As they were messing around, the mobile phone on the bedside table rang once. It was a message.
Sophie nudged him. "Your phone."
Thomas Shannon stretched out his arm, took the mobile phone, and opened the message.
Sophie leaned in, curious. The message was an MMS, its content simple: just one photo.
In the photo, George Stanford was tied to a chair. One hand rested on the armrest, blurred with bloodstains...
Sophie shuddered, her drowsiness vanishing instantly. "It's Frank Mitchell..."
Why would he send a photo of Old Mr. Standford in the dead of night? What on earth does he want?
Old Mr. Standford's hand, the one he performs surgery with—it absolutely mustn't be harmed!
Her sleepiness completely gone, Sophie shot up, snatched the mobile phone, and dialed the number.
Thomas Shannon's eyes darkened, and he sat up too. He reached for the mobile phone, but Sophie turned aside; the call had already connected.
"Frank Mitchell, what do you mean by this?"
