My internal body clock snapped my eyes open at five thirty and I pulled on my running gear. I wasn't that much different to my night stalking gear but intent on running past Miranda's - shit - the target's, house again this morning, just to get a look at her in the daylight. I decided to catch the subway to Grand Central and then jog from there by the time I got to Mira - the target's - neighbourhood, the street was already waking up. I imagined I could hear coffee machines clicking on and nanny's waking children. I assumed Miranda would never have had time for children, the job she did would be far too demanding.

I jogged around the block for a while, pretending to stretch on an expanse of fencing. That was one thing I loved about these neighbourhoods, everyone kept to themselves. Their lives were so busy being busy that they had no time to look out of the window and see the slightly suspicious looking woman casing Miranda Priestly's townhouse. In a flash, I was once again on the roof of the building opposite, watching as she made her way regally down her stairs, pausing on the second-floor landing, all the while talking on her house phone. I smiled as I watched her smile into the phone and I couldn't help but wonder who she was talking to. A lover perhaps, her family. It never mentioned any family in the package.

I really must have a word with that man about what he expects me to do with the bare bones of Miranda Priestley's life. I'd worked out almost immediately that he must be someone that worked with her, mainly because he seemed to have included everything about Miranda Priestly, fashion icon and nothing about Miranda Priestly, the woman.

If, and right now I really wasn't sure, I was going to do this I wouldn't do it at work, it'd be at home, in the confines of her own space, with the things she loved around her. Her dog, that book she carries with her. Maybe a drug overdose, although then she'd be in the tabloid for weeks and people always made shit up when it came to big stories. Suicide? Although she was Miranda Priestly. So no. A mugging gone wrong? Too many cops, and again, when in the hell would Miranda Priestley ever be in a position to be mugged. My god, I loved a challenge.

I wondered as I sat there chewing my thumbnail what on earth someone like Miranda Priestly would eat for breakfast. I had read somewhere that she had a woman cook for her, but only in the evenings. I wondered if Miranda knew how to cook. I found myself wishing I could cook her one of my stir fries.

"For god's sake Andy," I groaned and hit my head against the bricks.

I needed coffee. I clambered down from the roof and jogged to the nearest Starbucks, intent on getting the biggest coffee I could in the hope that my brain would snap back into business mode.
I waited for my order, drumming my fingers on the bar as I stood. My heart stilling for a moment as I heard a quiet, but commanding voice cut through everything in the store.

"I have been waiting two minutes for my coffee and it is still not ready. Is it so hard to make a simple coffee? Am I reaching for the stars?"

I stood watching the woman, a slight smile on my face, loving the sheer awesome power she had over everything. I stood there for a little too long and she turned, once again as if she could feel me watching her. I could tell her eyes were roaming the crowd under those big Prada sunglasses. I casually dropped to one knee, tying my shoelace that I'd pulled undone with my other foot as I knelt. I watched her from behind my Oakley's as her lips flattened again. Obviously, the lip thing was a trademark of hers as I noted the driver's worried expression as he held open the door for her. I'd have to remember that one.

I followed her out to the road, sipping my coffee as I flagged down a cab. No sense in wearing myself out now is there.