You've Been Warned

  We walk the rest of the apartment. Every nook and cranny gets sprayed and resprayed. A few times I even try to tell him that he missed a spot.

  “What’s in here?” he asks at the last door down the hallway.

  “That’s just my darkroom.” I open the door for him, flipping on the light.

  He walks in and looks around, intrigued. “Mmm-hmm, mmm-hmm.”

  After a few quick squirts of his spray nozzle, he notices the pictures pinned to the walls. He stops at one of my father.

  “You know this man, don’t you?” he asks.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “His expression — the way he’s looking at you and not the camera. In fact, I’d say you know him quite well.”

  “You’re right. He’s my father.”

  He leans in, really examining the picture. “Was he a good man?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said, was he —”

  “No, I heard you okay. That’s kind of an odd question, don’t you think?”

  “Actually, I think it’s the only question . . . for all of us, that is. In the end, we’re only the sum of the choices we make, right?”

  Oh, great, the existential exterminator.

  I’m beginning to get the heebie-jeebies from this guy. It’s bad enough that he looks creepy; does he have to talk creepy as well? I can feel an attack of the hives coming on.

  “And how did you know my father is dead? You said, Was he a good man?”

  He shrugs. “I guess I just assumed.”

  From looking at a recently developed picture of him?

  We’re talking serious heebie-jeebies now. This guy can’t leave my apartment fast enough. It’s possible that he’s as scary as thousands of cockroaches all by himself.

  “So are we all done here?” I ask hastily.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve offended you, haven’t I?”

  “No, it’s okay. I think I’m a little on edge thanks to the roaches.” Among other things.

  He pats his trusty spray canister. “Hopefully we’ve taken care of that for a while.”

  “About how long does the poison last?”

  “A month or so.”

  “That’s all? You’d think there’d be something better in this day and age.”

  “You mean something that lasts forever?”

  “Exactly.”

  He shakes his head. “No, I’m afraid there’s only one thing in this world that lasts forever.”

  “Let me guess. Love?”

  “No,” he says, leaning in close. “That’d be your soul.”

  Chapter 49

  AT HALF PAST EIGHT, I walk into the bustling Elio’s on Second Avenue near 84th Street and scan the bar area, keeping in mind the description I’ve been given. Tall, dark, very handsome, answers to Stephen.

  If you say so, Penley.

  You’re the boss. And believe you me, if you weren’t, there’s no way I’d be going through with this blind date! Not right now especially.

  “Excuse me, are you Kristin?”

  I turn around and look up at a pair of amazingly high cheekbones. As for the rest of him, I take a quick glance.

  Tall, dark, very handsome. Check, check, check.

  “You must be Stephen,” I say, and can’t keep a slight smile off my face.

  A minute later we’re sitting at a cozy table for two along the wall. Michael would be sooo jealous.

  But that’s not why I’m feeling guilty. As Stephen and I talk and get acquainted — he owns a film editing company, likes to rock climb — it seems as if he’s a genuinely nice guy. I feel bad that I’m wasting his time. My heart belongs to Michael.

  After a few minutes, I think Stephen picks up on it. “Are you seeing someone?” he asks.

  I feel even worse having to lie. “No,” I answer. “There’s no one.”

  “Penley told me you weren’t, but I guess I wanted to make sure.” He smiles. Nice smile too. “I should talk, right? I assume you heard about my situation?”

  I shake my head. “Just that you recently came out of a relationship.”

  “That’s one way to put it, I guess. Personally, I prefer the word dumped.”

  “What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “I made a mistake,” he says, shaking his head. “I got involved with someone who’s married.”

  Oh.

  Thankfully, the awkward silence is broken by the waiter arriving to announce the night’s specials. By the time he’s done telling us about the veal osso buco, the blackened sea bass, and a “delightful” seafood risotto, I’m thinking it’s safe to change the subject with Stephen.

  Think again.

  “So tell me more about your film editing company,” I say as the waiter strolls off.

  It’s as if he doesn’t even hear me.

  “You know what the worst part is? I believed her,” he says. “She kept telling me how she was going to leave her husband. I really should’ve known better. They never leave.”

  I immediately reach for my glass of water. My mouth is dry. Like I’ve been eating Saltines on the Sahara.

  “Hey, are you okay?” he asks. “You look uncomfortable.”

  “I’m fine.”

  He sighs. “Jeez, listen to me going on and on about my ex. I apologize.”

  “It’s okay. I understand.”

  “Do you?”

  “Sure,” I say. “It’s not easy letting go.” I did it once, big-time. With Matthew of Boston.

  “You’re right. But there’s something else and it’s been killing me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The guilt. It never occurred to me until the relationship ended,” he says. “I mean, where did I get off trying to break up a marriage?”

  I hear him say the words and I have to remind myself that he’s not talking about me. This is about him. But weirdly, I can’t help feeling defensive. The parallel to Michael and me is unmistakable, and more than a little unnerving.

  “Clearly this woman you were seeing doesn’t have a good marriage,” I point out.

  “Yes, but good or bad it’s still a marriage — I shouldn’t have been trying to ruin it. They’ve got kids, for Christ’s sake.”

