Winston loathed funerals. Especially, he now found, when the deceased was sitting on his sofa, eating crackers and watching Netflix. He looked around discreetly as the priest murmured some comforting general platitudes about the next world being so much better than this and counted the attendees, knowing that late Miss Quinn would want to know who had come to pay their respects. Aurelio was standing to one side, a particularly unattractive mutt at his feet. He was red-nosed, his head turned from the little plot, probably trying to blink back tears. Aside from that, there were three maids from The Continental, who tried to stay as far from their boss as they could, standing with their arms linked and fingers entwined in rosary beads, muttering prayers in Spanish. There was a man from their Agency days, an old-timer called Hawkins, a man who'd remained alive long enough to retire by dint of pure luck rather than any particular skill or talent. He was one of the few still living: all rest that had known or worked with Quinn or Wick were long dead. Winston distracted himself from the cold by doing a mental tally of all those that had been on the books with Anna when she'd been a professional: Marcus. Dead. Miss Knight. Dead. Miss Perkins. Dead. Mr Pfeiffer. Dead. Michael Black. Dead, dead, dead. The list went on, it was too tiresome to even continue.

Anna – or the pile of ash he'd scraped from his fire grate that morning and dumped in an urn – was being buried next to Miss Perkins, something she would be most displeased about. Neither she nor Miss Perkins cared much to be in the same room together in this life, so he was certain she would not be pleased to know that she'd been assigned the plot next to Perkins for the afterlife. But that's the way it went: the Agency-owned graves were assigned to their employees as part of their life insurance policy, a random potluck that decided where you ended up in their tidy little graveyard. The Agency owned a plot of land close enough to the main cemetery to appear to be part of it, but their land was, of course, unconsecrated. No priest would allow any of their ranks to be buried among the faithful without expressing sincere contrition before their passing. And as professionals were wont to shuffle off their mortal coil in a manner that did not allow a lot of prior reflection – usually with a swift bullet to the head or a vital organ – their final resting place was as shadowy a limbo as their lives had been: buried in the middle of the city's regular citizens, but separate and alone.

The priest blessed himself and Winston smiled benignly at him. He was never entirely sure what to do at these Catholic ceremonies, so he generally tried to look earnest and well-intentioned. As he looked around, he spotted two men on the other side of the low wall. One of them nudged the other when he saw Winston and they both sauntered off, trying too hard to be inconspicuous. Whose goons were they? Römermann's or from the Bridgemont estate? Not that it mattered: they clearly wanted to make sure Anna was dead and possibly hoped that John would put in an appearance at her graveside. While their curiosity as to the former might have been appeased, the latter was a sore disappointment: John was gone and no one knew where.

Winston adjusted his scarf and turned to leave, coming face to face with Aurelio.
"I know what you done," he snarled, "and you gotta cheek coming here like that."
"Well, I – "
"You fuckin' killed her," Aurelio shouted, causing the priest to look up, startled. One of the maids rushed over and pulled him away. It took Winston a moment or two to remember: his sister, of course. She glared at them both, pulling her brother away. "Venga, Auri," she said. "Leave it be, honey."
"You'll get yours," Aurelio said, yanking the dog's leash. "You'll get yours, old man."
His sister tugged him away, shooting a filthy look at Winston as they left.
Such a nasty business, funerals.

Anna wouldn't believe him when he said he didn't know where John was. Holed up in Winston's private quarters at the Continental, he was worn out trying to make her see that the life, the lives, that she had known were over. She kept insisting that she could and would find Wick – he needed her. He came to her, after all. Finally, Winston collected her paperwork from the Agency archivist and sat down with her, so they could sort out her will and tidy up any loose ends her fake death had created in the lives of Ann Finnerty and Eileen O'Grady. Anna had been close-mouthed about her family, but Winston had seen to it that her brother and an older sister were informed of her death. ("Under which circumstances did Ann Finnerty pass?" Winston asked delicately. "Overdose," was the short answer. "It's a family tradition") and he had an inordinate amount of trouble dealing with the head teacher at the school she'd been teaching at in her third life as Eileen. When that was all done, he had to tackle the Agency paperwork, including the insurance that continued to run long after she'd ceased to work for them. It was a handsome settlement that would be paid out to her beneficiary in the case of an early death and Winston noted with interest that Anna had named John Wick as the recipient of this payment. Without saying anything, he arranged for the money to be transferred to the bank account he'd opened in her new name. He was certain that John did not need the money and even if he did, Winston had no way of getting it to him.

Anna watched him sift through the files and make phone calls. She was constantly on her phone, a new phone, registered in her new name, tapping and scrolling, looking for anything or anyone that would connect her with John. Finally, fearful that she would blow her own cover, Winston confiscated it while she was taking a shower and hid it in his safe. When she got angry with him, he simply turned his back on her.
"There is no point in becoming vexed, little bird. You seem to have difficulty understanding that you must not try to find Jonathan. It is over."
"It's not over," she hissed.
"Anna," Winston said, taking one of her hands in his, "it is over. At least, for now. Don't you understand? This is John's gift to you: he's given you another chance. A fresh start. Don't you understand what this means?"
She jutted her chin out. "We should be together," she said.
"Tosh," Winston tsk-tsked. "He has given you the ultimate gift, Anna," he repeated. "He's given you a life and this is a lot coming from a man whose own life is forfeit. He wants you to take it."
She stared at him through narrowed eyes. "I don't want his stinking gift," she said.
Winston shrugged. "It's what he wants," he said. "And he must want it badly because it would have been far easier to keep you by his side."
She looked out the window, her eyes scanning the skyline, thinking.
"Do you think he'll come back for me, Win?" she asked softly.
"I'm sure he will, birdie," Winston said.
If he lives, he thought.

x x x

Five months later

Annika Smith rang up the customer's purchase and placed the book in the bag.
"Enjoy it," she said and smiled at the older woman. The bookstore was quiet, so she went back to tidying shelves, straightening books and rearranging displays.

