You've Been Warned

I smile behind my lens. This is really good stuff!

So good in fact that I lose track of how far I’ve walked.

Before I know it, I’m standing less than a block away from the Fálcon.

That was a close one, I tell myself. Surely the only thing worse than returning to work would be facing that hotel again. Especially since the Fálcon and I have some history anyway. To put it mildly.

So why aren’t my feet moving?

All I have to do is turn around and head up and over to Fifth Avenue. Easy as pumpkin pie.

And yet I don’t. It’s as if that powerful undertow has taken hold of me again, fighting my urge to walk away.

What, are you nuts, Kristin?

No, I’m not. I’m one of the sanest people I know. That’s what makes all of this so strange.

Inexplicably, I feel drawn to the Fálcon and what happened there this morning.

What did happen there?

I don’t know, do I? Not really.

I need to watch the news. I need to develop the pictures too. But first I need to do something else.

Walk away.

Quickly, I do just that.

See? I’m back in control.

Chapter 11

I RUSH THROUGH the door of my apartment at a few minutes after five that night.

I should be exhausted. Penley had me polish every piece of silverware for sixteen place settings, including not one, not two, but three different-sized salad forks. Three, for crying out loud!

And as she occasionally peered over my shoulder to make sure I didn’t miss a spot, I fantasized about stabbing her with all of them.

On the bright side—always on the bright side—were Dakota and Sean. After I picked up my little sweethearts from school in the afternoon, we walked to Central Park and played tag and “nanny in the middle” in the Sheep Meadow for over an hour.

Like I said, I should be exhausted.

But I’m not. I’m too anxious to be tired, too tense. I’m dying to find out what happened at the Fálcon Hotel this morning. I need to have this strange mystery solved.

I put down my bag, kick off my flats, and grab a Vitamin Water from the fridge—the peach-mango flavor, a personal favorite. Then I head straight for the TV and the start of the first “Live at Five” news program I can find.

“Good afternoon, here’s what’s happening...,” begins the perfectly coiffed male anchor. Seriously, it looks as if he’s wearing a hair helmet.

He and his female cohort take turns reading “the top stories of the day.” A water main break in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn. Yet another fatal stabbing in Queens. A taxi that jumped the curb down on Wall Street and collided with the cart of one very angry hot-dog vendor.

But nothing about the Fálcon.

How could that be?

If a runaway cab taking out a bunch of hot dogs is considered newsworthy, certainly the death of four people at a hotel in Midtown is as well.

Or is it already old news? Maybe what I saw this morning was the lead story for the noontime broadcast and now they’ve moved on to other tales of woe. It is a big city, after all. Plenty of mayhem and misery to go around.

I flip the channel.

Another anchor duo appears, but it’s the same result, nothing about any “tragedy” at the Fálcon. Maybe they had it as one of their top stories and I missed it.

Or maybe I just imagined the whole thing. This is getting really creepy.

The dream was a real dream, but what I saw on the way to work was a figment of my imagination? A physical manifestation of my emotional distress, as my ex-shrink, Dr. Corey, might say. Yeah, and in my spare time I’m Gwyneth Paltrow!

I know what I saw and I know it happened on my way to work this morning. I was there! And should there be any doubt, I know just one thing to do.

I get up from the TV and head over to my shoulder bag. Reaching in, I grab my camera and the rolls of film I shot this morning.

It’s time to hit the darkroom.

PART 3

Chapter 12

I THINK OF IT as my home away from home—never mind that it happens to be inside my apartment. A converted walk-in closet, to be exact. Basically a shoe box.

I step in, close the door behind me, and take a long, deep, stress-releasing breath. Hello, darkness, my old friend.

After the creepy day I’ve had, it’s strange that a narrow, claustrophobic room with black corkboard walls, no windows, and a mere seven watts of light makes me feel at peace.

But that’s why I built this thing in the first place.

My darkroom.

My safe house.

Beyond the joy I derive from developing my own pictures—Call me old-fashioned; no, call me a purist—there’s that wonderful feeling in the darkroom of being able to shut out the rest of the world and all the problems that go with it. Problems—outside! Out!

Inside here, it’s strictly my photography and me.