𝗣 𝗬 𝗥 𝗢 𝗠 𝗔 𝗡 𝗜 𝗔 | BOOK THREE

T E N

[graham eaton]

I pace back and forth through the common area, waiting for my Father's call. The news comes on at six—it's 5:57. I've got three minutes before my life goes down the drain. My phone rings on the table beside Atticus and I dive for it. I answer, raising the phone to my ear.

"Talk to me," I say, nervous but maintaining my cool on the outside.

"Our suspicions were correct. The asshole used gloves. There's nothing here—absolutely nothing. No hair, no spit, no fingerprints. It's clean." My father says.

I exhale sharply and run my hand over my hair, thinking.

"This guy has prisoners, Dad. People will die if we don't bag him soon." I say.

"I get that. But, we have no leads. This guy could be a woman for all we know. I have no one to go off of here. I want to help but right now, there's nothing I can do." He says.

I exhale and nod.

"I'll call you soon." I state. "Watch for the phone."

The TV in the main room sparks to life, the breaking news report sending a cold chill throughout my body.

"After almost five weeks of perfect silence in the city of Chicago, the Ghost has struck again. This time, his attack a little less dangerous. Here's Melissa Martin on the scene."A male reporter says.

The screen flashes to a woman dressed in a bright blue blazer standing before the burnt down warehouse surrounded by caution tape.

"Thanks Charles. The day started perfectly fine for the city of Chicago. But, by Eleven am, the peace quickly faded. The Chicago Police Department reports that the warehouse behind me, an old sugar mill, closed down because of previously reported water damage, caught fire fifteen minutes before noon. The culprit is still unknown and is currently being reported as the at large Pyromaniac 'Ghost'. Reports from earlier in the day claim that one firefighter, Graham Eaton, son of the Chief of Police, was burnt in the fire after being trapped inside after the main exit collapsed. Sources claim that he is alright and already on his way to a full recovery." She says.

I take a seat, cupping my head with my hands. I exhale sharply.

"We're getting reports of an anonymous phone call being made to the station—they're saying it is urgent." Someone on the station says.

My phone rings beside me and I look at the phone buzzing on the plastic table. I reach for it. I answer, raising the cellphone to my ear.

"Hello?" I ask, my voice shaky.

"Here's how this is going to go. You are going to listen carefully. No interrupting." A deep voice says, obviously affected by a modulator. "You will be prompted to speak when I say so."

I swallow a mouth-full of saliva, all of my senses now on overload.

"Speak," The voice says.

"How did you get this number?" I ask, standing from my seat, approaching the TV.

"Oh, Graham, it was simple, really. I single follow on any of your multiple social media platforms, then a quick hack into the mainframe and find your most recently used cellphone number. Strange how social media makes us link our phone numbers like that." The voice says.

"What do you want from me?" I ask.

"It's not your turn to speak yet, Graham. It's theirs..." The voice says, switching to speakerphone. "Help us! Please, let us out! Let us go!"

"Oh my God. It appears we might be hearing a conversation between Graham Eaton of the Chicago Fire Department and 'Ghost'." The news station reports.

"Let them go." I say. "Please. They haven't done anything."

"We had a deal," The voice says. "You keep the fire off the news, the prisoner lives."

"You said keep the letter off of the news. The fire was huge. It's obviously going to make it onto the news." I say.

"You didn't read carefully enough then." The voice says. "Tell me why I shouldn't pull the trigger, Graham."

My heart pounds in my chest and I stand up, watching the TV.

"Don't." I say. "It isn't worth it. Don't shoot. Please."

"Prove that I shouldn't kill them." The voice says. "Prove to me that you want them to live, Graham."

The reporters stare at one another then at the screen.

"Don't do this," I say, my voice breaking. "Your fight is with me, not them. Don't do this. I'm begging you—let them go. Don't kill them. Please."

"You aren't begging hard enough, Graham. What should I do to punish you?" The voice asks.

"Stop! Don't shoot! What do you want? What can I give you? What will make you refrain from shooting them?" I ask.

"Oh, Graham... What I want, you cannot give me." The voice says.

A loud boom echoes through the phone and I flinch. A scream follows the bang.

"I'll be in touch," Ghost says, then hangs up.

The news cast turns and looks at the screen, pale-faced and shocked.

"I am sorry for you all hearing that unfortunate phone call. I hope we may have an update on the situation for you all soon. Until then, we're going to cut to commercial. We'll be right back." The male reporter says.

I drop my phone on the concrete, falling to the ground on my bottom. I bunch my knees up to my knees and rock back and forth as I try to calm down. I bury my face into my arms, sobbing out loudly.

"Graham, this isn't your fault." Chief Williams says. "Any one of us could've been called. This isn't your fault. He was going to shoot them anyway."

I look up at him, exhaling sharply.

"But until you get that phone call, don't tell me it's okay. Someone died tonight because of me. And their death was broadcast across the nation. I could've stopped it and I didn't in time. Someone's loved one died and that's on me." I say.