed. She carried the messy pages through to her living room, dropping them on top of the notepad beside her laptop, and then pulled up the screen. While she waited for the device to load, Emma busied herself with making coffee and scrolling through Facebook on her phone. Apparently, Lily's estranged-husband had turned up in the middle of the night to yell at her outside their house, and the neighbors had called the cops. Emma was starting to think she should have based her latest book on her former friend's love life, given the kinds of comments Lily's posts were attracting.
When she had taken her first sip of coffee, Emma moved over to her laptop and pulled up her email account. She knew it was probably far too soon to have received a reply about her outline, but she still couldn't stop herself from checking for one.
Her agent had sent a message earlier that morning, congratulating her on selling out her very first book signing event. Emma still wasn't sure how she felt about that, especially as she would be taking part in a Q&A beforehand, so she filed the email away to deal with later, and then continued scanning her inbox. Most of the messages were either coupons for discounts on items she'd purchased in the past or monthly newsletters from stores she didn't really care about. She was just about to log out and pull up a blank Word document when the very first message in the account caught her attention. It was from a sender labeled as RESTRICTED and the subject line simply read, Thanks.
Emma hesitated for a moment, her cursor hovering over the message. She knew she should just delete it. It was likely some kind of virus she'd been forwarded by someone else who had opened the message, but she also knew she'd spend all day wondering if the message had been of some importance if she didn't read it.
"Please don't be a virus, please don't be a virus," she chanted, as she took the plunge and clicked to open the email.
The split second it took to load was one of the most nerve-wracking of Emma's entire life but when it did, she wasn't sure if she should laugh at its contents or be worried about it.
Thank you for taking the time to explain your search history - but there really was no need. We've already reviewed all of the emails between yourself and your editor.
Emma read the message three times and with each read, the urge to laugh at what it said was quelled by the anger that was quickly replacing it. If this was some kind of joke it wasn't very funny! What kind of person joked about reading someone else's emails? And how would they have known about Emma's editor?
With a rising sense of unease, she hit reply on the message and tapped out a quick response. Emma needed answers before she blocked whoever was behind it all.
Who are you and why the fuck are you reading my emails?
Knowing that she wouldn't be able to focus enough to write while she was waiting for a reply, Emma decided to use the opportunity the distraction gave her to go out and do some grocery shopping. Her fridge only had a few measly leftovers from takeout meals left in it now, and she knew most of those were well beyond edible.
While she browsed the aisles of her favorite store, Emma forced herself to keep her mind away from her inbox and on the choice of food available. It wasn't easy. She couldn't help worrying. If this email was genuine then it implied that someone was watching her. What if they could see her now?
She twisted her head to take a good look at the people around her in the store. Everyone else seemed focused on their choice of products and not on the paranoid writer amongst them.
"You're losing it," she whispered to herself, before grabbing a can of tuna and adding it to her basket.
When she got home, Emma took her time unloading her purchases before making her way over to her laptop. A part of her was hoping she would open her inbox to more coupons and newsletters. If she never heard back from the unknown sender it would be much easier to push the entire thing from her mind. Another part of her was hoping for a reply. If she had some kind of answer at least she could attempt to rationalize the message - maybe even explain it away.
When she opened her inbox, she wasn't surprised to see another message from RESTRICTED, but it still made her heart pump faster. She hesitated again before opening it, already worried about what it might say. The split second the email took to load felt like an eternity to Emma, and she began biting nervously at her nails.
You're probably not going to believe this but I'm the NSA Agent that was assigned to monitor your electronic communications. Don't worry, we don't share what we see – unless it's a matter of national security – and yours clearly wasn't.
Emma found herself snorting out a laugh as she read the message through one more time, and then reached for her phone.
"Hello?"
"Nice joke, Ash," she chuckled, closing the email and spinning around in her chair. Emma had always loved the kind of childish thrill that came from spinning on an office chair.
"Joke? What joke?"
"The emails," she explained, pushing herself to her feet to head for the kitchen. "You had me going for a moment there."
"What emails, Ems? I haven't sent you any emails." Ashley sounded a little worried and it had Emma freezing in her tracks.
"The emails you sent me. Pretending to be an NSA Agent," Emma pushed, hoping her friend would finally confess to the joke.
"I didn't send you any emails, Emma - but that's fucking hilarious. Damn, these scams are getting better and better."
