The piece of paper was folded in my pocket. Mother couldn't know what it said. It would kill her to think that some sick bastard was playing a game with her only daughter's life. I glanced at the clock on the wall. 11:54am. 7 minutes until the call. I was sat with Constable Roswell in the reception area of the police station. Mother was still vomiting in the toilets. “What happened to your father?” Roswell suddenly asked, turning and looking at me. I stared at him for a few moments before turning away. “I don't want to talk about it,” I replied.
“Jonathan, we have six minutes until that call. I'd rather not sit here in silence for that entire time.”
“Well, ask me about something else, then,” I spat in return.
“Okay,” Roswell said. “Tell me about Alice.” A sinking feeling pulled through my gut on the mere mention of her name. He had pushed me into a corner, with no escape. “My father's name was Roger Stone,” I breathed, turning and facing Roswell. “It was six years agoI was twelve. I had been at a birthday party of a friend and Father had come to get me. He was drunk; blind drunk. He forced me to sit in the back of the car and didn't say a word to me the entire journey. We drove for about 10 minutes, before he stopped the car and got out. I looked out of the window and saw that it was a police station. As he opened the door and went inside, I saw a revolved tucked in the waistband of his trousers.”
“Wait,” Roswell said, touching my arm. “Six years ago would be 1997. I remember reading about this. Police shoot-out. Guy went into a police station and shot a detective in the head at point blank range, receiving six bullets in the back for his act.” Roswell stared at me. “That was your father?” I nodded, silently. “Why did he shoot him?” He asked. Before I could even speak, the phone on the reception desk began to ring. Mine and Roswell's gazes snapped to the wall-clock. 12:01pm. It was time.