You’ve Been Warned

Chapter 84

GO AFTER HIM! Find out what he’s up to. Now, Kristin.

But my feet won’t move.

I remain there in the Starbucks window. I watch Michael leave, hop into a cab, ride off. Gone.

“You’ll see,” he said.

Two little words that paralyze me and start me shaking again. Somehow I know that this is it: where everything has been going from the beginning. But how exactly will it end?

Or do I already know that too?

I look across the street at the Fálcon Hotel, the late-morning sun reflecting off its windows with a fierce glare. I can still picture the scene so clearly – the gurneys being wheeled out, the four body bags lined up on the sidewalk. Cops everywhere. Delmonico. Was the Ponytail there too?

First I dream it. Then I see it. Now it’s haunting me every minute of the day.

I know this is all connected; it has to be. But I can’t figure it out. Could anybody? I wonder.

Eventually, I move my feet. I rush back to Fifth Avenue and take care of the stupid patio in plenty of time before Penley returns home. When she does, sure enough, she’s sporting a shopping bag from Takashimaya with a pound of Japanese coffee inside.

Later, I pick up the kids from school and take them to the Ancient Playground in Central Park, where we’ve gone dozens of times before. Sean peppers me with one question after another while Dakota rolls her big blue eyes. But we have fun – under the circumstances, anyway.

It’s another typical day, all right, everything fine and dandy, just as Michael wanted it.

But for what reason?

“You’ll see,” he said.

As I head home to my apartment, I get this awful, gnawing feeling that somehow I already have.

Chapter 85

OH, GREAT, JUST WHO I want to see.

My lovely neighbor Mrs. Rosencrantz is standing by the mailboxes as I walk into the lobby of my building. It’s almost as if she’s there waiting for me.

Turns out, she is.

“Have you gotten your mail yet today?” she asks, her smug tone laced with a small measure of glee.

Actually, I haven’t gotten my mail for about a week. I’ve been a little distracted.

“Why do you care?” I say.

She glares through her oversize bifocals, baiting me by saying nothing. There’s obviously something she wants me to see.

I’m tempted to keep walking toward the elevator, not give her the satisfaction, but my curiosity wins out. Maybe I need to solve a mystery, any mystery. I unlock my box and remove a pile of catalogues, bills, and other assorted junk mail.

It’s right on top.

An envelope from Priority Holdings, the management company that owns the building. Inside is a one-page letter, single-spaced.

Dear Ms. Burns:

Due to continuing complaints from other tenants regarding your conduct, we will not be offering you a rent renewal on your apartment when your current lease expires. Under New York State law you have the right to contest this decision and request an administrative hearing in accordance with the New York City Housing Authority.

There’s another paragraph about whom to contact, but my attention immediately focuses on whom to blame for this outrage. I don’t have to look far.

“This was your doing, wasn’t it?”

Mrs. Rosencrantz strikes a priggish pose. “I tend to think you did it to yourself.”

“Unbelievable. You really have nothing better to do with your time, huh?” I say, shaking the letter in her face.

“It’s not like I didn’t warn you this morning.”

“This morning?”

“You were terribly rude to me at your door. You have no manners, young woman. None.”

“Mrs. Rosencrantz, for your information that wasn’t this morning; that was a week ago.”

“My information is fine, Ms. Burns. I think I know when I knocked on your apartment door.”

“Apparently you don’t. And in any event, if you think I’m going to let you get away with this, you’re sadly mistaken. I’ll fight this like you won’t believe.”

“Go ahead, make all the noise you want. Scream, if you have to. Lord knows you’re good at that.”

Oh, is she asking for it!

For the first time in my life, I’m tempted to punch an old lady. And what’s with her memory? She can’t even get her days straight.

But I keep my cool. I summon every last ounce of willpower and walk away. You’ve got bigger fish to fry, Kris.

I move to the elevator and press the up button. As I wait, another letter from the building’s management catches my eye. A note, really. It’s taped to the wall.

Due to a problem with the furnace, the building was without hot water for a brief period early this morning. We apologize for any inconvenience.

Obviously, the note is from a week ago and they forgot to take it down. Boy, do I remember that cold shower!

But as I look closer, there’s just one problem.

