Snowflakes (Otto Wood)

1

I watch through the window panes as the thick flakes of snow coat everything in a chilly layer.

Some would say that it's quite unwise to be wandering around the streets of London at 3 AM during a snowstorm but I've never claimed to be wise. I pull the red jumper off the edge of my bed and slide it over my head, surely mussing up my hair but I immediately grab a pull over hat and yank it down over my head so it covers my ears, tying the strings in a knot so it'll stay in place.

Once I've got my snow shoes on and my purse slung over my shoulder, I leave my flat, locking the door behind me. The cool air slaps me in the face but I breathe in deeply, appreciating the way it makes my lungs feel like they're working, even though they obviously always are.

The 15 minute walk to Bar Italia, the only cafe I know to be open at this hour, seems to take ages longer as I can't stop kicking snow drifts and stopping to make snow angels in the middle of the road, where the freshly fallen snow is so pure and untouched, therefore irresistible.

When I finally do reach the coffee shop, I peer through the windows to see that it's nearly empty. Just a barista behind the counter and a man at the counter, his face tucked into a book. I kick the wall next to the door softly a few times, to knock the excess snow off of my boots before I pull open the door and step into the warm air, a bell above my head chimes as I step in.

"Another night owl." The barista says. All of the chairs at the tables are placed on top of them, leaving me no choice but to sit at the counter. "Welcome to Bar Italia."

The man at the counter doesn't move when I pull back a stool at the counter and sit, depositing my purse in the empty seat next me. There's still 3 seats between us.

"A hot cocoa, with extra whipped cream for here please." I ask and the barista flashes me a classic British gap toothed smile.

"That's interesting." She says and then gestures vaguely to the man at the counter before turning away to prepare my drink. When I look over, the man's finally looked up, pushing a section of his long hair that's mostly tucked under a beanie behind his ear and giving me a small smile.

"Two night owls who like hot cocoa." He says, gesturing to his own drink, the same one that I just ordered. His American accent catches me off guard briefly before I give him a small smile. It's always tourist season in London, Americans are always everywhere. They fought so hard for their freedom, you'd think they'd stay the hell out of the country they tried so desperately to get away from. I nod at the man before turning away just in time for the barista to set my drink in front of me.

"Thank you." I say quietly, picking up the drink and taking a sip. It's perfect temperature, not too hot or cold and there's exactly enough whipped cream. I raise my head to thank the barista again but she's disappeared into the back. I glance over at the man again, who's returned to reading his book, holding his finger between the pages in one hand, raising his mug for a drink in the other. I reach into my rather large purse and retrieve my laptop, moving my mug over to set the computer on the counter. I smile at my homescreen of my sister and I at Reading Festival last year when I open the device but then I quickly click the link saved on the desktop and suddenly the chapter I'm working on for my book is displayed on the screen.

Jill didn't know what to say. Was there anything proper to say in this situation? There was a nasty feeling down in the pit of her stomach and her mouth had gone dry. Was he joking? He had to have been joking. What a nasty thing to joke about. Bloody hell, Tanner had never been able to accidentally step on a ladybird without feeling guilty. There was no way he had killed Olivia, let alone successfully covered it up. That was not the boy Jill had grown up with, laughed with, cried with. Jill had grown up with Tanner, not the so called cold blooded killer that stood before her now, pleading.