"Yeah," Emma mumbled, but that feeling of unease was beginning to take over again. If Ashley hadn't sent the emails, who had? Could it be a coincidence? Or had someone hacked her account? "I guess I'd better go and change my password," she told her friend, as she switched direction and headed back to her laptop. "I'll uh… I'll call you a little later, Ash."
"You'd better. Since you started planning this second book, you've been no fun," her friend teased.
"I know. I'm sorry. I promise we'll do dinner soon."
"See you soon," Ashley threw back, before disconnecting the call.
The moment Emma was sitting down in front of her laptop she began the process of changing the password for her email account. Just to be safe, she also changed the password on her laptop and for all of her social media accounts too. And then she pulled up the message from her stalker.
Emma hesitated for a moment, composing different replies in her mind before she finally settled on what to write.
I don't know who you are or what you hope to achieve from all of this, but please know that if you contact me again, I will pass these messages onto the police for investigation.
Get a job!
And a life!
The reply to her message came back almost instantly and the chime of the notification rooted her to the spot. She wasn't sure she'd ever received a reply that quickly before.
I have a job. I work for the NSA. Maybe this will convince you of that?
Whoever had sent the email had added a photograph to it. Emma's finger hovered over the attachment before she finally clicked to open it.
A sharp bark of laughter filled the room as a picture of the Cyber Command Operations Centre filled her screen. She was pretty sure if she typed those exact words into Google, she'd find the same image in its results.
Nice try, but I know how to use Google Images too.
Emma sent the message and then pushed herself to her feet. She needed a fresh notepad. Whoever this fraudster was, he or she was giving her fantastic ideas for her next novel.
By the time she'd sourced a new one and grabbed a drink from her fridge, there was already another message waiting in her inbox. This time, she didn't hesitate to open it up. The whole scam had gone from slightly scary to hilarious in the space of a few hours, and now, she was excited to see what else the hacker could come up with.
I doubt you'll find that exact image on a Google search. I took the picture myself and the chances of someone else of my height; taking a picture the exact same distance from the entrance to the unit; at the same angle; and in the same lighting, is very slim.
But I am curious to see how you'll explain this one away.
The next picture Emma opened was of a set of NSA credentials. At least, that's what they appeared to be. Emma had never actually seen any before. She wasn't even sure the NSA had credentials for their agents.
Opening up another tab, she typed the term NSA Credentials into Google and waited for the results to load. But before she could even click on the first link, her inbox pinged with another message.
I can assure you they're very much genuine. I doubt you'll find a Special Agent Killian Jones listed anywhere on the internet, however.
Emma swallowed down the unease that was building in her throat as she read over the message. The only way he could possibly have known what she was searching for was if he'd been watching her.
This isn't funny now. How do you know what I'm doing?
She drummed her fingertips nervously against her desk as she waited for the reply to come through. When it did, it wasn't quite what she'd been expecting.
I've already answered that question. My name is Special Agent Jones and I work for the NSA. I was assigned your data usage a few years back and I've been monitoring your electronic forms of communication ever since.
I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to alarm you. I assumed that as you'd typed in an explanation for your, frankly bizarre, search history, you knew someone was watching you.
If this truly makes you uncomfortable, I'll stop messaging you now.
Have a good day, Miss Swan.
P.S. I really enjoyed your first novel.
Even though she knew she was probably talking to some kind of crazy stalker, Emma couldn't help the small flip her tummy gave when she read the postscript. She'd made enough from her debut novel to comfortably live on while she was writing her next, but Emma was no J.K Rowling. The odds of someone knowing her book seemed pretty slim.
You really read my book? Like, in person and not by illegally downloading it from my computer?
The next message took a little longer to come through but when it did, Emma decided that it had been worth waiting for.
"Special Agent Jones" had attached another picture to his reply, this one showing a dogeared copy of Emma's book next to a half-empty NSA mug.
Whoever this guy was, he was certainly dedicated to his ruse.
Emma was so distracted by seeing what appeared to be a well-loved copy of her book that she almost forgot to read the message accompanying it.
I might have read some of it while you were sending drafts to your editor but as you can see, I went out and purchased my own copy the moment it was available for sale. You write your heroine very well. All those bizarre search terms have definitely paid off.
Thanks. My editor keeps telling me that I don't need to go into great detail about the case because my audience won't understand it, but I like the idea of grounding as much of the story as I can in realism.
