Cold Calls by Charles Benoit

YOU’RE STONED .
    No.
    His hand shook as he tried to get his fingers to obey, hitting the wrong keys, tapping on useless apps.
    No, no, no, no, no—
    He held his breath, waiting the two years it took for his stupid damn email account to open.
    Please, no.
    The same EarthLink account email, sent to him and to all 184 contacts on his phone.
    The subject line read, ERIC HAMILTON, PHOTOGRAPHER .
    Inside, no text, just a photo.
    Oh, shit.
    A black rectangle at the top, a rough white area in the middle, a dark brown bar along the bottom—and that was all.
    His knees buckled, and he dropped to his bed, his stomach bunching up, a dull roar in his ears. He sat there, staring at the screen. Then his phone rang, and for a moment he wasn’t sure what to do. On the sixth ring he answered, knowing already the voice he would hear.
    â€œYou have until Thursday. Then I send out the other photo.”
    Â 
    For ten minutes, Eric sat on the edge of his bed, his heart pounding, his body numb, a little voice in his head droning on.
    What the hell were you thinking?
    It wasn’t enough simply doing it. No, you had to go and document it.
    For what?
    To prove to yourself it really happened?
    A souvenir?
    As if you wouldn’t remember it for the rest of your life.
    Except you’d give anything now to forget it.
    Damn.
    There are probably laws about having a picture like that, even on your phone.
    Swear you deleted it,
she had said.
    So you swore that you did.
    It was gone now—deleted, dumped, erased, wiped clean.
    Your copy, anyway.
    The caller? She still has hers.
    And if you don’t do what she says, everybody you know will have a copy of their own.
    Eric found the balled-up paper in the bottom of his backpack and punched in the number.

Sixteen
    S HELLY LED THE WAY THROUGH THE GLASS DOOR . “I’ VE got us booked in here for two hours, every day for a full week.”
    â€œWe only need it till Thursday,” Eric said, following her into the small room.
    Fatima nodded, looping a shoulder strap of her backpack on the arm of one of the chairs, sliding the Jumbo Fun Time Sketch Pad! on the table. “After Thursday, it won’t matter.”
    â€œWell, we’ll keep the room reserved anyway,” Shelly said. “In case we need a place to hide.”
    The six Theodore J. Marello Memorial Study Labs that split the reference area of the main library all had the same spartan features: floor-to-ceiling glass on both sides—which, the librarian reminded Shelly, allowed
everyone
to see
anything
that was going on—and regular walls between the study labs, lined with bulletin-board material to help with the soundproofing. The rooms were seldom used—the metal chairs were cold and hard, the lighting weak, and there were no outlets to plug into. But they were free, and there was a big-enough table, and even with all the glass it was still more private than meeting at Starbucks.
    Fatima tore out a sheet of newsprint from the sketch pad and tacked it to the wall. “I guess we should start by telling each other all about ourselves.”
    â€œGuess again,” Eric said.
    â€œYeah, let’s not do that,” Shelly said. “I’m not big on sharing.”
    â€œFine. What do we do, then?”
    Fatima and Eric both looked at Shelly, their eyebrows arched.
    Shelly sighed and shook her head, suddenly in charge. “We all got the same call, right? Let’s start there. Fatima, when did you get the
first
call?”
    â€œLast Monday. Right after
Family Guy
. A rerun, obviously.”
    â€œWhich one?” Eric asked.
    â€œThe one where Brian owes Stewie money.”
    â€œBest episode ever.”
    â€œOh my god,” Fatima said. “I was laughing
so
hard—”
    â€œFine, two thumbs up,” Shelly said. “Can we stay focused here? What time was this masterpiece over?” She popped the cap off an orange marker and wrote
WHEN
on the paper. Under