He was conspicuously older than she had anticipated.

There was a trace of roundness to his physique—a healthy shape concealed in a well-tailored suit. His forehead was wrinkle-free, she noted as he removed the dark fedora from his head, but the sae gesture exposed his receding, grey hairline. Granted, he looked well for his age. She observed sturdy brow beneath the brim of his hat. Even behind his sunglasses—of thin frame and wholly reflective—she knew somehow that his gaze had settled on her. When she lifted her hand to acknowledge him, offer a slight wave of reassurance to indicate that she was the woman he was looking for, the corners of his lips lifted into a deep smile. Elizabeth couldn't throw the falseness of the gesture from her mind's eye. That grin appeared more sardonic to her than sincere. His gait was easy, but predatory.

She was starting to regret Internet dating.

Her keen ability to observe others had never been a strength in the same way some thought it might be. She had always been acutely aware of the patterns of human behaviour that made man somehow so predictable. She had studied psychology carefully, identified key behaviouristics that set apart the criminal mind. Though she had never meant for it to be anything but a career, anything but a somewhat fruitless quest for self-fulfillment to fill the holes in her life, it worked its way into every component of her world. Her gift leaked into her marriage, tarnished the kind and generous man she had married—her gift made Tom foul. It had revealed the impurities of his character, revealed the proverbial serpent beneath the innocent flower.

She had waited to find love in a man whose soul was unimpeachable, and for that reason she had fallen tragically, briefly, for Donald Ressler.

Of nobler character there were surely few. Periodically dismissed for his apparent slowness, for his careful and deliberating decision-making, she identified someone who was precisely who they appeared to be. Despite his background, with its various embarrassments and disappointments, Don was exactly who he said he was. His sincerity was apparent to all who met him, his honesty and determination his plainest traits. She adored him because he was simple, because he smiled when he wanted to and allowed himself to be upset. He was an open book. Tom had once told her she was too—you're an open book, Liz, and that's what I love about you—and she had detested him for it; now she thought differently: an open book was one that could be trusted, with no plot twists, no devastating climax, and no lonely denouement. Don's transparency made her realize that.

But honest people were doomed for this world. Their goodness made them susceptible to cruelty because they were not ruthless. Don was good at his job, and he always had been. He could shoot straight, move quickly and think on his feet. But he was by-the-book. He played straight because he couldn't think like the criminals they targeted. That was Elizabeth's job. Failing him had cost her a shot at true love and him his life.

Enough loss in her life had perpetuated a woe-is-me attitude that she thought she wouldn't shake. It made her intolerable to others and herself. It made her unlovable in the eyes of those who knew her, and, failing to believe that she was anything else, she could not convince those who she was yet to meet otherwise.

Jolene was one of the few friends that Elizabeth had the fortune of keeping after the divorce. Many of their mutual friends had followed Tom, for it had always been he who put effort into maintaining their relationships. He was the one who made social calls, invited colleagues and friends over on Saturday nights. Tom was attractive, charming and fun—but Elizabeth was relatively withdrawn. Her focus had always been on her job. Jolene was the rare exception, one of a small collective who remained with the newly-redubbed Elizabeth Scott.

Jolene convinced her that Internet dating was a worthwhile decision.

"It's really not for me, Jo."

"How do you know?" Jolene was so vibrant, alive with life and all that it had to offer. She was a few years younger than Elizabeth, and sometimes she disregarded her friend on this basis: she thought her naïve. All the same, Jolene was the self-proclaimed 'life of the party,' and she seldom led Elizabeth astray. "You've never tried it. Give me that—" at this point two weeks earlier, she had torn the laptop from her friend and began filling in the form herself, "—okay, name: Elizabeth Scott. Age—do you think you can pass for thirty?"

"Ha-ha."

"Hobbies … cheerleading, beach volleyball—"

"Fuck you. Give me that."

Her profile was a relatively censored version of herself. It attracted minimal attention, if only because her tone was professional, as was her wont. She didn't emulate anything terribly exciting, and suspected that the whole thing was rather laughable after a week of relative inactivity.

Until, that was, she was contacted by one Mr. James Holman. His profile, like hers, was sparse, and his messages were brief at best. He didn't attempt to woe her with words, endeavouring instead to capture her with a straightforward: Coffee, Independence Ave, 3 p.m. Thursday?

She almost hadn't replied, and again had debated that very morning whether or not to show up. As James removed his glasses, she wished she hadn't. There was a glimmer of something odd in his eyes, something that Elizabeth couldn't identify immediately. It was something slightly knowing, something a little too self-assured to be trusted.

"Hello, Lizzie."

He was wearing a suit. Instead of questioning why he was wearing a suit to a coffee shop, she doubted herself instead. Why had she worn something to casual? Nervously, she touched the tips of her fingers to the scar on the opposite palm. Why was she wearing a sweater? Although it was one she thought suited her (it was purple; she once wore a fair bit of purple, until the last year, when she had worn a necessary but unfortunate amount of black), she now felt underdressed as opposed to James being overdressed.

"Liz," she corrected him mildly, drawing a smile onto her lips in order to soften her criticism. "It's very nice to meet you, James."

His laugh was like his smile: a fraction less than genuine. It was almost theatrical, though there was, she though, real warmth on his features as he shook his head as if to say 'Silly me!' "Right!" he seemed almost giddy, and she could only watch him and attempt to conceal her confusion, "James!" He stepped behind her to pull out her chair another inch. She thought the act gratuitous, given that she had been sitting down in it only a moment prior, but he was set on an archaic gesture of courtship, and pushed it in behind her as she sat before joining her at the table.

He was smiling at her again, and, the more she observed him, the better the expression fit his face. His tone was fond when he spoke again, "You got rid of your highlights."

Her heartbeat grew erratic beneath her breast, "What?"

"It's good," he said, suddenly serious, if not mockingly so. "They were so Baltimore."

Her breath caught in her throat before she could cough out a response. She felt hot and cold at once, terrified by his omniscience, "I have to go," she blurted out hastily as she began to rise from her chair, reaching for her red coat as she did so.

"Lizzie, stay!" the command was made laughingly. "You simply must try their vanilla rooibos latte."

She was shaking without realizing it. Deep rooted trust issues, intense paranoia and a profession that caused her to think the worst in everyone made her especially fallible to the anxiety that his commentary was inducing. Her throat was tight, and her pulse echoed through her ears. He knew her hair colour. He knew her drink order. He knew things that she had definitely not posted on Matchmaker.

"I—I'm—"

"Sit with me," he said cheerfully, seriousness in his eyes but not his voice, "It can't be more horrible than going home to nap in that empty bed you used to share with Donald."

As she lowered herself back into her chair, still uneasy, her trembling hands covered her lips.

"There we are, Lizzie."

"Who are you?" her fight or flight reflexes were at war, battling in the privacy of her mind, waging war within her skull. On the outside, all that he was privy to was her pale cheeks and the slight sheen of tears glistening in her eyes. They were in a public place. He wouldn't hurt her—he couldn't hurt her—

"Honestly, what sort of FBI agent doesn't recognize Raymond Reddington?—oh, yes, we'll have one vanilla rooibos latte and one black coffee. Thanks."