TICK TOCK RUN (Romantic Mystery Suspense) Read Free Page A

on the sofa behind me.  “Found them.”  I sent the photos to print, then deleted all the spam mail without reading a single one.
    “Why did you leave?”  Emma asked.  Her eyes were closed at this point.
    “I’d been chatting to a guy about my strange email, when my dress got totally soaked in beer for the second time by some lunatic who—”
    “What email?”
    While the printer growled, throwing out photo paper, I opened the old email and pointed to the screen. 
     “What is it?” Emma asked, snapping forward from her hangover.  “What’s that ticking noise?” 
    “A countdown timer.”
    Emma moved and stood behind me, resting her chin on my shoulder.  “ ’Your number’s up.’  What on earth does this mean?  Oh my God!  Who’s calling you a slag?” 
    Exactly what I wondered .  “A man in the pole-dancing bar mentioned the same phrase.”  I swivelled my chair to face Laura.  “Laura thinks it’s a virus.  You heard that guy talking about his brother’s text message, didn’t you?”
    She shook her head and dug around inside her bag.
    “People have to pay for what they’ve done,” Emma read out loud, pointing at the screen.  “Look, even your full name’s been included, Chelsea.”
    “Yeah.  I know.”  I stared at Laura, puzzled by her disinterested face.  “You were standing right behind me Laura.  You must have heard.”
    “I heard music.”  She jangled her keys in the air and said, “Ready to go?”
    Something in her tone sounded unconvincing.
    Emma tapped my shoulder.  “Heard what?” 
    I pointed to the words on the screen hoping to jog Laura’s memory.  “’Tick, tock.  My number’s up.  Slag.’   That’s what the man said last night.”  When Laura shrugged her shoulders, I raised my voice.  “Some guy named Daryl died.  He sent a text message to his brother with those exact words, and that was his last communication.  And I mean his last… ever .  Don’t you think it’s creepy that I got an email with his final words typed in it?”  I waited for Laura’s memory to return.  Perhaps the alcohol had erased it. 
    “It does sound kind of creepy when you put it that way,” Emma conceded.  Then, a few seconds later, she said, “It’s just a prank, a virus or something.  It won’t mean anything.  Chill out.  Just reply telling them not to contact you again, then delete the email.  Shall I do it?”
    “The bar was full of weirdoes,” Laura muttered.  “We shouldn’t have gone inside.  My mistake.”
    “Laura, do you remember me telling you that my car’s been scratched?”  I raised myself out of the chair and pushed it over to Emma as a hint. 
    “Vaguely,” Laura muttered. 
    “Poor thing,” Emma said, fluffing my hair.  “You’re not having a very good weekend, are you?  Hopefully we can change that.”  She winked, sat down and clicked on reply.  She wrote a message full of profanities, pressed send and deleted the original email.  She brushed and clapped her palms against each other.  “All done.”
    The email existed only in my head now.  Shame Emma couldn’t delete my memory, too.
    We piled into Laura’s black BMW convertible and drove the scenic route to town with the roof down.  After eating a late breakfast, we laughed at last night’s photos.  “Jayne needs a new camera,” I said.  “There’s a scratch on the edge of each photo.  Look.”
    “It’s not Jayne’s.  It’s Paul’s,” Laura said.  “I let her borrow it because it looked more like the sort a reporter would have.”
    I slid a photo of Laura and me, pressed cheek to cheek, into a slot in my purse.  Next, we spent countless hours trudging round the shops, then stopped at a café again late afternoon. 
    I collapsed onto a chair and looked at my friends.  I was worn out, and wondering why they’d insisted on shopping until either my legs buckled, or I’d bought a few sexy tops. 
    Emma finished her drink.  She kissed us