You've Been Warned

But being the town hero didn’t pay well, and when his carpentry jobs started to dry up during the recession of the eighties, money in our house got tight. Ironic, really. He helped to build so many homes but ultimately couldn’t afford to keep his own.

Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad had my mother been a little more understanding. She wasn’t, though. I remember the night at the dinner table when she called him a failure in life, right to his face.

That’s about when the drinking got out of control. But never in front of me. Never. I was his princess, his girl. No matter how bad things got, he always had a hug and a smile for me.

Right up until the end. Less than an hour before Dad shot himself in our dilapidated backyard shed, he held me in his arms and squeezed me tight. “It’s going to be all right,” he whispered in my ear.

I never forgave him for that lie. I know that I should’ve felt sorry for him, but I was too busy feeling sorry for myself.

Now, after all these years, he shows up somehow on a street corner in Manhattan. If only he hadn’t run away that morning. I’d have given him the biggest hug and kiss, and whispered softly in his ear, “It’s okay, Dad. I understand.”

Chapter 91

I’M CRYING IN MY DARKROOM, the tears falling faster than I can wipe them away. I miss my dad. I miss a lot of things right now, but most of all my own sanity.

Could I be more of a mess?

It’s late, and I’ve given up on trying to reach Michael tonight. I’m exhausted and should get some sleep.

But knowing that the dream—and God knows what else—awaits me in the morning, I instead reach for the shots I snapped of Penley and Stephen in front of the hotel.

Talk about a great Exhibit A.

In fact, it’s enough to swing my mood. As I look at the first shot, I can’t help relishing the thought of Michael going for the jugular in divorce court. I’m so giddy—or is it punchy?—I actually start singing, “Penley and Stephen in NYC, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”

But the feeling is short-lived.

I stare at Stephen’s transparent image—the exact same ghosting effect—and I surrender all faith in myself and in the real world as I experienced it before the last few days. I know I stood outside the Fálcon and watched those gurneys get wheeled to the curb, but I also know a pattern when I see one.

First Penley.

Then Michael.

Now Stephen.

One by one, the body bags are being accounted for, and I don’t have to be Einstein to do the math.

There’s one left.

Chapter 92

I COME OUT OF THE DARKROOM and notice there’s a message on my answering machine—just one—and I’m afraid to listen to it. No, I’m petrified to press the button and hear what somebody has to tell me.

What now?

Who could this be? Another call from Kristin Burns?

I get a cold bottle of water in the kitchen and gulp it right down. How did I get myself into this mess? How do I get out?

There has to be a way, but I can’t imagine what it might be. I’m supposed to be creative, aren’t I? So why can’t I begin to figure this puzzle out? Could anyone?

I can still see the red light flashing on my answering machine. It might be Michael, and maybe, maybe he’s okay now, back to normal.

Of course, it could also be Delmonico, calling from where, exactly? Do they have phones there, wherever dead people hang out these days?

I approach the infernal message machine and I’m starting to shake like a leaf. How insane is that? Given what’s happened to me? Not so crazy.

I stab the button on the machine.

I get myself ready to listen to whomever, about whatever.

I hear a voice I don’t know—a woman’s voice. Who’s this?

“Kristin... this is Leigh Abbott. I own the Abbott Show on Hudson Street, and I’m calling to tell you that we all love your stuff. Love it! Please give me a call at 212-555-6501. I would like to put your astounding work in the Abbott Show. Call me, Kristin: 212-555-6501. We are so impressed with your vision of New York.”

I press the button on the machine again.

Listen to Leigh Abbott again.

It’s the best news I’ve gotten since I moved to New York City. Absolutely the best by far. My dream has come true.

So—why am I crying uncontrollably?

Chapter 93

THE SOUND OF MY OWN SCREAM jolts my head off the pillow, piercing the still air of my bedroom like a jet engine on takeoff. I rip back the sheet in a panic, the sweat dripping from my hair.

I’m burning up—almost literally.

The dream’s never been more real. It’s getting worse.

I feel sick to my stomach and barely make it to the bathroom. I throw up so violently, my neck muscles convulse, cramping into knots. I begin to gag, then choke. Collapsing to the floor, I can’t even call for help. This is it, I’m going to die—on a cheapo bath mat from Bed Bath & Beyond!