The line's pretty short, there aren't that many people in today, though the ones that are in are giving the pretty young woman talking to the clerk at the desk a bit of a look. Well, some of them. Others are giving her a look more in the realm of 'pitying.'

"—look," she's saying, "I understand that you can't—is there anything in that area that would delay letters? Some kind of, of, customs holdup or something?"

  "It's possible, but a delay of that sort probably wouldn't be for more than four to eight weeks."

"It's been three months," says the young woman, sounding very upset about it, "how often do you lose international mail...?"

That's the hottest person he's ever seen. The hottest person, full stop.

He would know, he's a vampire, he's been everywhere, he's been to Antarctica, he's had more sex than he can remember (only strictly true due to his forgetting his human life). She's objectively the hottest person on Earth.

And she's distressed. Why is she distressed? Someone should have sent her letters and hasn't in months? He—he needs to find this person for her, but then he wouldn't see her for a while and that sounds—wrong.

  "Look, I can put out a notice for lost letters from—which country was it, again, dear?"

"Uh, I got his last letter from Belgium, but he'd been planning to go to Germany, so it might be from there."

  "Belgium or Germany," repeats the clerk, dutifully. "Repeat the name for me again, sweetheart?"

"Lowell. L-O-W-E-L-L. First name Albert, goes by Blair, addressed to Yvette or Franklin of the same last name."

  "Okay. Address to reach you if I find anything...?"

She dutifully recites her address in a low voice that does nothing at all to prevent vampiric eavesdropping.

  "Thank you," says the clerk. "I'll let you know if we find anything."

"Or if you don't find anything, please," specifies, apparently, Yvette. "I—I need to know if I need to get the police involved, he wouldn't just stop sending letters."

Yvette. What a beautiful name. And a—relative, this Blair, whom she hasn't seen in a while. A long while, for a human. She expected letters.

He's probably dead.

That would be horrible. She would be so upset. She shouldn't be upset.

(He's standing there, frozen.)

  "Are you sure he might not have just forgotten to write...?"

"Yes," says Yvette, bluntly, with absolutely no hesitation. Though she clearly doesn't want to get into a debate about it right now, because then she follows up with: "Um—thank you so much for your help, you've been very kind, I'll try to find some other way to get in touch with him. "

Some more pleasantries are exchanged, and Yvette turns and walks right out the door, eyes drifting right over everyone in the line without any regard for any of them, James included.

—yeah he's gonna follow her, all thoughts of his package forgotten.

Once outside of the post office and away from the eyes of the people inside, she bows her head and inhales a shaky breath.

"Please be okay," she murmurs to the wind, on the off chance that it might go far enough that he might hear it.

Someone does. He briefly touches her shoulder and says, "Excuse me?"

She jumps, and her hand flies to her face to scrub at her eyes to disguise the tears that definitely were not there, nope, nothing to see here.

"—Um," she says, swallowing her automatic apology because objectively speaking, she has done nothing wrong, "yes?"

—shit now he doesn't know what to say. What the fuck, no, that's not him, he always knows what to say. He will be charming and nice and help this suffering lady.

This pause isn't perceptible by a human. "I'm sorry, I couldn't help but overhear some of your conversation inside—are you okay?"

...gee, generic isn't it. Well. Maybe it'll fly.

Judging from her expression: no. No, it does not fly.

"I'm fine," she lies. She is not attempting to be subtle about how she is definitely lying.

"I'm sorry, I suppose that must've sounded insensitive. Was it your—husband...?"

"Brother," she corrects. Her ring finger is bare; she's probably unmarried.

She takes a measured step away from him, and then tries on a smile that doesn't quite fit. "I'm sorry, I'd really love to chat," yeah zero interest in disguising how that is definitely a lie, she does not want to chat with him right now, "but I have an appointment to make, excuse me."

"Right." Oh, unmarried, good. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have intruded. I'll let you go to your appointment. I hope you find him."

"Thanks. Me too," she says, and then off she goes without so much as a backwards glance.

Well, then. He supposes he's going to Belgium, isn't he? But he'll need something more than just a name.

He bets he can get to Yvette's place before she does.

He walks somewhere unobserved then jumps onto a rooftop and runs.

He can absolutely get to Yvette's place before she does.

Here is a quaint little two story house in a lovely out of the way neighborhood!

James might notice that there is a human in it, on the second floor.

Probably Franklin, whoever that is.

Any open windows?

Nope!

If he would like to check, the front door's locked, but the back door isn't.

And he can be oh so very very quiet.

The interior of the first floor is pretty and tidy and comfortable, though a bit cramped. The amount of furniture for a space of this size is... suggestive. Like either the residents like buying furniture, or they moved from a much larger house where this amount of furniture was a bit more appropriate, and then couldn't bear to throw some of it away, so they figured out how to make it work. It'd probably start drifting into the realm of claustrophobic if it were a bit less neatly kept. As it is, though, there's no dust on any of the shelves or objects egregiously out of place. It doesn't cross the line into 'unlived in,' though. There are papers casually dumped on a table, a seedling with roots that are soaking in a glass stuffed with water and what-is-probably-paper, unwashed dishes in the sink, a book next to the couch instead of on a shelf, and a number of other casual indicators that people actually live here.

Most relevant to his interests are perhaps the pictures arranged on the fireplace's mantle. Here is Yvette and a young man that looks like her (Blair, probably), and an elderly gentleman with glasses that looks like them both. Here is a somewhat stiff picture from what was probably years ago of four people, Yvette-Blair-father-mother. Here is a picture of Yvette and Blair in front of a very different, much larger house.

They look happy.

That's heartbreaking. But now he knows what Blair looks like. His scent would be useful, though; it's a long shot but can he by any chance detect at least three scents in the house? And more specifically, any scents that are not Yvette's or presumably-Franklin's?

There are a few stray scents of visitors around the house, but mostly it seems to be from two people. Yvette's and presumably-Franklin's.

Fuck.

...but surely they must've kept the letters, right? Right. Can he find them?

Not downstairs, but they might be kept upstairs, somewhere.