The Impostor

Prologue

The radio was humming softly as the buzz of conversation in the bijou cafe subdued. Jean Sablon could be heard along with the thump of the french doors closing shut. Heads were turned to witness the confounding being that reduced the entire brasserie into taciturnity. Clack...Clack...Clack. The soft clack of shoes on marble heightened as they neared the counter; gasps of awe and bewilderment spread through the tables like wildfire. Still unable to form coherent thought, murmurs of sordid tales and bavardage were yet to escape the lips of the busybodies dawdling about.

The woman who entered sniffed in disdain at the milieu of the cafe and removed her sunglasses, resolutely refusing to stare anyone except the barista in the eye, and asked for a latte and a croissant. With an air of assertiveness, she glided across the room, eyes following her every move, and settled at a table in the farthest corner of the cafe, by the window. As much as her eyes wished to wander around the maudlin place, she swerved her head towards the small window, refusing to show any sign of sentiment or shame for the past. For unearthing the dead and buried comes with a price to those among the living.