I felt so ashamed and confused afterward. And then, when no one believed me, I wanted to die.
Dr. Magnumsen wasn’t only a respected pediatrician, he was a war hero . . . and I was a twelve-year-old girl with an “active” imagination. Even my parents suspected I was making the whole thing up. “Are you sure you’re not just trying to get attention, Kristin?” my mother asked me. “Are you sure this really happened?”
But then someone else came forward. A sophomore at Concord High School. Dr. Magnumsen had told her he needed to feel for bumps “down there,” and that it was okay if it felt good. She’d kept it a secret for over four years.
But when she read about me in the paper and heard the talk on Main Street, the proverbial scarlet L for “Liar” being plastered on my faded overalls, she could no longer stay silent. She told what Magnumsen had done to her.
I wasn’t alone. I was telling the truth.
Two days later, the girl’s father stormed into Magnumsen’s office and aimed a shotgun at his face. It was a closed-casket funeral, said the newspaper stories.
But here Floyd Magnumsen is now, in my hands, back from the dead. There’s not a scratch on him. It’s as if I took this picture fifteen years ago.
I pin it up on the wall and add the shots I took to show Javier. I take a step back and study it, knowing this has to be a key to everything that’s happening.
But what could Dr. Magnumsen possibly have to do with my father? Or Penley and Michael?
And what do they all have to do with the Fálcon Hotel?
I lean in for a closer look at the gurneys lined up on the sidewalk. Four body bags right in a row. Who are those people? How did they die?
Reaching out, I run my fingers across the pictures. As my hand approaches the weirdest of them all — the one of Michael on the floor that I never took — it stops.
I hear something. I’m sure of it.
There’s a noise outside the darkroom.
Footsteps.
Someone’s inside my apartment!
I stop everything — every movement, every muscle. I’m not breathing. I’m not even blinking.
Just listening for another sound.
Only it’s gone. I no longer hear anything. My exhausted mind is playing tricks, and here’s another reminder that I should be in my bedroom, not my darkroom.
Seriously, call it a night, Kris!
Stifling a yawn, I’m about to head out of the darkroom.
Shit! Shit! Shit!
I hear the footsteps again.
They’re right outside the door.
They’re not in my head.
And unfortunately, that’s not exactly good news.
Chapter 72
I GRAB THE STEEL tripod stashed in the corner of the darkroom. If there’s danger waiting for me on the other side of the door, I’m at least going down swinging.
In the sliver of space beneath the door, I can see the shadow of feet — big feet — creeping near. I grip the tripod tighter with both hands and pull it back over my shoulder. Batter up. Whoever’s out there is going to get hurt. I’m in the mood for it.
“Ms. Burns, are you in there?”
I recognize the voice.
I open the door and I’m staring at Detective Frank Delmonico. “How did you get in here?”
“I walked,” he answers sardonically. There’s not even the hint of an apology from him. “You think maybe I flew in an open window?”
The cocky line works. I’m speechless.
“Your door was open,” he says. “I knocked, and I guess you didn’t hear me, huh? Now, if you’re done with your third degree, it’s my turn to ask a few questions.”
Delmonico removes the same pen and tattered notepad from inside the same dark gray suit. I smell his aftershave, or whatever it is, and tobacco. Even more than before, the detective gives me the creeps.
This is happening too fast — and too late — I think. It’s near midnight. What is this guy doing in my apartment?
“I told you I’d answer any questions, but does it have to be now?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t think you’ve been leveling with me,” he says. “And I’ve got a problem with that.”
In light of his tone, that’s the understatement of the year.
Be careful, Kris. “All right, how can I help you? I don’t know anything about those murders,” I blurt out.
“The morning I first saw you outside the Fálcon Hotel, why were you taking so many pictures?” he asks, basically ignoring what I just said to him.
“I’m into photography.”
“Is it your profession?”
“Hopefully, one day. I’m up for an important gallery showing. I have an agent. You could talk to her if you want. Maybe tomorrow.”
He peers over my shoulder. “Is that your darkroom?”
“Yes.”
“Mind if I take a look?” Delmonico says, and he takes a step forward.
I shift my feet to block the way. “Actually, I do.”
He smirks. “Are you hiding something from me? Maybe the pictures you took at the hotel? Or is it something else you don’t want me to see?”
“No. My photographs are personal, that’s all.”
“Duly noted,” he says.
Then Delmonico pushes past me.
Right into my darkroom.
Chapter 73
“HEY, WHAT ARE YOU DOING? How dare you!”
Delmonico stops in the middle of my darkroom, staring left and right. My pictures are everywhere. They’re like wallpaper. He seems either impressed or overwhelmed by what he sees. “My, my, my,” he mutters. “Such a busy, busy girl.”
“I didn’t give you permission to be in here!” I snap.
He turns to me, his dark eyes boring into my head. “If you’d like, I can come back with a search warrant and turn this entire apartment upside down. Do you want that? Or I could forget about the search warrant and toss your place anyway. You know that good cop–bad cop routine? I’m the bad cop, Kristin.”
