The Fabric of Time

by Fae York

  Gavin sprinted into the small enclosure and nodded while saying, “thank you.”

  “It was nothing.” She could hear the annoyance in her voice.

  Gavin smiled and opened his mouth like he was going to make a snarky comment, but he caught himself when he saw Emelia’s expression. Instead, he opted to stand in the corner of the elevator, awkwardly glancing at his phone even though they were in an elevator with no signal.

  Emelia could sense his discomfort and almost felt bad for him. She eyed him discreetly, trying to decide why he acted the way he did.

  Was it a diagnosable condition? Normal guys didn’t silently hover behind you when they wanted to ask you out, and they certainly didn’t randomly start snickering around you. Emelia hoped he was okay mentally, and didn’t want to feel bad about not taking any of his garbage. She wasn’t convinced that there was an single explanation for why the guy next to her was the way he was.

  He had an ordinary looking face that was clean-shaven—most of the time. He wore unremarkable clothes, even if it seemed like pop culture T-shirts made up the bulk of his wardrobe. To his credit, he wasn’t fat, but was hardly what you’d call “in shape” either. Gavin’s smile was always a little askew and never seemed quite genuine. With his blond hair cropped short to his head to try and hide the fact that it was thinning, and his average dull brown eyes, Gavin wasn’t much to behold. Although he did have really nice hands, with long fingers that would do well atop piano keys, and clean manicured fingernails. Of everything about Gavin, the color of his hair and his well-formed hands were the only thing that appealed to Emelia.

  Despite his shortcomings, she had to admit that he had more friends at work than she did. They said nothing to each other the entire drop to parking level B3.

  When the doors slid open, Gavin turned around and said, “Have fun with your grandpa, Emelia. I get it, family comes first,” No longer confined to the elevator, his confidence rebounded enough to bring the finger guns out once again.

  Emelia was barely able to respond with an obligatory, “good night, Gavin,” before he was off to his car.

  Emelia shook her head and walked away, pulling her keys out of her pocket and pushing the button to unlock and start her car from a few feet away. She reached for the handle to open the door and paused, studying her reflection in the unblemished glass of her window. Every day, Emelia left her house with her hair pulled back in a high, tidy ponytail. By midday, it was as if her ponytail would defy her by sliding down her skull to one side or the other, just slightly off center. The sides always managed to somehow slip out of the band and the shorter, wayward curls sprang free around her face. She’d sometimes go to the bathroom to fix it, but today she was too busy thinking about work, Gavin, and the John Doe cases to pay attention to her appearance.

  Emelia frowned at the frazzled-looking reflection and it reciprocated by frowning back at her. She sighed, eagerly looking forward to her pizza and wine waiting at home.

  2 Life as Usual

  The setting sun painted the sky pink and gold as it poured soft light in through the western windows. Emelia loved this time of the year; the spectacular sunsets and glow of twilight always delighted her. Something about the gentleness of the light made her believe that there was still hope for something more in life.

  Emilia sighed with contentment, placing her keys upon the hook inside her coat closet and putting her purse squarely on the top shelf. She hung her jacket and slid out of her shoes, shutting the door behind her, then plugged her phone into the charger. She walked a few steps down the hall into the master suite, enjoying the feel of the plush, cream-colored carpet beneath her feet.

  Everything in her room had been chosen for its simple elegance and practicality. Like her office at work, Emelia felt no desire to fill her home with things that she did not need. Everything had a purpose and place, and that was how she liked it. Emelia smiled happily, turning into her walk-in closet to change out of her work clothes. She gingerly tugged at the band holding her sloppy ponytail and slid it off her hair, letting the tresses tumble down around her shoulders to her mid-back in loose waves. Picking up a brush, Emelia carefully brushed the strands, starting at the bottom and working upward, as her mother had taught her when she was very little.

  “Start at the bottom, Mimi dear,” her mother had said, using her fond nickname for her daughter, “it will help to untangle the snarls that are there first, rather than tearing through from top to bottom and making the knots worse.”

