You've Been Warned

I laugh and cheer Sean on as Louis pretends to be fatally wounded. With all the gusto of a B movie actor, he drops to his knees and dies a slow, painful death.

Maybe that’s what does it.

Or maybe it’s simply being outside again.

Either way, no sooner do I set foot on the sidewalk than my thoughts return to the Fálcon Hotel and my dream—that horrible, horrible dream—coming to life.

Instantly, I’m awash in all the disturbing images again. They’re vivid in my mind and at the same time confusing. New Yorkers, more than anyone, don’t like things they can’t rationally explain. That goes for nonnative New Yorkers as well. Like me.

“Miss Kristin, is everything okay?”

It’s not Sean asking the question this time, it’s Dakota. Not only is she mature for her age, I think she’s also a mind reader.

“Everything’s fine, sweetheart. Why do you ask?”

“Because you’re squeezing extra tight this morning.”

I look down and, sure enough, I can see the white of my knuckles wrapped around her tiny hand. Same for the one around Sean’s.

“I’m sorry,” I say, loosening my grip. “I guess I like holding on to you both so much, I never want to let go.”

“Fine with me,” says Sean blithely.

We continue walking, and I struggle to clear my mind of all the bad images from earlier. It’s near impossible. A howling ambulance passes us on the street, and it’s as if I’m seeing it all yet again. The body bags, the zipper...

The woman’s hand covered with blood.

“Miss Kristin, you’re doing it again,” says Dakota, trying to wiggle her fingers free.

“Yeah,” says Sean. “You’re like my G.I. Joe with kung fu grip!”

A few minutes later we arrive at Madison and 74th, and the imposing wrought-iron gates of the Preston Academy. I kneel to kiss Sean and Dakota good-bye.

“Have a great day, my angels.”

“You too, Miss Kristin,” chirps Sean. “Have a great day.”

Dakota peers into my eyes. “Are you sure everything’s okay?”

“I’m sure,” I answer.

But of course I’m not.

Then I wink at the kids, and they wink back. They have killer winks too.

I stand there and watch the kids dash off, joining their classmates marching up the steps to the school. They look so happy, so carefree.

So innocent.

Chapter 10

THE TWO BEST THINGS about my job disappear through the front door of Preston Academy, and I’m left walking back to the worst thing.

Penley.

That and what she likes to call “light housekeeping,” or sometimes “chores.”

While the kids are at school, Penley keeps me busy with... well... busy work. Let’s just say the woman is extremely anal-retentive. Last week, while having me organize the pantry, she insisted I arrange the cans of soup in alphabetical order.

As for the “heavy housekeeping”—changing the bed linens, washing and ironing, cleaning the bathrooms, et cetera—that’s taken care of by Maria, the twice-a-week maid. I think she’s great. Originally from Morelia, Mexico, she’s an incredibly hard worker and boasts a wonderful smile. As for how she manages to put up with Penley and her biting tongue, I can only attribute it to Maria’s very limited grasp of the English language.

I, on the other hand, can understand perfectly all the ridiculously demeaning things that Penley says to me on a daily basis.

So rushing back to that penthouse apartment after dropping off Dakota and Sean holds little appeal. I prefer to take my time, today being no exception. Since I haven’t been able to make any sense of what happened, or seemed to happen, earlier, I’m trying to keep my thoughts on anything but.

I stroll south on Madison Avenue. The sunlight is perfect, and the urge to snap some pictures returns. I reach for my camera and automatically I’m excited.

As I take off the lens cap, I can’t help thinking about Michael. When he’s not trying to put me into a nicer apartment, he’s offering to jump-start my career by financing my own gallery or getting me a prestige magazine shoot.

But I won’t let him do that. None of it.

It’s important to me that I do this on my own, even if that means barely scraping by, living paycheck to paycheck. I’m not a complete fool, mind you—Michael is allowed to take me out, buy me dinners and other fun stuff—but I never want to feel as if I’m beholden to him. And deep down, though he’ll never admit it, I think he doesn’t want me to feel that way either. That’s another reason I love him. I do. I do.

I keep looking for more great shots to build my portfolio, clicking away when I’m lucky enough to see them. And today—yeah!—I’m seeing them.

A little farther down Madison, I spot a man in a skullcap, washing the front window of a restaurant, his disgruntled reflection crystal clear in the wake of his squeegee.

It creates a fantastic double image of working-class angst, and I shoot it from a couple of angles, commiserating with the guy.

Then I pass a woman smoking a cigarette outside a Coach leather store. She’s undoubtedly a sales clerk on break, the hunched posture and faraway gaze providing more than enough proof. I take two shots, one of her and one of her shadow.