You've Been Warned

It’s a letter opener. Suffice to say, the kind they would never let you bring on an airplane. Long and sharp. On the sleek silver handle I can see engraved lettering: “The Fálcon Hotel.”

Nice touch.

I struggle fiercely to rise to my feet, emptying my lungs with just about the deepest exhale of my life. But the relief is short. I look at Michael, then hurry over to him. He’s facedown. His breath is coming in short gasps that seem very painful.

“Michael, can you hear me?”

He blinks slowly, his eyes searching. “Kris?”

His voice is so weak, and he’s coughing blood onto the rug.

“I’m right here,” I say. “I’m going to get help for you.”

But I think we both know he’s beyond that. Michael’s neck and chest are shredded, a gory multitude of stab wounds. He’s lost so much blood already, it’s a wonder he can speak.

“You have to get out of here,” he says. “The police...”

“It’s okay. It’s okay.”

He’s fading on me, struggling to talk. “No, you need to hurry. Run. Get away from here.”

Where? Where do I go?

Michael spells it out with his last breath, his final words to me.

“The kids,” he whispers.

His eyes go wide.

“Michael!” I yell. “Michael!”

But he’s gone.

Michael’s dead.

And instantly I realize—that makes three bodies.

Chapter 106

I STAND UP SLOWLY, taking one last look at Michael, and it hits me—what I’m seeing right now.

It’s the picture of Michael from my camera. The shot of him sprawled dead on a floor somewhere.

The one I never took.

Yet here it is. Here I am. How could this happen?

It feels as if I’ve been hit with a stun gun. Time has stopped completely. The world has stopped. All that continues is the deadly—really, truly deadly—silence.

Then it’s broken.

The phone by the bed rings, then rings a second time, snapping me out of it. I need to get out of here. To get away!

I bolt from the room and head toward the back stairs. I know the way out of here. I’m halfway to the stairwell when I hear footsteps pounding behind me.

The kids!

Could it be? Dakota? If not—then who? I’m almost afraid to find out.

But I stop and spin around to look. And it’s not her.

It’s him.

The Ponytail.

How could he be here? How does he fit into this? I want to ask him. But not now!

Oh, dear God! Oh, no!

As in—that’s no camera he’s wielding.

“Freeze!” he yells, taking aim at me.

I thrust out my hands in a panic—Don’t shoot!—only to realize immediately I’ve made a mistake. There’s one thing I forgot to do back in the hotel room, before I charged out of there on my getaway run.

Let go of the gun.

Chapter 107

THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS in the next instant—I die.

I don’t feel the bullet as it rips through my body. I’m not even sure I’m shot until I look down and see the bloodstain.

Slowly, I rub the palm of my hand across my shirt. It feels warm, sticky, unreal.

He thought I was going to shoot him. Ridiculous! Except I just shot Penley, didn’t I?

I stumble back a step before my legs give out. Now I’m spinning—at least that’s the feeling I have. I fall hard to the floor, but I don’t feel the impact.

I don’t feel anything, really, and in some ways that’s an improvement.

I’m lying faceup, gazing at the hallway ceiling. A shiny “Exit” sign points to the stairs I never reached. Other than that, it’s a blank picture.

Then a face appears.

The Ponytail hovers over me. He looks at the gun clenched in my hand and ruefully shakes his head. Bending down, he presses two fingers against the side of my neck. What’s he doing? Oh, I see, he’s feeling for a pulse.

“I’m still alive,” I say.

He doesn’t respond in any way. Nothing.

“Hey, did you hear me? Who are you, anyway?” I ask.

He stands there and takes out a cell phone, dialing 911. I get my answer.

“I’m a private investigator,” he tells the operator after reporting there’s been a shooting. “Multiple shootings,” he corrects himself.

The police arrive, followed by EMS. Lots of hustle and bustle all around me. A paramedic checks my pulse again.

I fade in and out for a while, then I hear the Ponytail explain to a cop that he was hired by “one of the deceased.” Mrs. Penley Turnbull was his client.

“She suspected her husband was having an affair,” he says. “Apparently the husband suspected the same thing about her.”

“Hope you got paid up-front,” jokes the cop.

“You think this is funny?” I say.

He doesn’t hear me. No one does.

“So, who’s the girl?”

The cop is pointing at me. When is this strangeness going to stop? Actually, when I think about it, I don’t want it to stop, do I?

“The nanny,” answers the Ponytail. “That’s who I discovered the husband was involved with.”

“So you were following her? If I’m following you so far?”