The note’s dated today.

Chapter 86

CALM DOWN,I tell myself. There’s a simple explanation. It happened again, that’s all. The hot water was out this morning and the morning Mrs. Rosencrantz came banging on my door. Two different days. As far as what the nasty old bat claims, she’s clearly going senile.

I hop on the elevator, my head a jumbled mess. I’ve never been much of a drinker, but I have a feeling that could change tonight.

Barely inside my apartment, I pour myself a Stoli. A vodka tonic minus the tonic. Then I gulp it like a shot. The only thing I want to feel right now is numb.

I wish Michael could be with me. Better yet, I wish I knew what he was thinking. Why didn’t he want to tell me? I worry about that temper of his too.

I pour another Stoli and page him while I clench the diamond-and-sapphire bracelet he gave me. I bet he wouldn’t mind now if I wore it to work.

A few minutes pass. The waiting is excruciating.

I picture him in a late meeting at Baer Stevens, or on an overseas call, unable to break away. Maybe he’s with his lawyer, planning an exit strategy. There’s a lot of money at stake in divorcing Penley.

A few minutes turn into a half hour, and the anger begins to kick in. I can’t take this. Why isn’t Michael calling me back? He has to know we need to talk.

I page him again.

Only now it’s not anger driving me, it’s fear. Has he done something? What might he do?

I hit *67 and dial him at home. I know Penley never gets the phone, but maybe he will.

It rings and rings. Damn it.

The answering machine comes on, and I’m about to hang up when I hear “Hello?” I recognize her accent immediately. It’s Maria. Only today’s not one of the days she cleans. In fact, it’s not even “day” anymore; it’s night.

“Maria, it’s me, Kristin,” I say, trying not to sound anxious. “What are you doing there?”

“I’m babysitting,” she answers. “Mrs. Turnbull call me last minute to come over.”

“Where’s Mr. Turnbull?”

“With Mrs. Turnbull. They go out to dinner.”

That stops me cold. Dinner? Together? “You don’t know where they went, do you?”

“No. They give me cell phone numbers in case of emergency. I call them, you want.”

“No, no, that’s okay.”

“When they come home later, I say you call.”

“No! Don’t – ” I catch myself and settle down. “I mean, that’s not necessary. I’ll talk to Mrs. Turnbull tomorrow.”

I thank Maria and hang up, not knowing whether to be relieved or even more worried. Probably the latter. After the way Michael reacted to seeing Penley this morning, the last thing I’d expect would be their having dinner together.

Unless of course there’s more to it. As in, what Michael’s not telling me.

I page Michael again. If he’s really having dinner with Penley, why can’t he simply excuse himself and return my call?

I start to cry and hate that I do. I can’t help myself, though. The more I dwell on this, the harder it gets to take.

I’m about to pour myself another drink when I realize it’s not alcohol that I need.

I need my darkroom.

A minute later, under the faint red glow of my safety light, I get busy developing the film I snapped of Penley and Stephen outside the Fálcon. I still can’t believe they walked out of there together. Maybe it’s true what they say: people having affairs secretly want to get caught.

Whether that’s really the case with Penley and Stephen isn’t clear.

But soon, as I stare at the first shot of them, I see what is. No!

Stephen’s image is transparent.

Just like Penley’s.

Just like the body bags.

But it still doesn’t make sense.

My dream is more than a dream. It’s real. It happened. Past tense. I know because I was there.

And it’s not only me, is it? Someone else knows I was at the Fálcon.

Of course, he’s about the last person on Earth I want to see again. Am I so nuts that I’d seek him out?

No, just very, very desperate.

Chapter 87

I DIG THE CARD he gave me out of my shoulder bag, bold black lettering printed on thick white stock. Detective Frank Delmonico, 19th Precinct, 153 E. 67th Street.

Just the sight of his name makes me uneasy. The phone number is crossed out and another is written above it in pen. A couple of the digits I can’t make out, not that it matters. I have no intention of letting him know I’m coming, of course. I’m banking on the element of surprise. That, and something else.

Only a complete idiot would physically assault me in a building filled with cops.