  Tears sprang to Emelia’s eyes, surprising her as the memory overtook her. She was only three years old when her parents died, but the memories were still there. She set her brush down immediately, shaking her head. The time for mourning was long past. Twisting her hair into a bun, Emelia left the room and decided that it wasn’t too late to do her laundry.

  Emelia started a load of delicates, shutting the closet doors to dull the sound of the washing machine, then turned and walked into the kitchen behind her. Her second to last pre-prepared meal—her homemade pizza—was soon warming in the oven. Tomorrow, Saturday, she would cook all her meals for the coming week and pay a visit to her grandfather. On Sunday, Emelia would read, relax, and get ready to start all over again on Monday morning.

  This routine was comfortable and regular, happening day in and day out, week in and week out, and Emilia had kept it up for her entire adult life. She had practiced the mantra everything-has-its-place-and-everything-in-its-place way of living for so long that she now performed these little rituals without a second thought. It was the only way her life made sense.

  Before Emelia left the living room, she raised her remote control and pointed it toward her stereo system. The comforting sound of Michael Bublé’s “Home” filled the air. She had an urge to dance for a moment, but quickly pushed the feeling away. Dancing alone always reminded her that she was, well, very much alone. Emelia hadn’t had a partner in almost ten years and hadn’t ever been in a serious relationship. If anyone asked, she’d blame it on her career, but the truth was that Emelia had always struggled to connect with other people.

  It was twilight when she settled into her patio chaise lounge and opened her book. Emelia ah forty minutes to read; just enough time to finish a couple chapters of the latest spy novel she was reading. Spy novels . . . her guilty pleasure. Unconsciously, Emelia tucked a loose chunk hair behind her ear and began reading.

  When the washing machine dinged happily, it coincided perfectly with the completion of her third chapter. She brought the book inside, shutting and locking the French doors behind her. Her stomach growled as the scent of her meat lovers pizza wafted toward her and Emelia sighed contentedly. She moved the damp clothes to the dryer, item by item, being sure to snap each individual piece fiercely before putting it inside the machine.

  She nodded and returned with the darks, stopping on the way to check her cell phone. The care center where her grandfather lived had called while she was out on the balcony. Emelia pressed the phone to her ear and pressed play.

  “Good evening, Ms. Plater. This is Anastasia from The Memory Care Facility. I am calling to remind you of your appointment with Mr. McEntyre at 9 a.m. tomorrow. Please call us back to confirm . . .”

  Emelia cut off the message and called Anastasia back, she answered before the phone even rang on Emelia’s end.

  “Thank you for calling The Memory Care Facility. This is Anastasia. How may I be of assistance?”

  Her overly enthusiastic voice grated on Emelia’s nerves. She loathed women who felt they had to be that vivacious all the time. Rolling her eyes, Emelia struggled not to show her irritation. “Good evening, Anastasia. This is Emelia Plater returning your call.”

  “Oh, Hello, Ms. Plater,” Anastasia interrupted happily. “So good of you to call back so quickly,”

  “Yes, well, I am confirming my visiting time tomorrow with my grandfather. I will be there at 9 a.m. sharp.”

  “Fabulous,” Anastasia chirped. “I’m sure James will
be thrilled—”

  Unable to stop the words that tumbled out, Emelia barked, “I doubt that, since he has Alzheimer’s and has no idea where he is, who the hell I am, or why I’m visiting him. But it’s nice of you to keep dreaming.”

  “Oh . . .” Anastasia said in a much less cheerful tone; her carbonated nature flattened by Emelia’s acidic words.

  Immediately feeling remorse, Emelia apologized. “I’m so sorry, Anastasia. You didn’t deserve that. I’ve had a very long week and I’m exhausted, but that is no excuse. Please forgive me.”

  “Of course,” she said, all at once restored to her effervescent state. “It’s nothing. We’ll see you tomorrow, then. May your sleep be peaceful this night and may you wake refreshed and rejuvenated.”

  The line went dead, and Emelia stared at her phone, embarrassed that she had lashed out like that. Her grandfather was the only living relative she had left, and he was fading every day. Rather than allowing grief to swallow her whole, Emelia preferred to be angry like it was her grandfather’s fault that he would soon abandon her too. Shaking her head, she walked to the kitchen, again taking in the mouthwatering smell of the dinner awaiting her in the oven. She grabbed a wine glass, poured herself some chardonnay, and walked into the living room.

