Olivia Adams tugged on her jacket self-consciously, as if her constant pulling would stretch the material and make it fit better. Her dirty blonde hair, too long for a woman in her 30's, too outdated by modern standards, fell listlessly into her face as she stared into her coffee cup.
She pushed a limp lock behind her ear and smiled at a customer who passed her.
The store's barista took another java order. Fumbling at the expresso machine, his ineptness shrieked of his newness to the trade. His customers waited with the forced patience that the holidays bring. All the while, Toni Braxton's "Have Yourself A Merry Christmas" spilled out through the store speakers, sweet and seductive.
Olivia barely noticed.
Jayden observed Olivia from across the room. Her suit was ill fitted but by no means was it inexpensive. Wool with deep embroidery, it looked hand designed. Her shoes, he noted, were a different matter. Scuffed, ragged, cheap, they looked like something from Payless. As she fidgeted absent-mindedly with the USA Today in front of her, she knocked over her coffee. Embarrassment shone in her face and she hurriedly emptied the napkin dispenser in an attempt to clean up the mess.
No one noticed Olivia.
Despite the twenty feet between them, Jayden felt a connection with Olivia's solitude. The defeated kindness in her dull movements filled him with a sense of melancholy. It reminded him of his mother.
He knew Olivia. No, not personally. But he could read people, understand their gestures, read their actions, interpret the nuances of the lines on their very face. He could learn all he needed to know in seconds. Some would say that he was slightly physic; he knew it was a gift of discernment. In any case, it came in handy in his line of work.
What he could tell was that Olivia wasn't an unfaithful housewife. She didn't know anyone's dark secrets nor associate with anyone of ill repute. She didn't hold any government secrets. She was lonely, sad, sitting by herself in a coffee shop. And yet, he had to kill her.
He sighed. His life was a series of vignettes, playing out sporadically but violently as far as he could remember. They suffocated his soul.
He lifted his backpack off the floor and gingerly positioned it on the table. There was a Glock inside. He shifted it in his he backpack without pulling it out and carefully aimed it at Olivia. Despite her restless movements, he would shoot her without removing the gun from the bag. His aim was perfect.
Olivia, you have thirty seconds to live. He put his finger on the trigger. I hope you've said your goodbyes.
The faded prettiness of Olivia's small face was that of a woman who had once been a cheerleader but had, over the years, lost the girlish figure. He imagined she wished wistfully for those days again, subscribing to Jenny Craig to lose the weight but slipping in dunkin donuts between the meals.
Extra donuts and extra pounds, though, didn't get someone on his list. Curiosity prevented him from squeezing and his finger lingered on the trigger.
Why Olivia?
The door chimes sang loudly and two police offers strolled in the door. Jayden let go of the pistol and pulled his hand out the bag. The older one hustled toward the counter, loudly requesting his favorite java as he did so. The younger paused in the door frame, methodically breathed in the crowd and slowly looked around the room. His eyes met Jayden's, he nodded, and then he followed his partner to the counter.
Olivia shifted again; Jayden rethought his plan.
He had to kill her. He had committed to that. And he had committed to making it happen here. Murder was akin to real estate. Location, location, location. Who it was and where it happened could drive up the price significantly. Olivia's constant glancing at the door indicated that she was waiting for someone. But how long would she wait? How long did he have to fulfill his assignment?