Taking deep breaths most of the way, I cab it over to the East Side, the precinct mere blocks from the Fálcon. Amid the streetlamps and multiple floodlights, the stone building seems to glow under the night sky. It’s actually quite beautiful, albeit in a foreboding kind of way.

In fact, given different circumstances, I’d be reaching for my camera to shoot it. Not now, though.

I’ve taken enough scary pictures for a while.

As I walk inside, two young policemen are walking out, deep in conversation. One glances my way, giving me a quick nod and a smile. I’m about to ask him if Delmonico is here, when from the corner of my eye I see what looks like the front desk.

Behind it sits another officer, a hard-nosed type, much older, bulky, red faced, Irish as Paddy’s pig. He’s typing something into a computer as I approach him.

“Help you?” he says without so much as looking up from the monitor. So far he’d never be able to pick me out of a lineup.

“Yes,” I answer. “I’m here to see Detective Frank Delmonico.”

His stubby fingers practically freeze on the keyboard. Slowly, he turns to me, his eyes collapsing into a squint. “Excuse me?”

What’s that supposed to mean? “Is Detective Delmonico here or isn’t he?”

He shakes his head. “No, he’s not here.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“Matter of fact, I do. He’s dead. That’s where he is.”

I take a wobbly step back. “What? I just saw him. He came to my apartment.”

The officer leans forward in his chair.

“When was this?”

“A few days ago.”

“I think you’re mistaken, Miss – I don’t think I caught the name?”

“No, I’m sure of it. He was at my apartment.”

He nods, stifles a chuckle. “Oh, yeah?”

How can he be so cavalier about this? “I’m telling you the truth. Actually, I talked to him several times in the past week. He’s very thin. Older?”

The officer leans forward even farther, stone-faced. “Now, let me tellyou the truth,” he says slowly. “Delmonico has been dead for over three years.”

I stand there in stunned silence as the precinct lobby begins to whirl around me. I can feel the blood draining from my head. My knees are starting to go.

“Hey, you okay?”

No, I’m not. I’m absolutely, positively not okay. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same guy?” I ask. “Detective Frank Delmonico? Homicide?”

“Yep. Frank Delmonico.” He mutters something else under his breath.

“What? I didn’t hear that last part.”

“It was nothing.”

“It was obviously something. What was it?”

He glares at me. Who does this chick think she is?

But I don’t back down. I actually raise my voice. “I want to know what you said!”

The cop shrugs. “Hey, if you insist. I said, the cocksucker. ”

As if I’m not confused enough. “Why would you say that about him?”

“You a reporter?” he snaps.

“No. Hardly.”

“All the same, we’re not supposed to talk about it. It was in all the papers at the time. Press has a ball with those kind of stories.”

“I didn’t live here then. What happened?”

“Let’s just say the detective’s not exactly missed around here.”

“Why? I need to hear this. Please? This is very important to me.”

“Because he almost single-handedly brought down this precinct, that’s why.”

I open my mouth to ask how, but he cuts me off. “Seriously, I can’t talk about it. It’s over with. And so is this conversation.”

I begin walking away. Then something occurs to me, and I quickly turn back. “At least let me ask you this,” I say. “Does it have anything to do with the murders at the Fálcon Hotel the other day?”

The officer looks at me with a completely blank stare. “What murders?”

And then – what can I say? – I faint.

Chapter 88

FIFTEEN OR TWENTY minutes later, still dazed and with another good-sized bump on my noggin, I walk a block before I even realize it’s raining. I’m too busy replaying every single encounter with Detective Delmonico in my mind.

Is that where all of this has happened? In my mind?

It’s impossible. Has to be.

I talked to him. He talked to me. He gave me his card. How does a dead man do that?

Wait a minute! Hold on!

I stop short in the middle of the sidewalk, the raindrops feeling icy cold against my face. Pulling Delmonico’s card from my pocket, I rub it between my fingers just to prove to myself that it’s real. It sure feels like it.

“Taxi!”

The first thing I do after rushing into my apartment is turn on my computer. I should be too freaked out, too bewildered to think straight. And yet the obsession to learn the truth about Delmonico – what happened and what is happening – has me focused like never before.

“It was in all the papers,” said the cop at the precinct.

Let’s see about that.

