You've Been Warned

“Oh, nothing, really. I simply suggested that since you came to the emergency room voluntarily, you should also leave that way.”

“That’s it? That’s all you said?”

Michael flashes his trademark smile. “Well, I did mention one other thing.”

I knew it.

“I told him that by the time I was done suing Our Lady of Hope Hospital for false imprisonment, it would be renamed Our Lady of Bankruptcy.”

That’s the man I love.

Michael doesn’t press me for details on what happened, and as much as I want to tell him, I’m torn. He just came to my rescue and vouched for my sanity. If I try explaining everything right now, what’s he supposed to think? I’m afraid he’ll tell Vincent to turn the limo around: “Quick, let’s get her back to the hospital!”

Besides, I don’t want to work myself into another frenzy quite yet. I’m finally feeling a little relaxed. Or maybe the word is safe. Either way, it occurs to me that the last time I felt this way was the last time I was in this limo with Michael. Does that mean something in this damn puzzle? What part does Michael play?

“I did it again, didn’t I?” I say. “I interrupted one of your business dinners.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Michael takes a peek at his platinum Rolex. “As long as I return in time to pick up the check, no one will care.”

“Do you really have to go back to the restaurant?” I ask as I take his hand.

“I’m afraid so. Besides, what you have to do is get some rest.”

He couldn’t be more right. My body’s officially running on fumes. Except I don’t want him to leave me. Couldn’t we just drive around in his limo for the rest of our lives?

“Michael?”

“Yes?”

“Will you make love to me?”

He answers with a soft kiss to my lips, barely touching them with his. Just what I need.

Slowly, he undresses me. For a moment my eyes drift from his, and I glance up through the sunroof into the night, the long steel cables of the Brooklyn Bridge hovering above. They’re lit with a dreamy yellow hue that reminds me of a vintage photograph, something beautiful and lasting.

Timeless.

Chapter 71

IT’S SO HARD saying good-bye to Michael as we pull up to my building, I almost break into tears. It’s even harder to be alone again in my apartment. It feels like forever since it’s been home sweet home for me.

The second I get inside my door and lock it, lock myself in, the phone starts to ring. I don’t want to answer, but maybe it’s Michael. He’s had second thoughts and he’s coming over. Please, let that be it.

I pick up on the fifth ring, and it’s an operator. “I have a collect call from Kristin Burns.” I want to throw down the receiver, but I think about it and I accept the call.

I hear my own voice. “Help me. Please help me. Somebody make it stop!”

Now I throw down the receiver. MAKE WHAT STOP? WHAT IN THE NAME OF GOD IS HAPPENING? HOW CAN I GET A PHONE CALL FROM MYSELF?

The nasty bump on my forehead is definitely real and already ripening to a deep purplish bruise. It’s well beyond any cover-up stick, so I fiddle with a new hairstyle—bangs down.

Then I throw on a T-shirt and sweats and crawl into bed. I should be asleep before my head, bump and all, hits the pillow.

So why am I still awake?

Five minutes, ten minutes, a half hour passes, and all I can do is toss and turn. The past few days play over and over in my head, an endless loop of fear and confusion. All the stress that seemed to melt away in Michael’s arms begins to seep—then gush—back in.

There’s only one thing I can think to do.

I jump up and grab my camera. I can almost hear the voice of Dr. Curley playing his little fill-in-the-blank game with me. When I’m under stress I like to...

I close the door to my darkroom and start to develop the shot I snapped at the hospital. I don’t rush, since there’s little doubt as to what I’ll see. Dr. Curley wasn’t standing there alone; I know I didn’t imagine it. And that goes for everything else too.

Now, if I could just figure out what it all means, or at least how it could be happening.

I hold up the picture. There was a time I couldn’t look at the face of Dr. Floyd Magnumsen without breaking into tears.

His hands were so cold. He always wore gloves during my checkups, except for that one time. Why is he locking the door? I thought. And then I understood: because he didn’t want anyone to know that he was a monster.

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 Falcon 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.