Unknown:
I stare at the screen, my thumb hovering over the text. The singleemoji, along with the simplicity of it, is unnerving, more frightening than words could ever be. My heart pounds in my chest, the sudden rush of adrenaline burning away the alcohol haze in an instant.
I blink a few times, rub my eyes, and sit up in my bed. The text is probably from a wrong number and here I am, imagining the worst.
You’re drunk and totally overthinking this.
I shake my head with a hollow laugh. It’s just an emoji, a tiny, stupid symbol that means nothing. This isn’t the first time I’ve received a text that wasn’t meant for me.
I put my phone back on my nightstand and glare at my glass of whiskey as if it’s the reason I nearly had a heart attack. Then I lie back down and force myself to breathe evenly to help calm my racing pulse.
The logical part of my brain asserts itself into my thoughts, pushing back the unease that still roils in my stomach. Ghost is in a maximum-security prison. There’s no way it’s him. None.
Paranoid much, Geneva?
I flinch when another text alert echoes in the room. With dread coating me like a second skin, I retrieve my phone and unlock the screen.
Unknown:What’s your definition of a ghost, Dr. Andrews?
I freeze. The air around me is thick, suffocating me. The darkness of the room presses on me from all sides until the only thing I can focus on is the message glaring up at me from the bright screen. With my name on display, I can’t deny that this was meant for me.
It’s Ghost’s voice I hear in my head as I read the words. Calm. Confident. Amused.
Itcan’tbe him.
I repeat the sentence over and over in my mind, then again out loud. It’s a mantra of desperation. But no matter how many times I say it I can’t deny the way my chest aches with shallow breaths. The logical part of me is screaming in the void, while the rest of me—the part that’s been caught up in Ghost since the moment I met him—knows better.
The words on the screen burn into my eyes, into my soul as if branding me. My fingers tremble around the phone even though I’m unwilling to accept what’s staring back at me.
The urge to respond is strong. I want answers, need to know how this is happening. I type and delete a few sentences, unsure of what to say, until I finally settle on something. Simple and direct, unlike my chaotic thoughts.
Geneva:Who is this?
My finger hovers over the send button. Part of me doesn’t want to engage, doesn’t want to give Ghost—or whoever this is—the satisfaction. But I can’t let it go. I hit send and stare at the screen, waiting, my heart in my throat.
A few seconds pass. Then another chime.
Unknown:You already know, Geneva.
The phone falls from my numb fingers and lands on the comforter. My throat tightens, my breath coming faster. This can’t be Ghost. But who else could it be?
Maybe someone is trying to mess with me—someone whoknows that I’m the only one who’s spoken with him. This is just some sick joke.
But no one knows how deeply this case has etched itself into my psyche, how much time I’ve spent thinking about him, dissecting his every word, trying to understand him.
No one else… except maybe him.
My heart thuds painfully against my ribs, a slow, steady beat, like a drum warning me of something I’m not prepared to face. This isn’t a prank.
How did Ghost get something as restricted as my number, much less a phone?
I scan my room, unable to shake the feeling that someone’s watching me. Thathe’swatching me. But that’s impossible. Ghost is locked up.
What if he’s not?
I move abruptly, knocking my glass over in the process of turning on my lamp. The whiskey spills across the nightstand, pooling on the wood, but I don’t care. I can’t sit in the darkness anymore.
Finding myself alone, I glance down at the phone, relief still eluding me. A small part of me itches to pick it back up, to read the message again. And answer him.