I Google away, and the hits on Frank Delmonico’s name number more than a thousand. Jeez, Louise! Some of the sites are the venomous rantings of bloggers, but most are indeed news stories – all archived – from the city’s papers. The pages never turn yellow on the Internet.

I click on one site, then another and another. Not all of them include a picture, but when they do he’s always wearing that same gray suit. His dark, intense eyes are unmistakable. It’s him, all right. And each and every article confirms what I still can’t bring myself to believe.

He’s been dead for over three years.

The more I read, the more I realize why the police don’t like talking about the guy. Cocksucker, indeed, and that’s putting it mildly.

Delmonico was a highly decorated officer with over twenty years on the job. He was also on the take for at least ten of them.

And that’s just for starters.

I keep clicking on sites until I find this one piece in the New York Times that lays the gory story out in grand detail. The article must be twenty-five hundred words.

Delmonico had gotten in bed with the Russian mob, protecting their interests in drugs and prostitution, as well as helping to launder money through the poker rooms of several Atlantic City casinos. The worst part was what happened when two young detectives from his precinct got close to linking one of his Russian comrades to a homicide in Queens. Delmonico whacked both detectives. Did the job himself.

What’s more, he arranged it so he’d be the lead detective in the investigation. There was just one hitch. Delmonico thought they were alone in the alleyway when he pulled the trigger on the two detectives. He never saw an old Hasidic man who happened to be looking out a nearby tenement window. But the man in the window sure saw him.

Still, it seemed everyone thought Delmonico would get away with it – including most in the DA’s office. It was the word of a veteran detective against that of an elderly man with admittedly bad eyesight. Speculation had it that the only reason the case went forward was that a nervous mayor didn’t want to seem soft on police corruption, especially two cold-blooded murders.

But in the end, it was the Russians who proved even more nervous. A week before the start of the trial, Frank Delmonico was shot twice in the head at point-blank range. The gun used was a Makarov, a Russian-made 9 mm. Just in case that wasn’t enough of a “message,” there was something stuffed in Delmonico’s mouth. A big black rat.

But that rat wasn’t the real kicker.

At least from where I’m sitting.

Hoping to avoid the reporters and cameras camped outside his apartment in Queens, Delmonico had decided to check into a hotel. That’s where they found his body.

At the Fálcon.

There was even a photo of his body being carried out in a long black bag.

Chapter 89

I STAND UP from my computer, having had more than enough of this. I’m woozy and in a daze. If Frank Delmonico’s no longer alive, whom have I been talking to the past few days?

Impulsively, I reach into my pocket and pull out Delmonico’s card. I think back to when he handed it to me outside the hotel. I can picture it clearly.

Wait.

That’s it!

I rush to my darkroom and the pictures lining nearly every inch of wall space. I shot so many that morning outside the hotel. I covered every angle twice over. All the commotion. All the people. Police, paramedics – there’s no way he could’ve escaped my lens.

Grabbing my loupe, I begin to search. It’s my own desperate version of Where’s Waldo? I move left to right across every photo, looking for that gray suit, those unmistakable eyes. Where’s Delmonico?

I can’t find him in any of the pictures.

So what do I do? I start over. I go slower, inch by inch, top to bottom. The sweat from my face and arms is sticking to the photo paper. My head is throbbing; my eyes are killing me.

C’mon, where are you, Delmonico? I know you’re here somewhere.

But he isn’t.

Taking a giant step back, I breathe in deep and try to think. Dead or alive, real or imagined, what does Detective Frank Delmonico have to do with me? I’d never heard of him before, never seen him until that first time at the Fálcon. What does it mean that he wasn’t there when the four bodies were carried out but afterward he was Frankie-on-the-spot, investigating me? That’s something, but what does it mean?

Just then, I feel a pair of eyes on me and I nearly jump out of my skin.

Chapter 90

I TURN TO SEE my father staring down coldly from behind his thick glasses.

Next to the picture of him is the one of Dr. Magnumsen. They certainly have a connection with Delmonico. They’re dead. At least they’re supposed to be.

I study the image of my father on the streets of New York, his body such a startling contradiction: the square jaw versus the hunched shoulders; a strong man beaten down by an unfair world. My dad was a gifted carpenter, a volunteer fireman. Once, he rescued a little boy from a flooded ravine by tying a loop in his belt and hanging upside down from a bridge.

