thewhitelily

Rosamund didn’t look behind her as she walked into the internet cafe, too professional to let nerves show on the surface.

She wore the torn Motörhead T-shirt, unwashed hair, and sullen expression of a moody late teenager, and clutched a battered skateboard under one arm.  She daringly ordered a strong black coffee to go with her hour of computer time, and rebelliously stared down the amused cashier as though expecting to be refused service because it was past her bedtime.

She’d switched disguises three times on the way over, switched directions and modes of transport too.  She’d been an elderly man on the plane; a businesswoman in the cab.  No one had followed her trail.  She’d made sure.

Now it was time to find something more permanent.

She gathered her cup from the cashier with one last scowl at the counter and carefully hacked into the registry to filter based on the search terms she wanted; obviously, she didn’t know the name of her target.  Yet.  Only that she was already dead.

A list scrolled up in front of her, and she ran her eye down the names.

Jaqueline Winningham

No.  Died young enough, but the parents were still living.

Ayodeji Jamila Chahine

No, she didn’t have the complexion for it.

Eurus Elise Holmes

Just no.

Mary Elizabeth Morstan.

Possible… she’d always liked ‘Mary’. It was sturdy. Plain. Forgettable.

Born December 4th, 1981 to Philip and Janet Morstan.  Died… December 4th, 1981.  No siblings, parents deceased.

Promising…

She looked up the parents. Both only children. Excellent. Married. Father died… 1998. Car accident. Workable—and no need to falsify foster-care records. Mother died… ah, December 25th, 1981. Cause obvious, if undeniably tragic. Better and better.

She considered the blinking cursor for a moment more, mentally spinning tales in her head of a girl who had never grown up… but might have.  Then she deleted the death record, following the alteration by expunging the audit trail for the previous fifteen minutes.

Rosamund sat back in the uncomfortable cafe chair and picked up her coffee. For a silent moment, she raised the cup in a toast, mourning the death of the baby girl whose family tragedy would give Rosamund another chance at life—and then Mary Morstan took a sip, and got on with hacking the records to solidify her new identity.