Where did you get the mug?
While she waited for "Special Agent Jones's" reply, Emma distracted herself by making a sandwich for lunch. There was no email from the so-called NSA agent when she got back to her laptop but there was one from her publisher, so Emma moved over to the sofa to read Graham's message.
He'd made a few suggestions that he felt would make the plot more sellable, but overall, Emma was happy with his response. Without him in her corner, she knew getting her book to market would be infinitely more difficult, and her sales numbers would be far smaller. So she'd suck it up and work in his changes, as far as her plot would allow.
Emma ate her sandwich whilst watching the local news broadcast, trying not to think of the strange chain of emails she'd sent that day. She knew if she let her mind stray to "Special Agent Jones," she'd end up obsessively refreshing her inbox until he'd replied - and she was hoping to be a little more productive than that.
After cleaning up from lunch, Emma allowed herself to quickly check her inbox. There was still no message from a RESTRICTED sender so she logged out of the app and pulled up her document.
The hours seemed to melt away that afternoon as Emma finally got all of her bottled-up words and ideas down onto a page. She knew half of them probably wouldn't make sense by the time she read them back, and the other half would likely need to be completely rewritten – but that was what drafting was for, and it was why Emma loved writing so much. She was able to adjust her ideas and style as she went along, growing and changing with every draft she made, and every suggestion her editor returned. She wasn't going to become the next Agatha Christie, but Emma was proud of how far she'd come since she'd first decided to start drafting a novel.
It was dark outside when she finally found the words coming to an end. Emma's tummy rumbled violently to remind her that she had other needs, and she closed her laptop screen before heading through to the kitchen. She'd been so distracted by the words all afternoon that she'd completely forgotten about anything else. After she had pre-heated her oven and dug through her freezer for something to eat, Emma pulled out her phone to check her notifications.
There were a few breaking news stories that she quickly dismissed. Emma didn't care about which sports team was winning what competition, and the severe weather alert four states over wasn't likely to affect her either. So she turned her attention to the messages from her friends.
When she'd first started writing, Emma's friends had become concerned with the way she would lose contact with them for hours, if not days, on end. After three years, however, they'd become more used to Emma's quirks. The messages on her phone that evening simply asked her to check-in when she was finished, and hinted at the idea of a gathering the following week. Emma wasn't much of a social butterfly but she did miss her friends, and she couldn't wait to see them again.
After sliding a frozen pizza into the oven to bake and grabbing a Cola from the fridge, Emma pulled up her email client as she made her way over to the sofa. There were the usual newsletters and coupons in her inbox, along with a few blog posts from fellow writers she admired. Emma marked those to read a little later because right in the middle of her list was yet another message from her RESTRICTEDsender.
She smiled to herself as she curled her legs up underneath her body and opened the email.
Well, those of us who do understand the details certainly appreciate you working a few of them into your narrative. There's nothing worse than inaccurate details taken from films or TV shows to pull you out of a good book.
Funnily enough, working for the NSA means they provide you with NSA branded mugs for your coffee. They actually don't like us bringing in our own. That can lead to office arguments – usually about football.
Emma chuckled as she read the message through. While there wasn't a doubt in her mind that her hacker was crazy, she appreciated the compliments he'd paid to her writing. One of the biggest issues she'd always struggled with was her self-confidence when it came to her abilities. Even after making a number of best-seller lists, she'd always felt like a pretender in the book world. So aside from her friends and her editor, she had never really discovered what people thought of her book before. Emma had sworn to herself that she wouldn't go digging around for reviews on sites like Amazon and Goodreads. She'd been a reader long enough to know that particularly vicious trolls who took issue with one small detail could completely tank any kind of rating offered on any of the popular sites. Hell, she'd even seen them negatively rate unpublished works before. Given that her friends were her friends, Emma felt their feedback was a little biased, and the fact that she paid her editor kind of skewed his opinions on her work too. Hearing from someone who claimed to have genuinely read and enjoyed her book was wonderfully refreshing.
Do you have a favorite football team? And do you mind if I ask what your favorite part of the book was? I don't speak to many fans regularly, so it would be nice to know what you enjoyed. Maybe I could work more of it into book two.
After sending her reply, Emma closed down her laptop and went to check on her dinner. It was getting late, and she knew if she allowed herself to sit there all night, replying to emails, she'd never get to bed. So instead, she spent the rest of her evening curled up with her frozen pizza watching a 24 marathon on tv.