But being the town hero didn’t pay well, and when his carpentry jobs started to dry up during the recession of the eighties, money in our house got tight. Ironic, really. He helped to build so many homes but ultimately couldn’t afford to keep his own.

Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad had my mother been a little more understanding. She wasn’t, though. I remember the night at the dinner table when she called him a failure in life, right to his face.

That’s about when the drinking got out of control. But never in front of me. Never. I was his princess, his girl. No matter how bad things got, he always had a hug and a smile for me.

Right up until the end. Less than an hour before Dad shot himself in our dilapidated backyard shed, he held me in his arms and squeezed me tight. “It’s going to be all right,” he whispered in my ear.

I never forgave him for that lie. I know that I should’ve felt sorry for him, but I was too busy feeling sorry for myself.

Now, after all these years, he shows up somehow on a street corner in Manhattan. If only he hadn’t run away that morning. I’d have given him the biggest hug and kiss, and whispered softly in his ear, “It’s okay, Dad. I understand.”

Chapter 91

I’M CRYING IN MY DARKROOM, the tears falling faster than I can wipe them away. I miss my dad. I miss a lot of things right now, but most of all my own sanity.

Could I be more of a mess?

It’s late, and I’ve given up on trying to reach Michael tonight. I’m exhausted and should get some sleep.

But knowing that the dream – and God knows what else – awaits me in the morning, I instead reach for the shots I snapped of Penley and Stephen in front of the hotel.

Talk about a great Exhibit A.

In fact, it’s enough to swing my mood. As I look at the first shot, I can’t help relishing the thought of Michael going for the jugular in divorce court. I’m so giddy – or is it punchy? – I actually start singing, “Penley and Stephen in NYC, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”

But the feeling is short-lived.

I stare at Stephen’s transparent image – the exact same ghosting effect – and I surrender all faith in myself and in the real world as I experienced it before the last few days. I know I stood outside the Fálcon and watched those gurneys get wheeled to the curb, but I also know a pattern when I see one.

First Penley.

Then Michael.

Now Stephen.

One by one, the body bags are being accounted for, and I don’t have to be Einstein to do the math.

There’s one left.

Chapter 92

I COME OUT OF THE DARKROOM and notice there’s a message on my answering machine – just one – and I’m afraid to listen to it. No, I’m petrified to press the button and hear what somebody has to tell me.

What now?

Who could this be? Another call from Kristin Burns?

I get a cold bottle of water in the kitchen and gulp it right down. How did I get myself into this mess? How do I get out?

There has to be a way, but I can’t imagine what it might be. I’m supposed to be creative, aren’t I? So why can’t I begin to figure this puzzle out? Could anyone?

I can still see the red light flashing on my answering machine. It might be Michael, and maybe, maybe he’s okay now, back to normal.

Of course, it could also be Delmonico, calling from where, exactly? Do they have phones there, wherever dead people hang out these days?

I approach the infernal message machine and I’m starting to shake like a leaf. How insane is that? Given what’s happened to me? Not so crazy.

I stab the button on the machine.

I get myself ready to listen to whomever, about whatever.

I hear a voice I don’t know – a woman’s voice. Who’s this?

“Kristin… this is Leigh Abbott. I own the Abbott Show on Hudson Street, and I’m calling to tell you that we all love your stuff. Love it! Please give me a call at 212-555-6501. I would like to put your astounding work in the Abbott Show. Call me, Kristin: 212-555-6501. We are so impressed with your vision of New York.”

I press the button on the machine again.

Listen to Leigh Abbott again.

It’s the best news I’ve gotten since I moved to New York City. Absolutely the best by far. My dream has come true.

So – why am I crying uncontrollably?

Chapter 93

THE SOUND OF MY OWN SCREAM jolts my head off the pillow, piercing the still air of my bedroom like a jet engine on takeoff. I rip back the sheet in a panic, the sweat dripping from my hair.

I’m burning up – almost literally.

The dream’s never been more real. It’s getting worse.

I feel sick to my stomach and barely make it to the bathroom. I throw up so violently, my neck muscles convulse, cramping into knots. I begin to gag, then choke. Collapsing to the floor, I can’t even call for help. This is it, I’m going to die – on a cheapo bath mat from Bed Bath amp; Beyond!

