I’m reading, I can’t help but be drawn to the slew of new emails that keep popping up behind the current window I have open. Unknown is filling my inbox with message after message, all saying to turn on my phone. The constant pinging is driving me nuts, so I mute the sound on the computer.
Trying to fight against reading any more emails, I return to Mr. Whitman’s. I can’t believe it. Instead of attaching the pictures of the mock-up cover, he decided to take them with his new camera phone and send them to mine. Seriously? That means I have to turn on my phone.
Retrieving the phone from my pocket, I proceed to turn it on, knowing full well this is a terrible idea. My heartbeat quickens when I hear the chime of the start-up tune as it comes to life, and fear what else I’ll find other than a picture message from Mr. Whitman. Slowly typing in my password, I cringe when I press enter and the home screen pops up. I feel kind of stupid when I avert my eyes, like something is going to jump out of my phone at me, but I’m just so effin’ worried about what Unknown has sent.
My phone seems to be normal. There are only three messages appearing in the top menu bar. One is from Mr. Whitman, one is from Rory, and one is from Parker. I wonder why Unknown was so persistent about me turning on my phone.
I press on Rory’s message first and it’s the usual, “How are you?” and “What’s going on?” text. Parker’s message is a little more interesting, asking if we can chat somewhere tonight in private. In private? Well, the last time we were in private…
Shaking the thought out of my head, I continue on to Mr. Whitman’s picture message.
While I’m perusing the proof images he sent over, my phone signals when another message comes through. I bet it’s from Unknown.
Closing out of Mr. Whitman’s text after saving the pictures, I open the one from Unknown.
Do as I say or your little video goes viral…
“Son of a bitch,” I curse to myself. That video can’t get out. I know this person isn’t bluffing because of what they did in the computer lab. Against my better judgment, I reply:
What do I have to do?
There’s a little lull between texts, but then another message comes through:
To Kill a Mockingbird…find it.
“To Kill a Mockingbird? What, like the book?”
I rise from the chair and head out of the back office toward the front of the store.
“Done with break already?” Joan asks from behind the counter as I pass her.
“Not quite,” I reply, heading into the stacks to locate Harper Lee in the classics section.
Scanning the bookshelves, I finally come upon Lee and pluck one of the five copies we have of To Kill a Mockingbird from the shelf. I’ve read this book a million times, but now I’m scared to even crack it open, fearing what will be within its pages. As I begin to flip through the book, I find nothing. No writing, no pictures, no notes…nothing.
I reach out for the copy next to the one I took in hopes this will be the one, but as I grab for it, I notice the fourth copy over has a small X etched on its spine. Pulling it out, I feel there’s something within the pages and can see the book bulging at the center. I turn to the middle of the book and find a folded piece of college-ruled notebook paper stuck there. The message on the paper reads:
Remember it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird…and oops, you just did. Well, not directly…
Is Janice the mockingbird? Is Janice dead? I really don’t think I can handle this right now. This isn’t funny or even remotely entertaining, and for the record, it never has been. There’s still more to the message:
Death of a Salesman…find it!
I really don’t want to play anymore, but I can’t risk that video getting out. I’m at the beck and call of this sick freak, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
Okay, so Arthur Miller wrote Death of a Salesman, and technically it should still be in the classics, since it is one. I look through the shelves again, perusing for Miller.
“It should be right here near Lee,” I tell myself when I can’t find it right away. “Miller, found it.”
I look for the copy with the X on it because there are