Read Online The Game You Played by Anni Taylor - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anni Taylor
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to today’s news. I had to pretend to be engrossed in my tiny screen, too. Reports of terrorism and counter-terrorism and various wars dominated the headlines. In my darkest moments, I used to comfort myself that if Tommy was really dead, then he’d never have to know the ongoing horrors of the world. All the labels these horrors carried seemed meaningless. It was just all people hurting people. Every day brought another feast of headlines, like seven-course meals, neatly styled on plates. We were all fat on the suffering of others.
I stole furtive glances around the café in between screen swipes, briefly scanning and studying each person who was within my view.
If the person was here, they could be watching me right now.
Who’d sent the note? They were sure to be a key tapper or screen swiper, too. Except the note had been written on a typewriter. Could it be an elderly person? The words were centred on the page, both vertically and horizontally. Someone who cared about presentation. No spelling mistakes either, though the words used were so simple they’d be hard to misspell. It had be someone who lived close—close enough to walk to my house.
My screen went dead.
A momentary sense of panic raced through me. I never let my phone run out of charge. If the police ever found the tiniest piece of evidence in relation to Tommy’s disappearance, I wanted to know in that instant.
I calmed myself. I was just a fifteen-minute walk away from my house. I’d call Trent Gilroy when I returned home and see if there was any news.
Pretending to keep reading my blank phone screen, I looked up every few seconds.
Was anyone else only pretending to look at their device, like I was? Was the person a man or a woman? Then another thought: did they work here?
My coffee went lukewarm, and I headed across the café to order a plain coffee. I studied the faces of the staff behind the counter. Was anyone purposely looking away from me? No, the letter-writer couldn’t be someone who worked here because none of them could have left behind the scent of only one type of coffee.
Not knowing what else to do, I headed back through the café.
A three-quarter wall divided the café in two, running about a third of the length of the cafe, covered in framed paintings. A large noticeboard occupied the middle of one side of the wall, littered with flyers and handwritten notes.
The noticeboard caught my eye. Large lettering on one of the notes asked, WHERE IS HE?
My throat tightened at the question. Probably a missing dog. But still, I stepped towards the board like a moth towards a flame.
My eyes swept the notices and pamphlets about lost pets, book club meetings, mother-and-baby groups, vaginas-as-flowers painting classes, men-after-divorce groups, and psychic readings. (Something for everyone.)
I sipped the coffee, making a show of looking interested in the notices. Again, my gaze was drawn to the question that asked, where is he ? There was nothing to explain the message. The note it was written on was too small to say anything more. Was it someone just putting a message out to the universe? A lament for a husband who’d run off with a work colleague maybe?
The message was typewritten, on an envelope-sized note. Blue.
A chill sped along my back.
Setting my coffee down on a nearby table, I stripped the note from the board. It was an envelope. The same kind of envelope as the one from my mailbox. I no longer cared if anyone was watching me. I was going to open this.
Now.
My heart felt as though it were locking up as I tore the envelope open and took out the letter:
Little Boy Blue
Why don’t you grieve
for the mother you leave
and the life you knew?
I couldn’t control the tremors that passed through my arms.
A second letter.
Another cryptic message.
This person was trying to turn my mind inside out.
How did they know I’d find this letter here?
What were they trying to do to me?
Other, deeper thoughts slipped
I stole furtive glances around the café in between screen swipes, briefly scanning and studying each person who was within my view.
If the person was here, they could be watching me right now.
Who’d sent the note? They were sure to be a key tapper or screen swiper, too. Except the note had been written on a typewriter. Could it be an elderly person? The words were centred on the page, both vertically and horizontally. Someone who cared about presentation. No spelling mistakes either, though the words used were so simple they’d be hard to misspell. It had be someone who lived close—close enough to walk to my house.
My screen went dead.
A momentary sense of panic raced through me. I never let my phone run out of charge. If the police ever found the tiniest piece of evidence in relation to Tommy’s disappearance, I wanted to know in that instant.
I calmed myself. I was just a fifteen-minute walk away from my house. I’d call Trent Gilroy when I returned home and see if there was any news.
Pretending to keep reading my blank phone screen, I looked up every few seconds.
Was anyone else only pretending to look at their device, like I was? Was the person a man or a woman? Then another thought: did they work here?
My coffee went lukewarm, and I headed across the café to order a plain coffee. I studied the faces of the staff behind the counter. Was anyone purposely looking away from me? No, the letter-writer couldn’t be someone who worked here because none of them could have left behind the scent of only one type of coffee.
Not knowing what else to do, I headed back through the café.
A three-quarter wall divided the café in two, running about a third of the length of the cafe, covered in framed paintings. A large noticeboard occupied the middle of one side of the wall, littered with flyers and handwritten notes.
The noticeboard caught my eye. Large lettering on one of the notes asked, WHERE IS HE?
My throat tightened at the question. Probably a missing dog. But still, I stepped towards the board like a moth towards a flame.
My eyes swept the notices and pamphlets about lost pets, book club meetings, mother-and-baby groups, vaginas-as-flowers painting classes, men-after-divorce groups, and psychic readings. (Something for everyone.)
I sipped the coffee, making a show of looking interested in the notices. Again, my gaze was drawn to the question that asked, where is he ? There was nothing to explain the message. The note it was written on was too small to say anything more. Was it someone just putting a message out to the universe? A lament for a husband who’d run off with a work colleague maybe?
The message was typewritten, on an envelope-sized note. Blue.
A chill sped along my back.
Setting my coffee down on a nearby table, I stripped the note from the board. It was an envelope. The same kind of envelope as the one from my mailbox. I no longer cared if anyone was watching me. I was going to open this.
Now.
My heart felt as though it were locking up as I tore the envelope open and took out the letter:
Little Boy Blue
Why don’t you grieve
for the mother you leave
and the life you knew?
I couldn’t control the tremors that passed through my arms.
A second letter.
Another cryptic message.
This person was trying to turn my mind inside out.
How did they know I’d find this letter here?
What were they trying to do to me?
Other, deeper thoughts slipped
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