“You’re late.” Jim said when Enola walked into the empty warehouse.
“I didn’t really think you’d mind.” She pushed a strand of dark hair behind her ear.
He looked her over. In her early twenties. Had braces when she was eighteen. Straightens her hair often. Been biting her nails for the last twelve years. She had scars on her arms, most likely self-inflicted. The newest was no more than a month old.
“So I take it your name isn’t Richard?” Enola asked.
“Nope.” He replied popping the p.
“So who are you really?”
“James Moriarty, but you can call me Jim.” He winked at her.
“Moriarty.” She mumbled. Sherlock had said the name once before and John had mentioned it on his blog.
“Yes, you’ve probably heard of me. I’m rather well known in the criminal world. Kind of the best of the best if I say so myself. Which I do.”
“Then I guess you must need my help.