You've Been Warned

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.

PART 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.