From my notebook:

My boots make a clip-clop as I hurry across the wet cobblestones. A honk sounds; a car skids around the corner as I hop up onto the curb, but, after processing the fact that I was nearly run over, I continue on my way, my long, dirty blond hair plastered to my thin face.
I stare down at my feet as I walk briskly, almost shoving my fellow pedestrians in my haste. The rain, pouring down in sheets, isn't keeping people inside. It's early Monday  morning and everyone is on their way to work or school. In fact, I should be, too.
And, according to  my family, I'm on the bus, chattering away happily to my best friend Liz.
But I'm not.
This morning is different, I think as I wait impatiently for the walking man. I check my watch and curse. 7:49. I have to be there at 8:00. Sharp.
The light changes, and I hurry across the uneven street. Shakily, hurriedly, I reached into the pocket of my pale pink jeans and unfolded a piece of paper. 
The note
It said:
To Rebecca Hawthorne,
Meet me at 8:00 sharp
Monday the 5th of June
At the telephone booth on 62nd and Henley


to be continued...