Rebecca stood beneath the streetlight long after the call ended....taahe rain had slowed, but the road was still wet. Headlights from a passing car moved across her face before disappearing around the corner.
She looked down at the photograph again.
Four people, one date, one secret.
And a voice she couldn't forget.
"You already know."
Rebecca put the photograph inside her coat and started walking.
She didn't go home.
Instead, she headed toward the old phone booth at the corner of Maple Street. It was one of the few places nearby where she could make a call without anyone inside her house hearing....She stepped inside and shut the glass door behind her.
The booth smelled like wet metal and old cigarettes.
Rebecca picked up the receiver, but there was nothing.
She put a coin into the slot and dialed Mark's number.
One ring,two, three.
Then the answering machine picked up.
"Hi, you've reached Mark. I'm not here right now, so leave a message after the tone."
Beep.
Rebecca stared at the phone.
"Mark, it's me."
She stopped,what was she supposed to say?
I found a picture of us from a night I don't remember?
Someone says I asked them to erase my memory?
She swallowed.
"I need you to call me back. Please."
She hung up, devastated, confused, tired and lost.
For a moment, she stood there listening to the rain hit the glass.
Then she noticed something across the street.
A black car....parked beneath a tree.
Rebecca stared at it, the engine was off.
The windows were dark, the headlights and tail lights were also off making it blend into the darkness
She couldn't see anyone inside.
Her stomach tightened.....She stepped out of the booth.
The car didn't move....Rebecca walked toward it.
One step...then another, nothing.
When she got close enough to see the plate, the car suddenly started.
Rebecca stopped.
The headlights came on, the car pulled away.
She watched it disappear into the rain.
She couldn't see the driver.
But she had a feeling they had been watching her.
Rebecca returned to the phone booth and looked at the photograph again.
She turned it over, the words were still there.
We promised we'd never talk about it again.
She ran her thumb over the writing.
Then she noticed something else.
A small number written beneath the words.
417.
Rebecca frowned.
"Four seventeen?"
She looked at her watch.
4:17 AM. ....
Her heart skipped.
The photograph had been taken at exactly that time.
She stared at the clock on her wrist.
4:17.
Someone had known she would be looking at the picture at this exact moment.
Or maybe.... just maybe
NO!!
That was impossible. She put the photograph away.
Then she heard a noise behind her.
A soft click, Rebecca turned.
The phone booth door was slowly opening.
Nobody was there,she stepped back.
The door stopped, then she heard the telephone ring.
Rebecca stared at the receiver.
It rang again.... curiously, she picked it up.
"Hello?"
But there was silence, so loud it scared her.
Then breathing, slow....calm, too calm.
Rebecca's hand tightened around the receiver.
"Who is this?"
A man's voice answered.
"Rebecca."
Her blood ran cold.
It was the same voice.
The man from before.
"You called Mark," he said.
Rebecca looked through the glass desperate to see if she was followed once again but the street was empty.
"How do you know?"
"You need to stop asking questions."
"Then give me a reason to stop."
Then came the silence, Rebecca's voice shook.
"What happened on September 11?"
The man didn't answer.....instead, he said:
"You were there."
"I know."
"No," he said quietly. "You don't."
Rebecca frowned.
"What does that mean?"
"You remember the photograph."
"Yes."..... Rebecca answered
"But you don't remember what happened after it was taken."
Rebecca's stomach turned.
"What happened?" She asked.
The man breathed into the phone.
"You saw Emily."
Rebecca closed her eyes...Another flash.
Emily.... she whispered, Emily was running, rain, a door slamming....Rebecca opened her eyes.
"What did I see?"
"You saw who hurt her."
Rebecca stopped breathing.
"Who?"...The line went dead.
Rebecca stared at the receiver.
"Hello?"
But nothing came, she slowly put it back, disappointed, perhaps feeling like this mystery would just toil her around, she begun thinking if they police had gotten further with investigation or given up.
Then she noticed something written on the inside wall of the phone booth.
She hadn't seen it before.....Three words.
"CHECK THE BASEMENT."
Rebecca stared at them....."Whose basement?"
There was no answer.
She stepped out of the booth.
The rain had stopped completely.
For the first time that night, the street was silent.
Rebecca walked home just before sunrise.
She didn't turn on the lights when she entered.
She went straight to the kitchen and opened the bottom drawer.
Old papers...Receipts.....Letters.
Things she hadn't looked at in years.....She started searching.
If the man was telling the truth, then the answer might be somewhere in her own house.
Twenty minutes later, she found an old newspaper.
September 12, 1998.
Her fingers froze, she opened it.
The front page was about a fire.
Rebecca read the headline.
"LOCAL BUILDING DESTROYED IN LATE-NIGHT FIRE"
Her eyes moved down the page.
The building in the photograph.
The same building.
Her breathing changed.
She read faster, faster than she could imagine.
The fire had started shortly after midnight.
One person had been taken to hospital.
Another person was missing.
Rebecca looked at the names.....Her eyes stopped.
Emily Carter.
The newspaper slipped from her hands.
"No…"
She picked it up again.
There was another name.
A name she knew.
Daniel Hayes.
Rebecca's hands began to shake.
Then she saw the third name.
Mark Wilson.
All three had been there.
That wasn't the worst part.
At the bottom of the article was a small photograph of the building.
Rebecca stared at it....the second-floor window....the same window from the photograph.
She turned the newspaper over, nothing.
Then a small piece of paper fell from between the pages.
Rebecca picked it up. It was old, very old, yellow at the edges.
And written across it in black ink were four words:
Rebecca, you were warned. She stared at the message.
Then the telephone in the hallway rang.
Once, Rebecca froze, the again. She slowly turned toward the hallway.
Three times...she didn't move. The phone kept ringing.
Rebecca walked toward it.
Her hand reached for the receiver.
And before she picked it up, she already knew who was calling.
The voice she had been trying to remember.
The voice from September 11.
The voice that had been waiting for her to remember.
Rebecca picked up the phone.
"Hello?"
A long silence.
Then:
"Rebecca…"
She closed her eyes, it was him. The man from the photograph.
And this time, he wasn't hiding.
"I know who you are," Rebecca whispered.
The voice went quiet.
Then he said: "No, Rebecca."
A pause.
"You only know who I used to be."
The line went dead.