Page 7 of The Chief
My thumb froze when a new message appeared at the top of my screen. It was from an unknown number, and my heart seized in my chest.
Unknown number: Time’s up. Have you delivered the message?
The message.
Grady.
The line had moved, and I stepped up to the counter, leaving the message on read.
“Morning, Molly,” Sam said, as he smiled at me from behind the shiny beast of a coffee machine. He tamped the freshly ground coffee in the portafilter and slotted it into the group head, where the magic happened. “The usual?”
“Please,” I replied, before I quickly added, “Can I add a blueberry muffin? To go?”
“You got it.”
He winked at me, and though I flashed him a flirtatious smile, it didn’t reach my eyes. I was a chameleon, and I couldn’t afford to let my camouflage slip. The cashier put through my order and after paying, I stepped to the side to wait.
I was anxiously glancing around the coffee shop when my phone buzzed again. Letting out a slow breath, I looked down at the phone still in my hand and held back a sharp gasp.
Unknown number: Don’t leave me on read, bitch.
I started typing a reply when another message came through. My hands trembled as I saw an image of my sister. It was a picture taken from behind as she sat on the bus on her way to school. I tried to dismiss the panic threatening to consume me, to reason that this could’ve been taken last week or last month. Swallowing, I attempted to use my analytical brain to look at this from an outside point of view instead of a knee-jerk reaction. I had to consider this may be a ploy to ensure I played his game.
In the photo, my sister had her head bent over her phone, scrolling through what looked like a news site. The angle was from the seat opposite hers and one back so that I could see her profile, and her lips were tipped up as she read something on the screen. Touching my fingers to the screen, I pinched and expanded the shot, trying to glean some more information. There was an image I couldn’t quite make out, but the headline told me enough. It was a story about a dog who had learned how to surf—trust my sister to be invested in that fluff.
I zoomed in a little further and caught a glimpse of the date. It was today, which meant the bastard had someone following her—just as he’d threatened. Any hope I had of warning her, or my mam, evaporated like fog under the rising sun. Panning toview the top of her phone, I saw the time. The photo had been taken less than thirty minutes ago.
Unknown number: You have one minute to answer me, or I’ll introduce myself to your sweet, innocent sister.
My stomach twisted in dread as I punched out a response.
I delivered it.
I did what you asked.
Please. Leave her alone.
My anxious fingers tapped out a rhythm on the back of my phone, waiting for the bubbles at the bottom to indicate he was typing a reply. It felt like hours before another message popped up.
Unknown number: You have twenty-four hours.
Twenty-four hours … To dowhat?
I was about to send a text asking exactly that, when somebody touched me on the arm. My head jerked up to find a woman staring at me.
“I think you’re being called,” she said, motioning with her chin to the counter.
Blinking, I turned my attention in that direction to find the barista pointing at a takeaway cup on the counter, and a small brown paper bag sitting beside it. Shoving my phone into the pocket of my hoodie, I stepped up to grab my order. My spine went rigid when I felt the device vibrate once more. I hustled from the coffee shop and sucked in a bracing breath to help combat the panic.
I forced myself to focus on five things I could see: bus driving past, parked car, mother with a pram, man walking a dog, an overflowing dustbin. Four things I could touch: the cement path beneath my feet, the way the wind brushed against the hem of my dress, the softness of my hoodie against my arms, the bag across my chest. Three things I could hear: people talking, music from a passing car, church bells. Two things I could smell: coffee and bus exhaust. One thing I could taste: toothpaste.
Once I felt more grounded, I realized the world still moved around me—people, cars, buses—yet it felt as if the world had stopped. The message was there. And wishing it wasn’t didn’t change a goddamned thing. Digging it out of my pocket, I unlocked the screen and saw it was a message from another unknown number.
Unknown number: You can’t escape me, Jynx
Keir.
Fuck.
