You've Been Warned

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 Falcon 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.