You've Been Warned

  “Mommy!” he yells again.

  I look back at Michael and Penley. They’re waking up. Quick, hide!

  I glance at my camera. No, wait. Snap a picture — then hide!

  Sean calls out a third time, his little voice screeching like a siren. He not only sounds louder, he sounds closer. Is he out of his bed?

  I drop to the floor in a panic. Ten feet away, over by the bathroom, is a small sitting area with a sofa.

  I begin crawling toward it on my hands and knees.

  I’m completely in the open now. If Penley gets out of bed, the only way she won’t see me is if she trips over me first.

  That’s when I hear her mumble to Michael, half asleep. It seems she’s not going anywhere.

  “Go see what he wants,” she says.

  “He’s yelling for his mommy,” he mumbles back.

  “Then let him yell.”

  Michael groans and pushes back the covers.

  Oh no, he’s getting out of bed! Michael is going to see me in about two seconds.

  The couch is still a few feet away. I scramble to hide behind it. The floorboards creak beneath the rug.

  “What was that?” asks Michael.

  Penley yawns. “What was what?”

  “That noise. Didn’t you hear? It sounded like it came from inside the room.”

  I close my eyes. I’m toast.

  “Mommy?”

  I peek out around the sofa. Sean’s standing in the doorway now, his voice barely above a whisper.

  I’m saved. At least for the moment.

  Michael forgets all about the noise in the room. “Hey, what’s the matter, little buddy?” he asks.

  “I had a bad dream. Dumba came again. Can I sleep in your bed?” Dumba is the monster who sometimes invades Sean’s dreams. Is Dumba maybe the monster who invades my dreams?

  “Sure you can,” says Michael. He is a nice guy.

  “No!” snaps Penley.

  “Honey, give the kid a break, will you? He’s scared.”

  “I don’t care. He needs to learn that he can’t always come running to us.”

  Michael bristles. “Yeah, and he also needs to learn algebra, but neither has to happen at age five.”

  As terrified as I am to be stuck there, I can’t help thinking, Good one, Michael!

  Not that Penley would ever be denied. “Fine,” she huffs. “I’ll give you a choice. If he sleeps in here, you don’t!”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I’m dead serious. You, Sean, and Dumba can go sleep somewhere else.”

  “Jesus, you’re a piece of work, Penley.”

  I hear Michael’s feet land on the floor with a resounding thud. His voice sweetens for Sean. “C’mon, buddy, you and I are sleeping in the guest room.”

  And off they go.

  Leaving me and Penley.

  Chapter 55

  FOR ONCE I DON’T wake up drenched in sweat and screaming from the dream. That’s because I never go to sleep that night.

  No, I don’t hurt Penley, or even say boo to her in their bedroom. I hide behind the sofa, barely moving a muscle, for another hour until I’m convinced it’s safe to slip out undetected. Out of the apartment, that is.

  Leaving the building is another story.

  It’s a lot easier to sneak in than it is to sneak out. Hey, Adam, would you mind looking in the bathroom again for my purse?

  I don’t think so.

  So I hang out in the stairwell off the penthouse until morning. A new day, a new doorman — and if Louis pauses from his imaginary sword fight with Sean to ask why he didn’t see me come in, I’ll just joke about him going blind or having Alzheimer’s.

  I try to sleep, Lord knows I’m exhausted enough, but concrete steps make for a lousy pillow. After an hour or so, I give up on the hope of catching any Z’s, choosing instead to plan in my head every detail of Michael’s and my honeymoon.

  The Caribbean? Maybe the Bahamas and the One & Only Ocean Club? Venice and the Gritti Palace? The French Riviera?

  All I know is that when we get back, Sean can sleep in our bed whenever he wants. In fact, maybe for our honeymoon we’ll take the kids to Disney World. Why not?

  At about five-fifteen, I hear the first signs of life on the other side of the stairwell door. It’s Michael leaving for his office. Five-fifteen? That’s even earlier than usual. I suppose that’s what a night in the guest room will do to you.