Muriel, the owner, smiled at her as she passed. Muriel had given her a part-time job as a favour to her brother, Winston, but had upped her hours when she realised what a treasure she had found. Winston trained his managers well: the girl was clever and efficient and had already come up with some good ideas to promote the store and make the most of their display space. When she wasn't dealing with her co-workers or customers, she seemed to slip into a reflective, almost melancholy, state. Once or twice Muriel had caught her simply standing by the window, looking out at the busy street outside. When offered a penny for her thoughts, Annika had just smiled wryly and said, "I was just looking at the rain. I thought it rained a lot in New York but it sure rains a lot more here in Seattle."

It wasn't the truth, of course. Muriel suspected she was thinking about the fiancé that had been killed. Winston hadn't said much, of course: mugging gone wrong, poor guy had been stabbed multiple times, hence his employee's decision to relocate to another city, one that held no memories. Where she could have a fresh start. Muriel had been so touched by the story – which only confirmed her secret suspicion that New York was a hotbed of dangerous knife-wielding, gun-toting madmen – and had immediately offered to give her a few hours' work till she got settled. It was a decision she'd not regretted for a minute.

"Quiet today," Annika remarked. She was re-organising some books in the European cookery section, swiftly moving them in and out of shelves so the recipe books were in the correct sections for their countries of origin.
"It might pick up in the afternoon," Muriel said and discreetly wiped a little coffee table down with the soft cloth she always kept in her pocket for that purpose. The store was dotted with comfortable chairs and occasional tables and Muriel liked to keep a posy of fresh flowers in the table vases. It was a small touch, but one her customers always remarked on.
"Someone forget their phone," she said, picking it up. She didn't know much about mobiles but this one looked quite new. "I'm going to put it in the lost and found box."
"Okay," Annika said, struggling to get a large tome on French cooking back into its designated place.

The phone started to ring.
"Oh dear," said Muriel. "Should I answer it?"
"Who's calling?" Annika asked, over her shoulder. "If the display says, I don't know, home or work or mom or something like that, it's probably the owner trying to find it."
"It says – " Muriel held it at arm's length so she could read it without her glasses, "it says Michael Black."
Annika froze, then whipped around, a smile pinned across a face suddenly devoid of colour.
"I'm such an idiot," she said. "That's my phone. I must've put it down on the table."
She took it out of Muriel's hand and Muriel noticed the other woman's fingers were icy. Annika tapped the 4-digit code into the phone and frowned as it continued to ring.
"Not yours, then?" asked Muriel.
"It is," she said lightly. "Just pressed the wrong button."
She tapped something else into the phone, then held it to her ear and said, "Hello?"
Muriel looked at her sharply.
"An old friend," Annika said. "I need to take this," and she left quickly.
Muriel watched her scurry out the door to the little yard at the back. She'd never seen Annika make or take a phone call at the shop – certainly never on the shop floor and never in her breaks or in her lunch hour. And now she was rushing out the door to answer her phone, two spots of high colour in her white face, as though her life depended on it.
Very curious indeed.

X x x

"John," she whispered. "Are you okay?"
"Are you okay?" he answered.
"Yes, I'm fine." She swallowed a lump in her throat. "Where are you? Were you in the store?"
He ignored her questions. "I don't have much time, Annie. I'm okay, I'm just working on trying to fix this."
"Trying to fix it?"
"Make it stop. I just want to make it stop. Are you safe? Does anyone else know where you are?"
"You, Winston, Charon. That's all, I guess."
"Okay. Stay where you are. When this is over, I'll come back for you."
"But I can – "
"No."
"But, John – "
"No."
"John," she cried, "hear me out. I can help you. You know what I –

"No," he said. "Just no, Anna."
"Listen," she said firmly. "I can help you. No one knows that I'm still alive, which means that I – "
"Anna," he said, his voice so soft that she had to strain to hear him, "I want you to do me a favour. A huge favour."
She was silent.
"Just stay there," he continued. "Stay there and stay safe. Do you understand me?"
She said nothing.
"Anna?" he said. "Please?"
"I fucking hate you, John Wick. You're a shithead. A twatweasle. A bastard. I hate you so much."
She moved the phone to the other hand, so she could wipe her running eyes and nose.
"I know," he answered and she could hear this smile in his voice.
She heard a faint shout in the background. "John?" she asked urgently. "Where are you?"
"I have to go," he said.
"John – "
"I won't leave you behind, Quinn. I'll come back for you. Do you hear me?"
"But John – "

The phone went dead. She held it in her hands, staring at it till the screen went black.

"Are you okay?" Muriel asked. It was chilly outside, a fresh late-spring day, but she suspected Annika's eyes and nose weren't red with cold.
"Fine;" she said brightly. "Just coming back inside now."
"Was everything okay with your friend?" Muriel asked delicately. The other woman hesitated.
"Yes," she said. "It was just an unexpected call, I guess you could say."
Her boss nodded and handed her a box of paperbacks to go in their 'Top Ten' section.
"I hope he's all right," Muriel said, probing.
Annika bit her lip, then smiled.
"He just rang to ask a favour," she said.

If you have read all the way to here, the end, thank you very much. I appreciated the views and the messages. Any requests for further adventures? Just leave a comment below ;-)