And the very last thing I’ll hear is the music now starting to blare in my head.

Somehow, though, I keep breathing. What saves me is my lack of appetite last night. The stomach’s barren; there’s nothing left to get caught in my throat. I’m dry heaving and it hurts like crazy, but at least I’m alive.

Any other morning I’d be crawling back into bed, calling in sick. Instead, I take a shower and quickly get dressed. I don’t have a choice. No free will at all. This is no time to be on the sidelines.

I try calling Michael at his office. The odds are he’s arrived by now, but his line rings and rings and rings. It’s too early for his secretary, Amanda. She doesn’t normally get to her desk until around eight-thirty.

So I head off to Fifth Avenue, knowing no more about Michael’s intentions than I did yesterday. Is he going to hurt somebody? Is he another Scott Peterson?

For the first time, I’m actually eager to see Penley. She needs to be okay. I certainly don’t want her murdered. My God, could it have happened already? Is that why Michael isn’t at work?

Chapter 94

“KRISTIN, IS THAT YOU?” I hear from down the hall as I step into the foyer of the Turnbulls’ apartment.

“Yes, it’s me.”

And that’s her. Phew. I instantly feel guilty about thinking the worst of Michael, putting him in the same company as a wife killer.

Penley turns the corner of the foyer and peers suspiciously at me. She’s dressed in her “workout” clothes.

There’s a moment as we eye each other, and it feels weird. So what else is new?

“Are you okay?” she asks. “You look a little pale, Kristin. You’re not coming down with something, are you?”

“I’m fine. A little tired, I guess.”

She gives me that “just us girls” smirk. “Late evening, huh?”

And a rough morning to boot. Of course, I’m not about to let on to anything, not with her. “No, it was pretty quiet,” I say.

“That reminds me. Maria said you called last night. Did you need to talk to me about something?”

Thanks, Maria!

I hesitate, thinking fast.

“Oh, that,” I say. “It was a false alarm. I thought I’d left my cell phone here.”

She seems to buy it, nodding anyway. This is some game we’re playing here, the Pencil and I.

“By the way, how was your dinner?” I ask.

“Pardon?” Point, Kristin.

“You and Mr. Turnbull. Maria told me you went out to dinner. Just the two of you?”

“Yes. It was very nice, thank you,” she says. “We don’t do it enough. The two of us, no kids.” Point, Pencil.

“Is he at his office now?”

As soon as the question leaves my lips, I regret it. I’ve never asked her where Michael is; why would I now? Dumb, dumb, dumb.

Sure enough, Penley gives me a quizzical look. “Where else would he be?”

Chapter 95

IT’S A VERY GOOD, very logical question and just about the only thing I’m thinking about as I walk Dakota and Sean to school.

That is, until Sean interrupts me with one of his own questions. A real doozy too.

“Miss Kristin, am I going to die?”

I’m stunned. By the question and its timing. Why ask that now, Sean?

The sweetness in his voice brings a lump to my throat. For the second time this morning, I can barely breathe.

I try to fake a reassuring smile for him. “Sean, honey, why would you ask that?”

“Because Timmy Rockwell at school said I was going to die. Dakota too. Is he right?”

I need to be careful how I answer. Five-year-olds can be so impressionable. I don’t want to scare him, but I also don’t want to lie.

In the meantime, Dakota couldn’t care less either way. Seven-year-olds have no need for tact. “Everybody dies, stupid!” she says.

Sean squeezes my hand hard. I can feel how frightened he is about this.

“Is that true, Miss Kristin? Does everybody die?”

I stop walking and kneel down, pulling the two of them close to me. “No one gets to live forever, Sean. But you don’t have to be scared, because you’re going to be alive for a very, very long and wonderful time.”

He blinks slowly. “Really? I am? And Mommy and Daddy? And you, Miss Kristin?”

“Yes, of course. And that goes for you too, princess,” I say, giving Dakota a poke in the belly.

“What about Timmy Rockwell?” asks Sean. “He’s mean, so will he die sooner?”

I smile. “It doesn’t quite work like that. Mean has nothing to do with it.”