  At about a quarter to eight, it’s my turn. For the second day in a row, I’m early for work. If I keep it up, I might just get a raise!

  I let myself into the apartment. Again.

  “My, someone looks tired,” says Penley with an obnoxious grin as I greet her in the kitchen. “You must have had a late night.” Wink-wink, nudge-nudge.

  It takes me a second to catch her drift. My blind date with Stephen seems like a week ago, or like it didn’t even happen.

  “I want all the details,” she insists.

  I’m too tired and in no mood, especially because there isn’t much to tell. “He was very nice,” I say.

  Penley frowns, then she shakes her head. “You’re going to have to do better than that, Kristin.”

  I thought as much. So I ply her with some mindless details about the dinner, and while I don’t come right out and say it, I make it clear that her gym friend is not “my type.” For sure, I don’t want her pushing for a second date.

  Then she surprises me. “Yeah, Stephen pretty much felt the same way.”

  “You spoke to him already?”

  “Hope you don’t mind,” she says with a shrug. “He’s a friend, after all, and I was curious.”

  I can see that.

  She turns and pours herself another steaming cup of c-offee, which looks delicious, by the way. One day she might actually ask if I want one.

  “You know, Stephen got the sense that you were already seeing someone.”

  Thanks, pal!

  “I tried to assure him I’m not,” I say. “It’s a little funny to hear that, though, given he still seems hung up on his ex-girlfriend.”

  “You think so?”

  “Absolutely. Did you know she’s a married woman, by the way?”

  Her eyes go wide. Apparently not.

  “He neglected to mention that,” she says with a smirk. “I apologize.”

  Penley? Apologizing?

  “For what?” I ask.

  “Thinking Stephen was right for you. I don’t approve of that sort of thing. He should know better,” she says, frowning. “Don’t you agree?”

  Oh, the irony.

  Chapter 56

  I STRUGGLE TO STAY awake while I walk the kids to school. I’ve got one eye just about closed, the other trained on Dakota, as I still wonder what’s going through her mind.

  Indeed, she wasn’t quite herself yesterday, spending most of the time in her room. Her daddy and I were only talking behind those hedges out in Westport, but the whole vibe of the moment must have seemed a little less than innocent. Eventually, I take Dakota’s hand in mine, and she lets me.

  “Hey, Miss Kristin, guess what?” chirps Sean as we march across the street at Madison and 76th. “You were in my dream last night!”

  Oh, great . . . double trouble.

  For the last couple of blocks before Preston Academy, I listen to Sean explaining his dream in great detail. Apparently he and I had a picnic on the moon.

  “Or was it Mars?” he wonders.

  The details are a little fuzzy, but what’s clear is that he has no recollection of my being in his room. Hallelujah. One less thing to worry about.

  That leaves only about a dozen others. What’s bumming me out the most, I think, is that after all I went through last night, I wasn’t able to snap a shot of Michael. I was so spooked by nearly getting caught that all I could think about was escaping from the apartment as soon as possible.

  “Okay, my angels,” I say, kneeling just outside the gates of Preston Academy. “Have a wonderful day, lis
ten to your teachers, and I’ll be here this afternoon to pick you up.”

  “Bye,” says Sean, and he kisses me on the cheek.

  “Thanks,” says Dakota. “Just for being nice.”

  As always, I watch their mad dash to join their friends and head inside the school. When Sean falls behind, Dakota stops and sticks out her hand, patiently waiting. My heart sighs.

  It’s settled. Michael and I are definitely taking them to Disney World for our honeymoon!

  I turn and head back toward Fifth Avenue, a different song — finally — playing in my head. “It’s a small world after all. . . .”

  Less than a block later, my cell phone rings. What’s this?

  Serendipity! It’s Michael. I knew it was only a matter of time before he called.

  “I was just thinking of you,” I say.

  “Not as much as I’ve been thinking of you, Kris. I’ve missed you so much!”

  Before I can say ditto, he apologizes.

