You've Been Warned

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 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.