“It should,” he says.

I throw my arms around them both again, and for a moment the island of Manhattan is just the three of us. Three. A much better number than four.

“Okay, c’mon,” I say, standing up. “We’re going to be late for school, and that is unacceptable. ”

I grab their hands – but I don’t walk a step.

“What’s wrong, Miss Kristin?” asks Sean.

“Yeah,” says Dakota. “Why aren’t we moving?”

The answer is staring at us from across the street. We’re no longer alone.

The Ponytail is back.

“Hey!” I yell. “Hey! You! Hey, I’m talking to you.”

Where I get the courage – or is it stupidity? – to bark at a guy who’s been scaring the bejesus out of me, I don’t know. That is him, though, isn’t it?

He ducks around the corner, but yes, I’m almost sure that’s who it was. I’d be even surer if there hadn’t been something blocking his face.

Of all things…a camera.

“Are you okay, Miss Kristin?” asks Dakota, showing real concern. “Who was that? He looked scary.”

“Nobody, nothing… Yeah, I’m fine, honey,” I say. “Let’s get going.”

I want to run but I know I can’t. Not with the kids in tow. So we walk. Nice and easy, as we always do.

The only difference is that I’m looking back over my shoulder every ten seconds or so, a nervous wreck again.

Where are you, Ponytail?

What do you want?

With me?

With these kids?

What’s with the camera?

Chapter 96

THERE’S NO SIGN of the Ponytail and his camera now. Not on crowded Fifth Avenue. Not along Madison, not in front of the gates of the Preston Academy. I’ve got one sore and twisted neck to prove it.

I hug Sean and Dakota again, extra hard. I don’t want to let go. “I’ll see you right here this afternoon. Like always, okay?”

“Are you sure everything’s all right?” asks Dakota. “Are you sure, Miss Kristin?” She looks worried. About me. It’s sweet.

“Sure, I’m sure! Never been better,” I boast, forcing a bright smile. “Now, go have a great day!”

I don’t bother with a wink and neither do the kids. I just don’t have any cuteness in me today.

They both nod their little heads and scamper off across the tree-lined courtyard, bounding up the stone front steps to the school. So many mornings I’ve stood watching Dakota and Sean from this exact spot.

I’m about to turn away when I see them stop on the top step and look back. In unison, they wave to me, their smiles curled wide.

I want to cry, and I almost do. But I just wave in return, fighting back the tears.

With them safely inside, the tears come. Then I do one more three sixty, searching for the Ponytail.

Still don’t see him. The bastard. The creep. Is he dead too – like Delmonico?

Out of nowhere, the song is back in my head. I even catch a word, or I think I do -game? “What is that goddamn song?” I mutter as a couple of passersby stare at me.

I wipe my eyes dry, then check my watch while reaching for my cell phone. It’s high time I track down that other disappearing man in my life.

At the very least, Michael’s secretary will be there now to answer my call. And after three rings, she picks up.

“Michael Turnbull’s office.”

“Hi, is he there, please?”

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“This is Kristin Burns. The Turnbulls’ nanny? Is this Amanda?”

“Yes, hi, Kristin,” she says. “I take it you’re not at their home, are you?”

“No, why do you ask?”

“Mr. Turnbull said he tried calling to see if anyone was there. It turns out he left some important papers in his library. I guess he was hoping you or his wife could bring them to him.”

“I could do that. I’m heading back there now. I just dropped off Dakota and Sean at school.”

“I’m afraid he already left to get the papers himself. He needs them for a meeting later this morning. If you’re on your way there, I suppose you might see him.”

Yes! At last, the possibility of a good break. Before Amanda even finishes the sentence, I’ve got my arm raised for a taxi that’s just dropped off some older kids at the school.

Less than ten minutes later, I’m on the elevator heading up to the penthouse. I’m so relieved I might be seeing Michael that I forget how mad he’s made me these past twenty-four hours. All is forgiven, but now we need to talk, seriously talk.

I step into the foyer and right away I hear his voice. A little muffled. I think it’s coming from the kitchen. Who’s Michael talking to?

Chapter 97

I CAN’T EXACTLY make OUT his words as I tiptoe back through the dining room. It’s definitely Michael, though.