The next morning, Emma woke with the burning desire to write. Sometime, during the middle of the night, the opening scene for her next novel had come to her and she knew if she didn't get it down on page soon, she'd lose it completely.
Emma worked away well into the afternoon as she emptied her mind of everything that had come to her while she'd slept. Experience had taught her that when the words were flowing, it was always best to write until they had stopped, instead of forcing herself to take regular breaks.
By the time she'd finally exhausted her ideas, Emma felt drained. She contemplated the idea of taking a nap but instead decided on a shower, so that she could leave her apartment for a couple of hours. The urge to go back and reread her words was strong, but Emma knew if she did that, she'd end up deleting at least half of what she'd written.
The nearest Starbucks was only a short walk away from her apartment, and after sending Ashley a text asking to meet there, Emma grabbed her coat and keys. When she finally had a coffee in one hand and a blueberry muffin in the other, she made her way over to a small table by the window. Emma took a moment just to savor that first sip of coffee and break off a small piece of her muffin, before she pulled up her inbox.
There were the usual newsletters and promotional messages from the various blogs and companies she subscribed to. Emma deleted all of those without bothering to read them. She'd only signed up to most of them for the welcome discount they offered, anyway. As she'd expected, her hacker had sent a reply to her message from the night before, but Emma did find it a little curious that he'd waited until nine thirty-six am to reply.
I'm not really a football fan. I much prefer racket sports. Tennis is probably my favorite to watch, but I prefer playing racquetball. I'm not sure they make Roger Federer themed sporting mugs though…
As for your other question, I think what I enjoyed most was how morally grey you made Agent Spade. She made some bad calls and you showed that. You showed that she fully understood that they were bad calls when she reflected upon them, but she was under pressure and she was in a situation very few people ever find themselves in. I think making a few bad calls would be expected of anyone in her shoes. You made her feel real, and not like this perfect depiction of an FBI agent that frankly doesn't exist. (At least, not in my experience.)
You should consider interacting with your fans a little more. Make a twitter account or something. You'll find there are more of us than you think there are. Did you know that people have already started writing Fanfiction about your book?
Emma sat back in her seat as she read the last line over a few more times. She'd first discovered her love for writing as a teenager, when she'd experimented with Twilight Fanfiction. There had been thousands of pieces written for the series back then, and Emma had been proud of the small contribution she'd made to the community.
Hearing that other people had been inspired enough by her words to go out and create their own stories based upon her characters, felt like the ultimate form of flattery.
I think I can honestly say I would never have pegged you as a racquetball kind of guy. Or as a fan of Roger Federer. But I'm sure that for someone with your skills, you could find a mug with his face on it somewhere on the Internet.
Thank you so much for your feedback on Agent Spade. At first, my editor was worried that she would be too unlikeable to get me published, but for me, it was important to make sure she was believable. I hoped that because she was believable she would end up becoming likable. We went through so many drafts to try and make her that way, though.
Wow! I can't quite believe people enjoy my work enough to write Fanfiction based upon it. How do you know about this? Do you read it? Do you write it? Can you send me some links?
I'll consider looking into a twitter account. I had a personal one before I was published but I found the environment there a little toxic, so I deleted the account. Maybe I should hire someone to manage a professional account for me?
After sending her message, Emma locked her phone and set it on the table in front of her, face down so that it wouldn't distract her from enjoying the rest of her coffee. Thankfully, she didn't have long to wait until her companion slid into the seat opposite hers.
"Hey, stranger."
"Hi," Emma chuckled, as she watched Ashley take a deep pull from her coffee and then sigh with relief. "It's not been that long."
"It's been sixteen days," Ashley deadpanned. "Sixteen days that feel like an eternity. For a minute there, I thought the only way I'd get to see you was by purchasing tickets to your book signing tomorrow night."
Emma laughed a little awkwardly at the mention of the signing. She was still doing her best to pretend that it wasn't happening.
"What?" Ashley pressed. "I know that laugh, Emma. I've heard that laugh before. Are you still worried about it selling? Because I'm certain that even if it doesn't sell out, you'll still have enough people there to keep you busy."
"It's already sold out," she whispered, staring down at the mug cupped between her hands.
"What?" Ashley demanded. "Why didn't you say something sooner, Ems? We should be celebrating with champagne, not with coffee." She craned her head to check every corner of the shop they were in, almost like she expected a bar to materialize suddenly in the middle of Starbucks.