  Curling her feet up underneath her, she sat down on her favorite corner of the couch and switched on the TV. Her television was one of the few things she splurged on. It was a 52’’ 4K screen connected to a surround sound system. The image was so crisp and lifelike; it was almost like being in the room with the interview woman that seemed to be staring Emelia in the face.

  Tonight, it seemed the woman was going to be interviewing Noah Thicke. Emelia groaned; she didn’t care for Thicke. Something about him seemed off to her, but the world seemed to adore him. He was a rising star in the political arena that had built his reputation by predicting the future with frighteningly consistent accuracy. No one seemed to question his ability, and that alone caused Emelia concern. She watched as Thicke waltzed through the door, and the interviewer rose, smiling broadly. Emelia snorted at the woman’s awestruck face and wondered if she was going to faint. Noah was unarguably handsome, even in Emelia’s estimation. However, with his jet-black hair, unusually flawless skin, and piercing black eyes, there was something about him that reminded her too much of a vampire. He was too beautiful. Thicke was also known for never breaking eye contact. For many, this meant he was unfailingly honest. For Emelia, it meant he was well practiced at hiding the truth.

  Disgusted, she changed the channel, landing on the Hallmark channel as A Prince for Halloween was just about to begin.

  As the movie played, Emelia starched and ironed shirts, pressed creases into her pants, and made sure all her work clothes were ready for next week. By the time the movie ended, she had finished all her work and found herself snuggled under a blanket. Before the next Hallmark movie could even start, Emelia was fast asleep.

  3 Forgotten

  The next day dawned unpleasantly as Emelia woke to the blaring of her phone alarm. She’d managed to spend the entire night on the couch. Grimacing and stretching her sore muscles, Emelia got up to turn off her alarm and readied herself for the day.

  Before long—and right on time—she was on the road to visit her grandpa. Emelia had about an hour-long drive and chose to use that time listening to her latest audiobook—an uplifting book about manifesting the desires of your heart. She liked to use her drive time for listening to audiobooks, rather than the radio. In her opinion, it was a more productive use of her time.

  When Emelia pulled into the parking lot of the care center, there were many vacant parking spots. As she walked into the center, the girl at the reception area as Anastasia. Swallowing a groan, Emelia put on a professional facade, using the same smile she often reserved for interacting with bothersome coworkers.

  “Good morning, Anastasia,” Emelia said politely. “How are you today?”

  “It's just the most beautiful day outside, so I am doing amazing, Did you sleep well, Ms. Plater?”

  With her sore muscles aching, Emelia nodded and offered another smile, this one slightly more strained. “Yes, I did,” she lied. “Thank you for your blessing last night.”

  “My pleasure,” the receptionist said brightly, and handed the sign-in book to Emelia. Anastasia uncapped a brightly colored pen with purple ink and placed it on the counter.

  Rather than using the ridiculously unprofessional purple pen, Emelia reached confidently into the front pocket of her purse and pulled out a sensible, black one. She signed her signature with concentrated pressure and perfect lines, “Emelia M. Plater.”

  “Oh,” Anastasia said. “My middle initial is ‘M’ too! It stands for ‘Magdalinia,’ and when you combine that with my last name, ‘Dumanovsky,’ you’ve got a mouthful! An-a-sta-si-a Mag-da-li-ni-a Du-man-ov-sky! What does your ‘M’ stand for, Ms. Plater?”

  “It is only an initial; nothing else,” Emelia lied, and Anastasia’s smile faded. Emelia’s name was really “Emelia McEntyre Plater,” McEntyre being her mother’s maiden name. When Emelia shared her full name with others, they always wanted to know where the “McEntyre” came from. Since the accident, and the untimely death of both of her parents, every question was a reminder of that loss. So, Emelia used “Emelia M. Plater” as her full name and never bothered to explain why to anyone else.