“You’re saying I’m a murder suspect?”
“What I’m saying is that you’re not cooperating with a murder investigation.”
“You can’t be serious.”
He takes a step toward me. He’s nearly twice my size. “In case you conveniently forgot, Ms. Burns, people died that morning. Four of them.”
“I know that. I was there.”
“And you were acting rather strange, as I recall.”
“I was upset.” I still am, buster!
“Yet you said you didn’t know any of them.”
“I was upset. I told you that. They were sitting out there on the sidewalk, dead.”
“But you thought one of them was still alive. That’s what you told me, anyway.”
“No, what I thought was . . . I mean, yes, but I didn’t actually . . . uh . . .”
The more I hesitate, the harder the detective looks at me. I know I’m not making total sense. Worse, I’m digging a deep hole for myself.
“Which is it?” he asks. “Did you or did you not see a dead person come back to life?”
“This is ridiculous. You know I had nothing to do with those murders.”
“You’re just an innocent bystander, right?”
“Yes.”
He laughs in my face. “Is that really what you think you are? Innocent? So virtuous that I have some nerve even talking to you?”
“I don’t know what you’re implying, but I don’t like it. I’m done answering your questions. You can leave.”
Delmonico nods, tucking his notepad and pen back into his pocket.
Thank God! He’s going.
No.
He’s just freeing up his hands.
In a blur, he grabs my shoulders, slamming me against the wall. I hit hard, and pictures go flying, the pain shooting up my spine. I can’t believe he just did that.
“Listen to me! Listen to the bad cop!” he s
ays, breathing fire. “You’re not done with anything until I say you are. You’re wondering whether you’re a murder suspect? Yes, you’re a murder suspect, Miss Burns. For starters.”
I can’t talk, I’m terrified.
“You really think you’re hot shit, don’t you? A real independent woman,” he says. “Well, guess what? It’s only a matter of time before I take you down. Because you are involved with those four murders. That much I know.”
I open my mouth, fighting first for air, then words. “You’re . . . hurting . . . me,” I manage.
He shakes his head. “You don’t know the meaning of hurt. But you will.”
The back of one of his hands slowly drifts down from my neck and across my chest.
This is really happening.
What’s he going to do now? Take me in? Arrest me for murders I didn’t commit?
His hand stops just above my breast. It’s right over my heart, which is beating wildly.
“Do you feel that?” he says. He leans in, his eyes mere inches from mine. He doesn’t blink, not once. “When you think of me, you remember that fear.”
He pulls back, letting go of me. I start trembling as he walks to the door and turns around.
“I know where you live, Miss Burns,” he says. “And I know what you did at the Fálcon Hotel. Both times you were there.”
11
Chapter 74
IF THERE IS SUCH A THING as a very bad, very good thing, then that’s what I do the next day.
Penley is going to be gone all day at some fancy-schmancy kitchen tour out in South Hampton — so she says, anyway — so instead of taking the kids to school, I call there to say they have the flu, and then we play hooky.
I really feel that Dakota and Sean need this. Especially Dakota. And so do I.
First things first, we have a total pig-out breakfast at Sarabeth’s, our favorite restaurant in all of New York. Blueberry and chocolate-chip pancakes, with loads of syrup, for everybody. Then we head off to Central Park with only one purpose in mind: to get absolutely filthy dirty, to be real kids for a change, to have a blast.
For three hours, we run and jump and scream our brains out, play tag, play catch, play keep-away, and I don’t have a single crazy thought, don’t smell anything bad, don’t even see any dead people.
We end up at a little concrete playground with swings and slides, and Dakota and Sean are grimy dirty — which I love, and they love too. In fact, I’ve never seen such big smiles on either of their faces.
Of course, I have to take photographs of the kids. Dozens and dozens of beautiful shots. So cute, so picture-perfect.
And then — disaster strikes!
Sean catches his bright red Keds sneaker on the ladder at the top of the slide, and he literally goes head over heels. I watch and I can’t believe what I’m seeing as he tumbles way too fast, then hits the pavement with his face. I swear to God, with his forehead.
Ten minutes later, we’re at the emergency room at Lenox Hill, and amazingly, miraculously, Sean is totally okay and doesn’t even need a stitch. He even gets a lollipop, and so does Dakota.
It’s quiet in the cab from Lenox Hill going home, and then Dakota leans into me and puts her head on my shoulder. I wish I could take a picture of the two of us.
“It’s all right, Miss Kristin. It’s all right,” she says. “We won’t tell.”
“Promise,” says Sean. “We won’t tell. We love you, Miss Kristin.”
And I love these kids so much.
I just love Dakota and Sean to death. Who wouldn’t?
I also feel guilty, and I don’t know how to get away from that. Not about playing hooky for one stupid day, which was great — but about everything else.
And I mean everything else.
Chapter 75
HELL, I SHOULD JUST TOSS my alarm clock out the window. What’s that joke Sean likes to tell? About seeing time fly?
Really, what’s the point of an alarm clock when I’ve got this dreaded dream to wake me every morning? I get the feeling it’s going to be with me for an awfully long time. Like forever.
