Paragon

The chill of a London morning clung to everything, but for Detective Tara Fletcher, it was just another Tuesday. She could smell the coffee even before she reached the police vehicle, a familiar comfort in the grey dawn. Her partner, William Blake, was already inside the unmarked BMW, a flurry of papers and a muted conversation with the touch screen. He barely looked up as Tara adjusted the collar of her long winter trench coat, the heavy fabric a familiar second skin.

“You know I think they get more reckless every year,” Will was saying, his voice a low grumble. He pointed a thin finger at a decaffeinated coffee cup. “These lads aren’t even trying to hide the action in Seven Sisters anymore—that one is yours—”.

Tara picked it up, taking a faux wince-filled sip before placing it back down. “Your decaf.” She reached for her own, the real coffee, knowing it was a ritual she’d repeat later, just in reverse. Will snorted, a strand of black hair falling across his tired grey eyes. The bags under them were stark.

“Trouble in paradise last night?” Tara probed, a smile in her voice, effortlessly discerning the strain in his relationship. Will scowled, tearing his eyes from his papers. “Keep that detective work out on the field, Fletcher. I had enough of a lecture last last night.”

Tara merely smirked, her gaze drifting out to the station parking lot. Another alias, Tara Fletcher, another passport, another birth certificate to discard in a few years. She was the constant, the world the fleeting illusion. The youth of the city's criminals, however, was a constant that grated on her ancient sensibilities. She looked at Will, his heart rate increasing slightly as he read through a file. The dull ache of thirst was barely a thought. Her control was absolute, her last quenching only days ago.