The rain fell in sheets, hammering against the glass of the red telephone booth like a thousand tiny fists. Michael Rowe fumbled for coins, his fingers numb, slipping against the cold metal. When he finally shoved the last one in, the dial tone buzzed in his ear like a lifeline.
He glanced around the street. Empty. Too empty. A single black cab splashed past, its headlights briefly lighting his pale reflection in the booth's glass. He looked half-dead already: eyes wide, hair plastered to his forehead, his coat clinging damply to his shoulders.
He dialed Harland's number with trembling hands. Each click of the rotary dial sounded too loud in the night.
The line rang once. Twice. Three times. Then—
"Harland." His voice was rough, weary.
"It's me," Michael said, too quickly. His throat tightened, his words tumbling out in gasps. "Listen, Detective, I don't have long. I know who the Angel of Whitehall is."
A pause. Rain drummed harder against the booth.
"Rowe," Harland sighed. "If this is another one of your—"
"It's Eleanor Marks!" Michael's voice cracked, rising high with desperation. "Civil servant. Works in Whitehall. She confessed to me, Harland. Not outright, but she wanted me to know. She killed Martin. She described it. She—"
And then, faintly, Michael heard it.A click. Like another receiver had joined the line.
He froze, heart thundering.
"Michael," a smooth, velvety voice purred into the silence.
Every nerve in his body turned to ice.
Eleanor.
"You didn't really think I wouldn't hear you, did you?" she cooed. "Huddled in that little glass box, whispering my name into the storm. It's almost romantic."
Michael pressed his forehead against the cold glass, his breath fogging it. "You're… you're sick."
On the other end, Harland's confused voice broke in. "Rowe? Who is that? What's going on?"
But Eleanor's laugh rolled through the line, low and intimate. "Careful, Michael. Words have weight. People who talk too much… choke."
Michael's chest clenched. He looked around frantically, scanning the street. A flash of movement — was that a shadow slipping into a doorway? Or just his imagination?
"Harland, it's her!" he shouted, desperation spilling from him. "It's Eleanor! It's—"
The line went dead.
Silence swallowed the booth. All that remained was the sound of the rain and his ragged breathing.
He lowered the receiver slowly, trembling. Then he saw it: a thin slip of paper shoved under the booth door. He hadn't heard it arrive. He crouched, his stomach twisting as he picked it up with shaking fingers.
The note was written in looping, elegant handwriting:
Smile. You're on camera.
His heart stopped. Taped to the note was a fresh Polaroid photograph — of himself, standing inside the booth just seconds earlier, clutching the phone.
Michael's knees gave out, and he slid to the floor of the booth, the photo trembling in his hand. She wasn't just listening. She was here. Close enough to capture him, to slip the photo under the door, to watch him unravel in real time.
Tears blurred his vision as he pressed his forehead against the cold glass, trying to peer into the rain-slick streets. But there was nothing. No face. No shadow. Just London, indifferent and endless.
Michael Rowe realized the worst truth of all:
He hadn't exposed Eleanor Marks.
He had exposed himself.
And now, he was hers to play with.