Same for all the other bizarre stuff filling my days. And all I can do is wonder, Can I really handle this?
Can I get on with my life, such as it is?
Damn it, I’m going to try. With a little help from my friends.
Beth and Connie conference call me on my cell phone minutes after I drop off Dakota and Sean at school. They want to take me to lunch and won’t take no for an answer.
Of course, what they really want to do is see if I’m okay or completely mashed potatoes. The social worker in Connie undoubtedly has her hyperconcerned after my surprise sleepover-cum-meltdown at her apartment. Naturally, Beth heard all about it.
Imagine if I tell them everything that’s occurred since.
Only that’s not going to happen.
That monster Delmonico has me scared silent. About everything. I can still feel his grip on my neck, the look in his eyes.
Anyway, it’s with an “all’s well” attitude that I walk into the Comfort Diner — how fitting — on 45th Street between Second and Third. Connie and Beth are already seated at a table by the window, and I make sure to greet them with a healthy smile.
Unfortunately, the rest of my body didn’t get the memo.
“You look like shit, Kris,” says Beth almost immediately.
Connie rolls her eyes while I enjoy a much-needed laugh. There’s blunt, and then there’s Beth. No wonder she has such a hard time finding acting work. She once told Martin Scorsese that he needed to “trim those caterpillars” above his eyes.
“You do look a bit tired, Kristin,” says Connie, trying to be a little more diplomatic and gentle. “Have you been getting enough sleep?”
“I certainly got plenty at your place the other night,” I say.
“Until you woke up screaming like my apartment was in a wing at Bellevue,” she points out.
As if I need to be reminded.
“Have you been to see a doctor?” asks Beth. “Maybe you’ve got a virus.”
“And what about seeing your psychiatrist again?” says Connie in tow. “Have you given that any more thought?”
Call me crazy, but I think I’m done with psychiatrists.
I look at the two of them, their faces full of genuine concern. “Listen, I know you guys are trying to help and I appreciate it, I really do. But right now, the best thing for me is to have a fun lunch with my girlfriends. Can we do that? You think?”
They both nod, getting the point. I need to be distracted, not prodded. So they dig deep into their daily lives and share the best stories they can think of.
Connie kicks things off by telling us about the guy from her office who got caught making photocopies of his penis. I don’t believe her, but she swears it’s true.
“I bet he was using the enlarge button,” quips Beth.
We laugh and order, and by the time our food arrives, the conversation has made its way around to my job and the wonderful Penley.
“Let me guess,” says Beth. “While we’re stuffing our faces, the Pencil’s at the gym, burning off her last remaining calorie.”
“She definitely is a gym rat,” I say. “Though right now she’s out in Greenwich for some charity lunch.”
“You know, we really should meet her,” says Connie.
Beth raises a brow. “Why on earth would we want to do that?”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. What do you think, Kris?”
“I think she’s better left to your imagination,” I say with a chuckle. God, that feels good.
Connie smiles and digs back into her chef’s salad. I’m reaching for my iced tea when Beth starts to giggle. She’s looking out the window.
“Check out that serious PDA going on across the street,” she says, pointing.
Connie and I follow her finger to see a man and woman engaged in a serious lip-lock right under a “Don’t Walk” sign. There’s not an inch of daylight betw
een them as their “public display of affection” seems to last forever. Eventually, the woman pulls back, playfully pushing the man while glancing about as though to see if anyone’s watching.
“Omigod!” I sputter.
Connie and Beth turn to me in unison. “What is it?” asks Connie.
“That’s Penley!”
“Are you serious, Kris? You’re joking, right? Tell me you’re joking.”
“I thought you said she was out in Greenwich,” says Beth.
“I know. That’s what she told me.”
The three of us look back out the window. The man is whispering something in Penley’s ear. Sweet nothings, it appears.
“Wow,” says Beth. “You never mentioned how good-looking her husband is.”
“You’re right,” I say. “Only that’s not her husband.”
Chapter 76
I JUMP UP FROM MY CHAIR, jolting the table and nearly knocking over my iced tea. I sprint for the door with a hurried “good-bye” to my friends.
“Kris, wait!” I hear Connie call.
But I don’t. I can’t. This could be important, a key to unraveling everything.
Spilling out of the restaurant, I immediately look across the street. The “Don’t Walk” sign now reads “Walk.” And Penley’s gone.
So is Stephen. Tall, dark, and handsome Stephen. Her lover, from the look of it.
Quickly glancing around, I spot the couple farther down the sidewalk. Before I know it, I’m following them.
I can’t believe this. The plot, as they say, is thickening.
Not only is Penley having an affair, the guy is someone she set me up with as a blind date!
But for all my disbelief, there’s something else.
Relief.
I’ve been dragging a full measure of guilt like a heavy suitcase since the first day Michael — “a married man” — and I got together.
But now, seeing Penley cheating on him, suddenly I don’t feel so bad.
Yeah, I know, two wrongs don’t exactly make a right. It simply makes it a little easier.