  “For what?” I ask. “That’s what I should be doing. I’m so sorry for what I did. I’m mortified.”

  “No, it was wrong of me to cancel on you. Penley is such a bitch,” he says. “I should’ve never gone out to Westport.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  We laugh, and he simply couldn’t be any sweeter. It doesn’t take long for me to make the connection to the rotten night he had sleeping with Sean and Dumba in the guest room. If only he knew I saw it all firsthand.

  It’s amazing, really. For everything I’ve said and done as part of my Dump Penley campaign, my efforts are no match for Penley herself. At this rate, Michael might even dump her by the Fourth of July.

  Independence Day.

  What fireworks that would be!

  “I’ve got another business dinner this evening,” says Michael, “but I want to make sure we’re together tomorrow night. Anything you want, we’ll do it, okay?”

  “You’ve got yourself a date,” I answer.

  “God, I’m so lucky to have you.”

  “Don’t you forget it!”

  We say good-bye, laced with I love yous, and I put my cell phone away. Opening my shoulder bag, I see that the lens cap has fallen off my camera. As I snap it back on, I notice something else.

  I loaded a new roll of film before sneaking into Michael and Penley’s apartment last night. Since I didn’t snap a single picture, the shot counter should still read 0.

  Only it reads 1.

  Chapter 57

  MAYBE THE CAMERA JOSTLED in my bag, triggering the shutter. It could happen. Especially these days.

  But there’s another possibility. . . .

  The thought immediately spins me around. Now I’m walking in the opposite direction.

  Out comes my cell phone again, and I call Penley. Actually, I call her answering machine, since I know she’s still at the gym. Not that she’d pick up anyway.

  A filling just fell out, I explain. Luckily, my dentist can take me right away. “Don’t worry, I’ll be done in plenty of time to pick up the kids at three.”

  That takes care of that. Next stop: my darkroom.

  I’ve never burned an entire roll of film for only one picture, but if there’s going to be a first time, this is definitely it.

  I have to see 1.

  Right before Sean called out last night, I had Michael lined up in my lens. Maybe — just maybe — I managed to get the shot without even knowing it.

  The desire to find out takes over, and I’m quickly hailing a cab in lieu of walking. I’m riding another wave of adrenaline, my mind and body oblivious to the fact that I’ve been awake for over twenty-four hours. And counting.

  “Keep the change,” I tell the cabbie, dropping seven bucks in his lap as he pulls up to my building. Less than a minute later, I’m alone in my darkroom, the main light out and the door closed. The safety is on and everything is eerily red in the small room.

  I’m getting pretty good at speed developing lately, and with this roll of film, I set a new record. My eyes and hands are in complete sync — reaching, pouring, setting, shifting — everything it takes to bring this one picture to life.

  What if it’s not Michael?

  It could be anything, really. Maybe it’s Penley. Or nothing at all.

  A blur, a blob, or complete blackness. Perhaps all I’ve got is a glitch in the camera’s shot counter, and this supposed picture doesn’t even exist.

  If that’s the case, I’ll have to be patient. I’ll wait until tomorrow night when Michael and I are together and snap a shot of him then. After all, it’s only another day to wait.

  I glare at the processing tank. “Hurry up, you lazy-ass film!”

  Then again, I’m not exactly in a patient mood.

  I anxiously tap my fingers, waiting for the first sign of an image. Gradually, one appears.

  I shift the negative over to the holding bath and lean in for a better view. It’s someone, but I can’t be sure who. So I hurriedly make a print, and that’s when I know.

  It’s Michael, all right. I did take a picture of him after all.

  And as I look closely at the shot, I see what I didn’t want to see — the same ghosting effect I noticed with Penley.

  “Shit. Don’t do this.”

  But there’s something else, something even more bizarre.

  Scary is more like it. Terrifying!

  I immediately plunge a hand into the cold water of the holding bath, grabbing the shot while reaching for my magnifying loupe.

  Oh, my God, Michael. What have I done?