"I dunno. I just… what if they hated it, Ash? What if they ask me questions I don't have answers to? What if they're just coming to spit in my face or something like that?"
"Don't be ridiculous," Ashley scoffed. "Nobody in their right mind would waste good money just to spit in your face. You sold this out because people love your work. I bet your fans are counting down the days until they can finally meet you."
Emma smiled softly as she stuffed the rest of her muffin into her mouth. She hoped that Ashley was right. If interacting with her fans turned out to be anything like the messages she'd exchanged with "Special Agent Jones," she was looking forward to hearing their views on her novel.
"If it makes you feel any better, I can call in sick to work and come with you," Ashley offered.
"I can't ask you to do that."
"You're not asking, I'm offering. And I'm doing it," Ashley declared. "That way, if anyone wants to spit at you, they'll have to go through me first."
Emma giggled as she drained the last of her drink and then relaxed back into her chair. "Thanks, Ash. I appreciate that," she said, before quickly changing the subject. "How's work going?"
"Ugh. I swear, Regina is riding my ass harder than ever. I am this close to quitting."
Good morning.
Twitter can definitely be a toxic place at times but when you monitor as many social media accounts as I have, you soon realize that a lot of the world we live in is very toxic.
I'd suggest Tumblr, but I'm not sure you're ready for that, and Instagram isn't terribly helpful unless you plan on sharing a load of images. Go with Twitter and see if you can find someone to manage the account for you. That way, you'll see the kind of content you want to engage with and not the stuff that makes you want to jump off a roof.
As for those links you asked for, I don't have any at hand but if you type your name and Fanfiction into Google, you'll find everything you need.
Thanks to your encouragement, there is a brand new Roger Federer mug on its way to me for my morning coffee before work.
Have a great day.
K.
Emma chuckled as she closed out of the message and then spooned some cereal into her mouth. She had spent more time with Ashley than she had intended the day before, so when she'd finally made it back to her apartment, Emma had switched off the WiFi on her laptop and pulled open her first draft to write a little more. She'd finally crawled into bed around three am, with another four thousand words towards her first draft.
She'd emerged from sleep closer to lunchtime than breakfast, but Emma didn't care too much. With the signing taking place later that evening, she knew that most of the day would be wasted. There was no way she could concentrate enough to write while she was so nervous. So she'd wrapped herself up in a fluffy robe and made a pot of coffee, before digging around her cupboards for something to eat. Then she'd turned her attention to the messages she'd been ignoring.
Ashley had sent her a text a few hours earlier confirming that she'd called in sick and would be at Emma's place by six, so they could ride to the bookstore together. Emma sent her friend a quick reply thanking her before she'd switched to her inbox, where she'd skipped over the message from her agent in favor of the one from RESTRICTED that had come in just after nine.
I'm gonna need to see pictures of that mug in use when it arrives, she wrote, after deleting the rest of the junk in her inbox.
Thanks. I think I'll give that Fanfiction a search today. I'm not entirely sure I'll be able to concentrate enough to write, so reading sounds like a good plan. I notice you didn't tell me if you wrote your own…
I'll also speak with my agent later tonight about a Twitter account. I actually have an Instagram one, but it's only for my family and friends. I'm not big on sharing me with everyone else - I just wanna share my words. I have no idea what a Tumblr is though.
I still don't believe you're an NSA Agent, but tell me about some of the worst social media accounts you've seen.
She sent the message and finished off her cereal before grabbing her coffee and heading over to her laptop. After reviewing the information her agent had sent for the signing and Q&A that would take place in only a few hours, Emma made herself comfortable and then typed Emma Swan Fanfiction into Google.
She wasn't sure how many hours she lost reading the good, the bad, and the ugly on every site she could find. There weren't as many for her book as there were for other, best-selling series, but there were still far more than she expected to find. With every piece she read, she found herself wondering if this was one that "Special Agent Jones" had read too, or if maybe it was one he'd written and just didn't want to admit to.
She eventually had to pull herself away when the clock in the corner of her screen told her it was almost time to take a shower and get ready for the signing. Before she did, however, Emma pulled up her inbox once more, just to see if "Special Agent Jones" had sent a reply.
I would be happy to send some pictures over when the mug arrives, but I'm not entirely sure you'll believe it's mine!