  “But she doesn’t really love them!” I blurt out.

  He looks at me sideways. “Excuse me?”

  Uh-oh. Say something, Kristin. Anything! At least get your size eight out of your mouth.

  I clear my throat, trying to reel myself in. Then I put my hand on top of his. “I just think you’re being too hard on yourself, Stephen. Remember, it takes two to tango.”

  “Yeah,” he says, leaning in closer. “Except you’re forgetting one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “No one’s ever forced to dance, are they?”

  8

  Chapter 50

  I NEED SOME AIR!

  That’s all I’m thinking as I say good-bye to Stephen. Our evening ends on the sidewalk outside Elio’s with an exchange of awkward smiles, a peck on my cheek, and the unspoken understanding that this is our first and last date.

  “Can I hail you a cab?” he asks.

  “That’s okay. I think I’m going to walk for a bit.”

  It doesn’t matter where, and for the next hour or so, I pay no attention to the street signs. I wander aimlessly. It’s only when I get a strange feeling in my stomach that I look up for the first time and see where I am.

  Sixty-eighth and Madison, right smack in front of the Fálcon Hotel.

  Coincidence?

  I wish.

  I’m starting to believe that everything is happening for a reason. If only I could figure out what it is. Something has to tie all this together, make sense of it.

  Maybe the strangest thing of all: the Fálcon and I have a history. Something I never talk about, not even to Michael. It happened my first week in New York, actually, just before I left Matthew of Boston. Since then, I try not to think about it. But here I am!

  Standin
g in front of the hotel, watching as a few well-heeled guests exit and enter under the same red awning where the four gurneys came rolling out, I can’t help dwelling on one of the other strange “coincidences.”

  My pictures.

  Specifically, the transparent effect that happened with the body bags. And then with Penley.

  There has to be some logical connection here. . . . But what is it? And does everything in life have to be logical? Since when?

  It would be so easy to say that the dream I keep having is a premonition. I never used to believe in that psychic stuff, but now I’m willing to change my mind. Except the dream already came true. I saw it with my own eyes. Standing in this exact spot, no less.

  The people in those body bags are stone cold dead. Penley — as if I need to be reminded — is very much alive.

  Don’t go there.

  I can’t help it, though. The thought creeps into my head, as it’s done a few times before. I know it’s wrong. I know it’s horrible even to think it.

  And still, I do.

  It’s Penley who stands in the way of everything. Were it not for her, I’d have Michael. I’d have Dakota and Sean. I’d have everything I ever wanted.

  If only Penley weren’t in the picture.

  Chapter 51

  SERIOUSLY.

  Don’t. Go. There.

  With every step, I try talking myself out of it, but there’s another voice, a louder voice — one I barely even recognize as my own — propelling me.

  My strides get longer and faster; I’m moving on adrenaline from head to toe. The night air is crisp, a lot cooler than usual for May, and I feel a slight sting on my cheeks.

  I look up. Yes. Of course there’s a full moon!

  What should be a ten-minute walk takes only five, and before I know it I’m standing right across the street from Michael’s building.

  I check my watch. It’s a few minutes past midnight.

  And you thought you got Michael angry in Connecticut? That was nothing compared to this.

  Through the large glass panels flanking the entrance, I can see the night doorman killing time at his desk. I try to remember his name and I’m almost positive it’s Adam. I’ve only met him once or twice before, when he was filling in on the day shift.

  It doesn’t matter.

  I dial the building’s number on my cell phone and watch as he picks up. They always answer the same way, announcing the address in lieu of “Hello.”

  “Is this Adam?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “Hi, it’s Kristin, the nanny for the Turnbulls. Listen, I was wondering if you could do me a favor? Louis let me use the staff bathroom off the lobby this morning, and I think I might have left my purse in there. Could you check for me? Sorry.”

  “Sure, hold on a second.”

  He puts down the phone and disappears behind the door near his desk. A starter’s pistol fires in my head.

  Go!

  I dart across Fifth Avenue and burst through the front entrance. Racing through the empty lobby, I make it safely to the stairwell before Adam returns.

  I’m in.

  I hang up my cell and tiptoe up five flights so I’m well out of earshot. Then I call Adam back.

  “Sorry to hang up on you; I had another call coming in,” I say. “Any luck?”

  “No, I’m afraid I didn’t see your purse. It’s not at the front desk either.”

  “Darn, I thought that’s where I left it. Thanks for looking, though.”

  “No problem,” he says.

  That’s for sure.

  You learn a lot about a building after working in it for a couple of years. In the case of the Turnbulls’, it so happens there are no security cameras on the stairs. Goody for me.

  Now comes the hard part.

  It’s called breaking and entering.

  Chapter 52

  I HIKE THE REMAINING thirteen flights, struggling to catch my breath as I reach the penthouse. I check my watch again, which is just a nervous tic, I know.

  Lights out at the Turnbulls’ is usually no later than ten. Michael rises with the sun, and Penley sees the benefit of a good night’s sleep strictly from a cosmetic point of view. God forbid she ever has bags under her eyes.

  Still, I cool my heels for another fifteen minutes. One last chance, perhaps, to come to my senses.

