Orelia approached the man with reverence, smiling and relaxed. Why wouldn’t she feel confident and comfortable? She’d done this every day since he’d shadowed her. She might have done it a hundred times for all he knew. Now he wondered about every freak accident he read in the news.

She leaned down to him and said something William couldn’t hear. The poor fellow looked up with empty eyes devoid of emotion and replied, but his words too were unintelligible. Forget spy craft and Jiu-jitsu skills, he’d take lip reading right now.

Orelia handed over several bills, and from the way the man bowed and nodded his head, William presumed as with previous contributions, they must be high denominations. Then she stood back, reached into her over-shoulder gray bag and pulled out a book. This he recognized as the same green volume in which she’d made a notation after giving money to the Captain.

This was the nearest he’d been to Orelia on one of her missions. He was so close he could see the shade of her bright-pink nail varnish—fairy-floss sprang to mind—as she flipped through the book’s pages. After a moment, she found whatever she’d been seeking, stopped and stared at the contents. After satisfying herself on something within, she returned it to her bag.

At this range, he now saw in detail the decorative, gold swirl markings on the cover, and that’s what tugged and pulled at his memory. Because he knew that book. The image of it in her hands transported him back a few years ago, to the coffee shop and the argument which ended their friendship.

Back then, he recalled thinking it was a diary of sorts because of the size and leather binding. He hadn’t seen the pages and didn’t note it as being of any importance. His impression had been of a beautiful item, the craftsmanship of which was rare these days. An old but unremarkable journal.

The way she now stared at the book evoked such a strong response, he recalled every detail from then, as if someone had hit play on an old DVD.

Yes, there it was, all the same. The tilt of her head, the self-satisfied smile, as if whatever was written inside pleased her. Her demeanor, identical to that day three years ago.

In that second, he no longer stood mere yards from his nemesis, but he was now in that café on that afternoon. A flashback of immense value because—drum roll, please—there was something about the diary. Something important. This might just be the missing piece.

What had she said before walking away, leaving his life to the destruction that lay ahead?

“You’ll be sorry William Barnes. Very sorry.”

And he had been sorry. Not straight away, but yes, since he’d recognized her curse on his career, regret had walked beside him every hour of every day.

So what was in that book? Now he’d realized this connection, what other detail had been filed in his brain from that meeting? What clue? What inconsequential words or behavior might reveal who or what Orelia Mason was, and what her true plans were?