Rich or Dead

If you are reading this, you will soon be either very rich or very dead. Succeed and you will receive $20,000. Fail and you...won’t.

Huh. Not what I was expecting. If anyone asked, I’d say I picked up the notebook looking for a name, an owner to whom it could be returned. To be honest, I was just curious. What lost or abandoned thoughts hid behind its matte black cover? I’d expected the angst-filled yearnings of a teenager’s diary, or the dull and boring notes of a businessman, maybe the musings of an artist. But this? Not what I expected.

I supposed it could be the work of some budding author. That might be an interesting way to start a story. Or it could be some kind of a practical joke. I felt a sudden chill. It couldn’t be real; “very rich or very dead”, those words could not be meant in earnest. Right? This sort of thing did not happen in real life. It just didn’t!

I glanced at the people around me, wondering if I were being watched. It felt silly to be so spooked by a handful of words in a little black book but the sense of unease was one I couldn’t shake.

“...very dead.”

Yikes!

On the other hand, “...very rich...”

Hmm. Twenty thousand dollars might be peanuts to some people but for me it would definitely count as being very rich. I could do a lot with that much money. Ok, I decided, I’ll bite. Turn the page.

Make your choice.

Choice One was instructions: a place to go, a password to give, a test to endure. Simple enough.

Choice Two was even more simple.

Return the book to where you found it. Walk away.

Ok. Action vs inaction. It made sense so far. What else? Turn the page.

No more choices, just six chilling words: Remember, very rich or very dead.

So, action or inaction, rich or dead. But which went with which? A cold sweat filled my forehead and made my peach blouse stick to my back. Someone had a really sick idea of practical jokes. If some grinning fool jumped out, pointing at a camera and laughing at the look on my face, I’d slap him into next week. And then laugh too. Because that would mean this wasn’t real.

With shaking hands I went through the rest of the notebook, carefully checking for any hint that this was just somebody’s random ramblings, some author working on ideas for plotlines, some silliness, anything but real. The rest of the pages were blank. Every single one. The book would tell me nothing more, but maybe people could. If this was real, then there must be a watcher. I started searching through the moving masses, ignoring those who were clearly passing through, focusing on the ones who were still.

The old man on the bench by the water? The brim of his grey hat was tilted a little, shading his eyes. Or hiding them? No, he was just enjoying the warmth of the summer sun. It probably felt good on his old bones after the thunderstorm of last night.

The woman in the red dress? She was perched on a high stool outside a café, an ice-filled drink sitting beside her on an equally high small table. She was surely watching me, pretending to stare at something on her phone but really keeping her gaze on the book and - now that I held it - on me. Right? Wrong. Because she had been looking at her phone and now she was clearly looking at me, with an expression of concern mixed with curiosity. She lifted one elegantly shaped eyebrow, as if to ask me a question, and I flushed with embarrassment as I realized I was the one staring. I gave a small shake of my head in apology and then quickly looked away, back to the thing in my hands.

I snapped it shut and dropped it back on the bench at my side. I was being a complete and utter fool. Someone, somewhere, was watching my face and laughing hysterically. No more. Taking Choice Two, though I didn’t think of it like that, I turned from the book and strode purposefully away.

Still, there was a part of my mind - the part that refused to be logical - that quivered in anticipation. The book had threatened death. How would it come? A bullet to the back? A knife in the ribs? Maybe, like in one of those old spy stories, there would be a bump from the crowd, the prick of a needle, and then a few paces later I’d drop dead on the ground.

“Miss? Miss!”

A touch on my elbow. I didn’t realize how tense I’d become until I whirled in terrified surprise. But it was just a boy. A young boy, eight years old, maybe nine, certainly not more than ten. His tousled locks were a rich, chocolate brown that fairly glowed in the sunshine. His eyes were the green of emeralds and a very faint touch of freckles danced across his nose.

“You forgot your book, miss.”

And there it was, held out in his small but sturdy young fingers. My eyes snapped back to the bench and sure enough, the black notebook was gone. I looked back at the boy, searching his face, trying to decide if he were a paid messenger, some part of a larger scheme. His kindly expression started to grow concerned.

“Are you ok, miss?”

No, he had no ulterior motives. His face was open, innocent and earnest. He was just a kind-hearted boy whom someone had taught old-fashioned manners. I said something reassuring, took the book and thanked him. He flashed me a youthful grin and dashed back into the crowd.

I let out a long sigh and was about to march that little black book right back to the bench when some instinct I could not explain made me flip it open, to what should have been the first blank page. Except it was no longer blank.

Congratulations!

Step Two