  The chance passes.

  Thumbing through my keys, I find the one Penley gave me when I first began working for her. I distinctly recall her saying something snotty and condescending about it being a symbol of trust. What, like I’m going to use it to break in one night?

  The key clutched tightly in my hand, I gingerly approach the door and its solid brass lock. Turning my wrist ever so slowly, I try to dull the inevitable snap of the dead bolt. It’s so quiet around me in the hallway. Too quiet. I’m afraid even the slightest noise will wake everyone.

  The lock cooperates — barely a sound — and I step inside. I can’t see a thing at first. It’s pitch-black, but I know the apartment so well it wouldn’t matter if I were blindfolded.

  This is so insane. What am I doing?

  Crossing the foyer, I walk down the long hallway to the bedrooms. Half of me is still pumping with adrenaline, the other half utter fear. It’s like I’m on a tightrope without a net. There’s no excuse for my being here, at least none that anyone else would understand.

  I’m steps away from Dakota’s room. I don’t intend to go in, and yet that’s exactly what I do. I feel the need to look at her, to see her sleeping peacefully, and thanks to the glow of a small heart-shaped night-light by her bed, I can. Nestled under her pink covers, she looks so angelic.

  I love Dakota and Sean. Who wouldn’t?

  Farther down the hallway, I slip into Sean’s room. No such luck with a night-light; he doesn’t like them.

  Squinting, I can barely make out his tiny silhouette in the darkness. I edge closer and closer to him when — disaster — I kick something. Legos!

  The sound of crashing plastic rips through the room as one of Sean’s fantastic creations splatters against a wall.

  He stirs and I freeze, holding my breath, my heart thumping out of control.

  “Mommy?” he mutters.

  Shit.

  What now?

  I’m about to panic when it comes to me.

  “Yes, honey,” I whisper. “This is just a dream. . . . Go back to sleep now, okay?”

  He seems to think it over for a few agonizing seconds. “Okay,” he says finally.

  Phew.

  I figure if he were really awake he’d recognize my voice. Still, it’s a little too close for comfort.

  I should take the hint and escape from the apartment as fast as possible. All I have to do is turn left out of Sean’s room and never look back.

  Instead, I turn right and keep going down the hallway.

  To Michael and Penley’s room.

  Chapter 53

  THE DOOR TO MICHAEL and Penley’s bedroom is half closed, and there’s not enough space for me to squeeze inside. Here’s praying for well-oiled hinges.

  Slowly I push my way in. No squeak. Instead, just the sound of Michael’s breathing. It’s not quite a snore, more like a low-pitched hum. I recognize it immediately from the few times in which our “sleeping together” actually involved sleeping.

  I inch toward them, my footsteps deadened by a huge Persian rug. There’s a scant glow of moonlight filtering in through the curtains. As my eyes adjust, I realize what I’m reminded of.

  My darkroom.

  I stand at the foot of their king-size bed, staring, feeling nervous. Penley’s on the left, closer to the bathroom. They’re not cuddling, nestling, or spooning — in fact, Michael couldn’t be any farther away from her without rolling off the mattress. Nonetheless, the sight of them sharing a bed immediately irks me.

  I know they’re husband and wife, that this is completely normal, even if their marriage isn’t. I simply never thought about it this way. I nev
er see any intimacy between the two of them.

  Now here I am looking at them together in bed.

  What a weird feeling, so uncomfortable, unsettling. It’s not so much that I’m jealous. It’s more like I’m angry.

  I don’t think it’s possible to hate Penley any more than I do right now, and she hasn’t really done anything wrong, has she?

  I’m no longer staring at both of them. Just her. I see her bony shoulders jutting out from the puffy duvet, and the turned-up little nose that she wrinkles when something bothers her — which is always. Even asleep she looks like a bitch! Penley could star in Wicked — without makeup.

  My eyes drift.

  Scattered on the bed are more pillows than two people could ever possibly use. I focus on one propped against the headboard, untouched. My brain ignites, and like sparks, the ideas come flying. All of them evil.

  How easy it would be to lean over Penley and grab that pillow, place it on her face with my elbows locked and smother her. If I did it quick enough, she wouldn’t even struggle, would she? There would be no violent kicking, no muffled screams. She’d die a quick, silent, 100 percent goose down death.

  Could I really do it?

  Hell, I can’t even believe I’m thinking it.

  It occurs to me: maybe that’s the connection — why Penley’s picture has the same ghosting effect as the body bags from the Fálcon. It’s because she’s in danger.

  From me?

  I feel dizzy. A rush of cold air hits me and I gasp, only to look over at the curtains and see them billowing. The window over the terrace has been open all this time.

  A little shiver travels up through my spine and head, jarring my thoughts in an entirely new direction.

  I know exactly what I have to do now.

  Shoot Michael.

  Chapter 54

  CAREFULLY, I REMOVE THE LEICA from my shoulder bag, double-checking to make sure it’s loaded. My hands steady, I aim right for Michael’s head.

  Don’t think, just shoot.

  “Mommy!”

  My head whips around. Oh, jeez, it’s Sean calling from his room.