How was your fanfiction dive? The third piece you read is one of my favorites. The author is planning a sequel, I believe, but I don't know when they intend to post it.
Tumblr is another social media platform, but if you're not sure you're ready for Twitter, I'm not sure you'd be ready for that just yet. Things can get a little intense over there.
As for the social media accounts I've monitored, I'm afraid I can't share their content with you. I'm already breaking so many rules right now, just reaching out to you. If I start disclosing personal information about the others I'm responsible for, I'll definitely lose my job. Besides, would it really have mattered? Nothing I seem to say convinces you that I am who I say I am - so tell me, Emma Swan, what can I do to prove my identity to you?
Emma wasn't really sure how to respond to "Special Agent Jones's" last message. She hadn't quite been expecting him to call her out the way he had, and something about that didn't settle well with her. He sounded almost upset that she doubted him, and Emma hadn't meant to offend him in such a way. So instead of typing out a response, she decided to take a shower.
She went through the motions of scrubbing, massaging, washing, and conditioning her hair and body, but Emma found that her mind wasn't really with it. She couldn't get the last line of "Special Agent Jones's" message out of her head.
What can I do to prove my identity to you?
When she was out of the shower, moisturized and wrapped up in a fluffy towel, she made her way back through to the living room to take a seat in front of her laptop. Emma wasn't entirely sure where the words came from, but as she pulled up "Agent Jones's" email, she found herself tapping out a quick response for him.
If you are who you claim to be, then you should be fully aware of where I'll be tonight. Come and find me.
Emma's finger hovered over the send button for a second as she wavered back and forth over the contents of her message. If he really was an NSA Agent, then he'd know about the signing and he'd know where and when it was taking place. If he showed up for it, she could meet him face-to-face, surrounded by other people, and in a very public space. If he wasn't who he claimed to be, at least she'd know for sure, and then she could put the whole incident behind her and start to move on with her life, instead of obsessively refreshing her inbox for his messages every day.
Decision made, Emma closed down her laptop and then headed back through to her bedroom to finish getting ready for the night.
"Wow, you look great," Ashley praised, as Emma opened the door to her apartment to let her friend in.
"Thanks. You don't think it's a bit much, do you?" she asked, tugging at the lace hem of her forest green dress. When she'd pulled it out of her closet an hour earlier, it had felt perfect for the occasion. It was the first thing she'd bought with her advance, and she'd never really had the opportunity to wear it before. Paired with her favorite over-the-knee suede boots, a black belt, and her new black blazer, Emma had felt like she'd nailed the stylish, businesswoman look… about an hour ago. However, the longer she'd been sitting waiting for her friend's arrival, the more she'd begun to doubt herself.
"No, you look great," Ashley assured her. "Granted, I've never been to an author Q&A or a book signing before, so I don't really know the dress code for one, but if it's anything like Comic-con, then you look good to me."
Emma chuckled a little as she perched herself nervously on the arm of the sofa, tapping her foot against the floor. "Thanks, Ash."
"No worries. Now, do you have everything you need?"
Emma held up her bag in response.
"Practiced your autograph so you know how to sign?"
Emma nodded to the pages of scrap paper on her coffee table, all covered in the same scrawling signature.
"Excellent news. Although, I hope you didn't do that today. Your hand will be cramping like a bitch by the time you get home."
Emma giggled again as she watched her friend throw herself down into a seat. Of course, that was the moment her phone pinged with a message from her agent's assistant. The car was downstairs and waiting for them.
Ashley had been right about the cramps. Emma could finally see the end of the line and her right hand was beginning to ache more than it ever had before. Thank god for computers, she told herself. She couldn't imagine having to write an entire novel by hand if this was what a two-hour signing session felt like.
Throughout the night, she'd kept her eyes peeled for anyone who could possibly be "Special Agent Jones." Every person who stood up to ask a question had given their name, and Emma had tried not to be disappointed when it wasn't Killian. While she was signing her books she tried to make conversation with everyone standing in front of her, hoping to coax some information from them. But once again, nobody introduced themselves as Killian, and with every book she signed, Emma felt her heart sink a little more. It had all been one hell of an elaborate prank. The guy was just a hacker who was simply trying to have some fun with her. In the morning, she would probably need to go and buy a new laptop to finally get rid of him.
