The hands on the wall clock pointed to 3:45 p.m. C.J. sat in the broadcast area, her palms damp with sweat. She stared through the window into the adjacent room where Harley busied himself checking the control board before airtime. Just a few more minutes and she’d be transmitting live.

      Four to 7:00 p.m.—the most coveted segment of afternoon drive time. She still had to pinch herself to believe that the station had given it to her. But it seemed to be paying off. Her ratings were climbing every week. She just hoped Harley’s disagreement with Michael Grayson didn’t do anything to jeopardize the program.

      She pulled the microphone closer to her mouth and reached up to check the earphones again. In the next room Harley mouthed the countdown, his fingers cueing her to the seconds left before broadcast. With a grin he pointed to her.

      C.J. took a deep breath and leaned closer to the console. “Good afternoon, and welcome to C.J.’s Journal. You’re listening to WLMT-FM in Oxford, on the air with C.J. Tanner. It’s good to be back among friends. No matter where you are, at home or driving from work, loosen that tie, settle back and get ready to spend the next three hours chatting with me about life in Oxford. Get your questions and comments ready and call me at 555-WLMT—that’s the number. But while those calls are coming in, we’re going to take a few minutes to recognize our sponsor. I’ll be back right after this message.”

      She clicked off and glanced to her left at the call screener. The calls, first routed to Harley, were approved before they were put through to the broadcast booth. The caller ID on the monitor displayed the incoming phone numbers, and she watched as he lined them up for her. She always felt a moment of apprehension before the first question. Once into the broadcast, she relaxed, letting the callers voice their concerns and responding to them in a lively give-and-take.

      All too soon the commercial ended. Harley was counting down again. She scanned the caller screen and frowned: the display read private number. They had agreed when the show went on the air that all callers had to be identified. Why was Harley putting this one through?

      She looked at Harley and shook her head, but he motioned for her to take the call.

      Frowning, she spoke into the microphone. “This is C.J. What’s on your mind tonight?”

      A soft chuckle sounded on the other end of the line, and a voice purred into her ear. “My name is Fala. I thought we might tell your listeners about our game.”

      Cold fear washed over her, and she fumbled to bring the mic closer. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I understand.”

      “Come on, C.J. You know what I mean. I sent you a riddle this morning. Have you solved it yet?”

      The voice held a wheedling tone and maybe a Southern drawl. But one thing she was certain of—she was talking to Fala.

      From the next room Harley grinned at her. C.J. motioned to him to cut the call, but he shook his head. “If you don’t have something to discuss, then I’m going to take the next caller.”

      “But I want everybody to know about our little game. I sent a riddle telling you I’m going to kill somebody. The only way to stop me is for you to solve it.”

      C.J. glared at Harley who appeared to be enjoying every word of the exchange. “Okay, I’ve heard enough. I don’t appreciate practical jokes.”

      A long sigh came over the line. “I assure you this is no joke. Maybe you don’t understand. Someone is about to die, and only you can save them.”

      She swallowed and struggled to speak. “Wh-who’s going to d-die?”

      Fala’s exasperated sigh sent chills down C.J.’s spine. “You disappoint me, C.J. Instead of trying to figure out the riddle, you expect me to tell you the answer. That’s against the rules. If you want to win, you have to do it on your own.”

      She sat silent, her mind whirling, but Harley motioned for her to keep the caller talking. No dead air—one of his cardinal rules.

      She straightened in her chair and tried again. “Okay, Fala—if that’s your real name—tell me more about this game you’re playing that’s going to end in someone’s death. Surely you don’t expect me to believe that, do you?”

      A shrill laugh echoed in C.J.’s ear. “You’d better believe it. I’m not afraid to kill.”

      C.J.’s. shaking fingers clutched the edge of the console. “But why would you do such a horrible thing?”

      “Maybe it’s because of the look in their eyes.”

      “What do you mean?”

      There was a moment of hesitation. “Because they never expect it. And when they realize what’s happening, it’s too late.”

      This was escalating into a horrible nightmare. Mitch’s warning flashed into her mind, but she pushed it aside. “Fala, you can’t be serious.”

      The laughter increased. “Oh, but I am. I’m about to kill someone, somewhere in Oxford, and the only way you can stop me is to figure out the riddle. If you haven’t done it yet, you’re not going to. So this one’s for you, C.J.”

      The phone clicked in her ear, leaving behind a dead silence that chilled her blood and sent goose bumps flying over her flesh. Harley’s clenched fist shot into the air, and he mouthed a big “All right” as the board lit up with calls.

      C.J. covered her face with her hands and shook. Never in her life had she heard such hatred in a voice. Could Fala be telling the truth? Was someone about to die?

      All she could do was hope it was someone playing a joke on her. But something told her that Fala meant every word he said.