  “Oh . . .” Anastasia said, confused. The receptionist stared at the book and shook her head. She glanced down the hall and gasped happily, as though the Easter Bunny had just appeared. “Oh, here comes your grandfather.”

  Emelia followed her gaze and felt surprised when she discovered her grandfather was being escorted in a wheelchair being pushed by one of the orderlies. Alarm clearly evident in her voice, she asked, “Why is he in a wheelchair? Has he sustained an injury?”

  “Oh, No, no.” Anastasia quickly attempted to reassure her. “Nothing of the sort. James just keeps telling us he cannot walk because he was injured in the war.”

  “Got some shrapnel in m’leg,” James muttered. “German grenade blew up near our sandbag . . . No, that’s not right.” He glanced at Emelia for the first time, “Oh, hello miss. I know you from somewhere.”

  “Yes, I’m your granddaughter, Emelia. I’m here to visit you.”

  “Oh, well thanks.” James didn’t say much more than that, his gaze quickly becoming distracted by some unseen thing. Emelia sighed; he wasn’t doing well today. On some visits he’d still recognize her, but today he was out of it. These were the worst days.

  Sitting beside her grandpa, Emelia began to fidget with the ring on a chain around her neck, sliding it up and down the chain quietly. She had never worn the ring on her finger, but always had it with her, usually tucked into her shirt.

  “So,” Emelia said quietly, staring out the window, “things at work are going well. I’ve been working on a couple of different cases that are really interesting and have had the opportunity to stretch my investigative skills more. You know how much I love to work . . .”

  She fell quiet again, glancing at the man beside her to find him still staring into the distant past. Emelia slid the ring up and down again and twisted it clumsily.

  “We have a new machine. They’re installing it in the remodeled room down the hall from my office. It’s top-of-the-line and I’m really excited to get to use it.” Her voice lit up with excitement and she rushed on. “It is the latest capillary electrophoresis instrument and it’s really going to speed up our workflow and clarify our analyses.”

  After a few moments James turned to her, slightly confused, “That’s very nice, dear.”

  After a few more minutes of sitting awkwardly, Emelia said goodbye and left.

  Dragging herself to the receptionist desk, Emelia prayed that Anastasia wasn’t there so she could just sign out without having to carry on small talk. Fortunately, the coast was clear. Emelia sighed with relief as she signed herself out, then trudged out the front door towar
d her car.

  Emelia paused her audiobook and drove in silence. Her exhaustion after the visit with her grandfather made it difficult to concentrate on anything more than just driving. She rolled down her window, grateful for the unseasonably perfect weather and the feeling of the wind against her face. On the way home Emelia made a stop at the grocery store and also swung by at the dry cleaners to pick up her dress for the FBI’s Formal Evening Ball that night.

  The function tonight . . . Emelia sighed. She would be attending alone, of course. She didn’t want to go to the event and had nearly forgotten it entirely, but really hadn’t had a choice in the matter. It was a black-tie fundraising affair—$2,000 a plate—and her boss had insisted Emelia be there. He told her he would not take “No” for an answer and that only her untimely death would get her out of it. I may be able to arrange that . . . she had thought grimly.

  There was one thing she was looking forward to about tonight, and that was the location of the event. It was being held at the elite restaurant Plume, located inside the Jefferson, a small historical hotel in the heart of Washington D.C. known for its sophisticated atmosphere, top-notch service, and elegantly delicious food. Plume was considered quite an experience to be had. Emelia had always wanted to go there, but her unsociable lifestyle had never provided her with a good enough opportunity.

  Emelia walked into her kitchen and plopped her phone in the charging bay of her stereo system. As if by magic, the room filled with rhythmic music. She began humming along with the tune, swaying side to side as Emelia put her groceries away. She then busied herself fixing and preparing her meals for the rest of the week. Halfway through the prep for the fourth and final recipe, her music cut out and the sound of electronic birds filled her speakers.

  “Who could that be?” Emelia wondered aloud. She didn’t get a lot of calls on her personal phone because very few people had her number, and she liked it that way. Her phone was programmed to respond to certain vocal commands, so Emelia called out to the empty room, “Who is calling?”