I press my ear against the swinging door to the kitchen. There’s something different about his voice, a slight echo. And then I realize who he’s talking to.

The answering machine.

I push through the door into the empty kitchen and spy the blinking red light. Michael is midsentence in the message he’s leaving, and I listen for a moment to what he’s saying. It’s good-bye, that’s what. He’s about to hang up.

“I’ll see you later, then, okay, honey? I love you,” he says. “Love you.”

I dash to the phone, but it’s too late.

Click.

He had to be calling from his cell. Is he still on his way here? I immediately start dialing it when my finger stops. Something doesn’t make sense.

What did he say?

I love you?… Love you?

He couldn’t have left the message for me, of course. It had to be for Penley. Is he trying to keep up appearances with her? As cool and clever as Michael can be, I find that hard to believe. He hates her too much right now.

The answering machine continues to blink, practically begging me to play back the entire message. Go ahead, Kris. Satisfy your curiosity.

I hesitate only because I’m not supposed to – listen to messages, that is. One of the first things Penley told me when I started the job was that I “needn’t concern myself with the machine.” Translation: keep your nose out of my business!

So for the past two years, I’ve not once hit the playback button.

Until now.

Screw it, what have I got to lose? My job? One way or the other, I don’t think I’ll be the nanny here for much longer. All the more reason to listen to the message. I don’t like how it ended.

Besides, didn’t Amanda say that Michael had already called earlier? The timing seems strange.

So I hit the button. “You have one new message,” says the automated voice.

“Hi, honey, it’s me,” Michael begins. He sounds somber, almost crestfallen.

Then he absolutely blows my mind.

Chapter 98

I CAN’T BREATHE as I listen to Michael’s words. It’s almost as if I’m hearing them one at a time.

“I’ve obviously been doing a lot of thinking since last night. That was pretty clever, by the way, your bringing me to our favorite restaurant to break the news. God knows how I would’ve reacted if we weren’t in public.

“Maybe that’s the problem; you know me too well. Because right now, I feel as if I have no idea who you are. Oh, Christ, that sounds like some cheesy movie line, doesn’t it?

“I know I’m not the easiest guy to be married to, and I know what you told me took guts – and you probably wouldn’t have said anything unless you really do want us to work things out. But the whole thing, I mean, it just came as such a shock.

“Shit. I don’t want to say something here I’m going to regret, but you’ve got to understand how upset I am. You keep saying that you love me and, yes, I love you, but I don’t know if that’s going to be enough. I guess we’ll have to see.

“One other thing, though – I’m a little worried about your wanting to end things with this guy in person. What if he doesn’t take the news well? I want to make sure you know what you’re doing. Think about it, Penley. Okay?

“I don’t know; maybe I’m just being paranoid. Hopefully, you’ll do the same thing you did with me and take him to a restaurant. Jeez, this is too weird. I’m actually giving advice to my wife on how to end her affair.

“You know what? I’m going to leave the office and head home. It’s not like I’m getting any work done here. In fact, I think I’m going to pick up some ice cream along the way. Chunky Monkey, of course. To hell with the diets, right?

“So if you hear this message before I get there, hang around, okay? We’ll pig out and do some more talking.

“I’ll see you later, then, okay, honey? I love you… Love you.”

I stand there motionless in the kitchen while my brain goes absolutely haywire.

I can’t believe Penley would confess to her affair.

And I also can’t believe Michael would ever consider forgiving her, let alone discuss staying together. Has he been stringing me along this entire time? Is there a whole plotline going on that I’m not aware of?

I’m so confused, I don’t know which end is up. It’s all one big hazy cloud. Plus, I think I’m going to be sick. Reaching a hand out to the counter, I try to steady myself. I need to figure this out. Think, Kristin, think!

It just doesn’t feel right. Michael sounded too meek on the phone.

Unassuming.

Docile.

Harmless.

Innocent.

And then it all becomes clear to me.

Everything does.

From the beginning right up until Michael’s message.

Or, should I say, his alibi.

I turn and rush to the fridge, pulling open the freezer door.

There, staring back at me, is a brand-new pint of Ben amp; Jerry’s ice cream. Chunky Monkey, of course.

God is in the details.