  He isn’t lying in bed beside Penley. He’s sprawled on the floor of a room I don’t recognize. A place I don’t believe I’ve ever been in my life.

  And he looks dead.

  9

  Chapter 58

  IT’S AS IF THE PHOTOGRAPH literally shocks me, sending a thousand volts of instant pain through my fingertips. It drops from my hands, landing facedown on the floor.

  Like Michael.

  I step back, terrified. How? What? Where? When? I don’t have a single answer to any of these questions. What’s real? What isn’t? There has to be a rational explanation. That’s what I’ve been saying all along, beginning with the dream. But looking at this picture of Michael, I don’t know. How do you explain the inexplicable?

  I don’t.

  At least not yet.

  Back and forth I pace in the tight confines of my darkroom, repeating the same four words over and over in my head.

  Keep it together, Kris!

  I figure I’ve got two choices. Check myself into the loony bin or continue chipping away at this mystery. I stop pacing as the image of a padded room and me wearing the latest style in straitjackets flashes through my mind.

  Decision made.

  I rush out to the kitchen and pick up the phone. If I can’t explain the picture of Michael, there’s still the issue of the ghosting effect. On the heels of everything else, I’m thinking it has nothing to do with my camera. But I need to make sure.

  “Gotham Photo,” the man answers.

  “Hi, can I speak with Javier, please? It’s kind of important.” Like, life and death.

  “He’s off today.”

  Damn. “Do you know how I can reach him?”

  “Afraid I don’t.”

  There’s a slight hitch in his voice, and I suspect he does know.

  “It’s very important,” I say.

  “We’re not allowed to give out personal information. The best I can do is relay a message to him, okay?”

  No, not okay!

  I’m about to launch into the kind of full-frontal “helpless female in distress” plea that would make Gloria Steinem gag when I remember my closet. Thanks to a few cockroaches — give or take a thousand — I never checked the pockets of my shearling coat for Javier’s cell number.

  “Hold on a second, will you?” I say.

  I drop the phone, dash to the closet, and pray that my existential exterminator knew what he was doing with that
poison spray.

  I slowly open the door to see only coats — including my shearling. Chalk one up for my memory; Javier’s card is right where I thought.

  “Never mind,” I say, returning to the phone. Click.

  The second I get a dial tone, I call Javier. It’s such a relief when he answers.

  “I’m so sorry to bother you, Javier.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he says. I’m sure he likes me and I feel a little guilty about this.

  I remind him about the “ghosting” effect. “Remember? I mentioned it when I bought the new lens.”

  “So the problem wasn’t with your old one, huh?”

  “Afraid not. I know it’s your day off, but would you mind taking a look at the pictures? I really need to figure this out.”

  “That depends,” he says.

  “On what?”

  “On how well you know your way around Brooklyn.”

  Chapter 59

  NOT VERY WELL.

  In fact, the closest I’ve ever been to Brooklyn is watching reruns of Welcome Back, Kotter on Nick at Nite.

  But after picking up the kids at school and pretending all afternoon that my mouth is still sore from the dentist, I board the F train heading out of Manhattan and hope for the best.

  I generally don’t mind riding the subway, except for rush hour, when it’s a madhouse.

  Of course, that happens to be right now.

  Wedged in with a gazillion other people — including the guy hovering next to me whose twenty-four-hour deodorant is clearly living on borrowed time — I’m afraid the old adage is wrong. Getting there is not half the fun.

  But at least I get there, and thanks to Javier’s very precise directions from the 15th Street–Prospect Park station, I easily find the nearby brownstone where he lives.

  It’s a pretty nice neighborhood, and I can’t help feeling a bit guilty about my low expectations, if not outright trepidation. I hate those people who think the good life begins and ends in the 212 area code, and here I am acting like one.

  Javier’s apartment occupies the first floor, and he greets me at the door with his usual warm smile. He’s dressed much the same as when he’s behind the counter at Gotham Photo — khakis and a button-down shirt, in this case a blue-and-white stripe. The only thing missing is his name tag.