Thankfully, Ashley had been spot-on about the event itself. While there had definitely been some criticisms of her book, most of them came in the form of comments such as, "It was far too short," or "The wait for book two has been too long." Emma had never encountered such generous, understanding, and wonderful people before in her life. If this was what all book signings were like, she'd have her agent arrange another for her very soon, because she couldn't wait to meet more of her fans.
"Last one," Ashley whispered to her, as Emma took a second just to shake out her hand and then swig from her warm bottle of water. "And he's hot too!"
Ashley had been keeping up a running commentary on every person who stepped up to the table to help her friend relax. There had been plenty of "hot" guys throughout the night, but none that had done anything for Emma, much to her friend's dismay.
"Hi, how are you?" Emma asked, as she finally turned back around to face the man standing in front of her. The moment she did, her eyes widened a little with her surprise. Unlike every other person who she had met that evening, this one was either dressed to impress, or had just come from work, as he was wearing an expensive, crisp back suit with a matching skinny tie and a small American flag pinned to his lapel.
"You… you are not what I expected," was all he said in reply, as he allowed his eyes to scan her form. He dragged his gaze back up to her face and swallowed heavily before declaring, "You've cut and colored your hair. It suits you."
Emma was so startled by the randomness of the comment that she couldn't seem to find the words to respond to it. She'd cut her hair short at the beginning of the year, and then, when she'd struggled to land on an idea for her second novel, she'd colored it red. It was an impulsive decision, and one she'd regretted the instant her hairdresser had finished styling it. But as the days had worn on, the color had begun to grow on her and Emma had found herself maintaining the red, rather than stripping it out to go back to blonde.
"Uh… thanks?" she eventually said, because she was aware that everyone around them was busy staring between her and Suit-guy, and she didn't know what else to say.
"I um… I brought you a gift," he told her, almost like he'd sensed her growing unease. "Actually, I stole it from work so please don't tell anyone. I'll definitely get fired for stealing government property."
Emma raised a brow in question and the man standing before her withdrew his left hand to set a black mug down in front of her. Emma flicked a curious glance between it and him, and then reached out for it. The moment she had it in her hands she realized that it wasn't a black mug at all. Suit-guy had just set it down backward. She twisted it slowly in her hands and then let out a sharp bark of laughter as the logo for the NSA came into view.
"I um… I was hoping you would sign this," Suit-guy said, setting down a battered, well-loved copy of her book, along with a folded, black leather wallet.
Emma flicked the wallet open to see the golden badge of the NSA next to a small, signed declaration from the Attorney General of the United States of America. Above that was a large card declaring Special Source Operations Division, NSA, Supervisory Special Agent Killian Jones which featured both his photograph and his signature. She turned it over in her hands a few times, feeling the weight and sturdiness of the design, before setting it back down.
"You really do work for the NSA."
"I really do," he confirmed. "Your uh… your search history gave us some cause for alarm a few years back."
Emma giggled a little manically as she pulled his book towards her and opened up the front cover. Tucked inside was his ticket for the event that evening with the number 004 printed on it. He'd been the fourth person to book for the signing.
"These went on sale months ago," she told him, as she waved the ticket in her hand.
"I told you I was a fan."
"Yeah. Yeah, you did," she replied, reaching for a pen as she opened the book once more. She bent her head to scribble inside of it for just a moment before closing it again and then handed the book back. "So… did you really order a Roger Federer mug?"
"Of course. You'd be amazed what you can find on the dark web," he teased, winking down at her.
Emma flushed a beautiful shade of pink as she took her time capping the pen in her hand.
"This um… this might be a little forward of me but uh… do you maybe wanna go and grab a drink?" Special Agent Jones asked, looking around himself at the empty store.
Emma's eyes flicked over to Ashley sitting beside her, who looked equal parts confused and amused, and then to her assistant, who was no longer paying them any attention.
"Yeah. Yeah, I could do with a drink," she agreed, pushing back her chair so she could rise to her feet.
Special Agent Jones watched as she carefully picked her way out from behind the desk and then came to stand beside him. "Huh," he said, the moment she was in touching distance.
"What?"
"Nothing. It's just… you're shorter than I thought you'd be."
Emma gave him a quizzical look before she rolled her eyes and said, "I'm sure you'll get used to it," as she gestured for him to lead the way out of the bookstore.
Emma's look for her signing event was based on Jen's look for the Austin Film Festival, 26th October 2017.
Thanks for reading.