You’ve Been Warned

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.

This is happening too fast – and too late – I think. It’s near midnight. What is this guy doing in my apartment?

“I told you I’d answer any questions, but does it have to be now?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t think you’ve been leveling with me,” he says. “And I’ve got a problem with that.”

In light of his tone, that’s the understatement of the year.

Be careful, Kris. “All right, how can I help you? I don’t know anything about those murders,” I blurt out.

“The morning I first saw you outside the Fálcon Hotel, why were you taking so many pictures?” he asks, basically ignoring what I just said to him.

“I’m into photography.”

“Is it your profession?”

“Hopefully, one day. I’m up for an important gallery showing. I have an agent. You could talk to her if you want. Maybe tomorrow. ”

He peers over my shoulder. “Is that your darkroom?”

“Yes.”

“Mind if I take a look?” Delmonico says, and he takes a step forward.

I shift my feet to block the way. “Actually, I do.”

He smirks. “Are you hiding something from me? Maybe the pictures you took at the hotel? Or is it something else you don’t want me to see?”

“No. My photographs are personal, that’s all.”

“Duly noted,” he says.

Then Delmonico pushes past me.

Right into my darkroom.

Chapter 73

“HEY, WHAT ARE YOU DOING? How dare you!”

Delmonico stops in the middle of my darkroom, staring left and right. My pictures are everywhere. They’re like wallpaper. He seems either impressed or overwhelmed by what he sees. “My, my, my,” he mutters. “Such a busy, busy girl.”

“I didn’t give you permission to be in here!” I snap.

He turns to me, his dark eyes boring into my head. “If you’d like, I can come back with a search warrant and turn this entire apartment upside down. Do you want that? Or I could forget about the search warrant and toss your place anyway. You know that good cop-bad cop routine? I’m the bad cop, Kristin.”

“You’re saying I’m a murder suspect?”

“What I’m saying is that you’re not cooperating with a murder investigation.”

“You can’t be serious.”

He takes a step toward me. He’s nearly twice my size. “In case you conveniently forgot, Ms. Burns, people died that morning. Four of them.”

“I know that. I was there.”

“And you were acting rather strange, as I recall.”

“I was upset.” I still am, buster!

“Yet you said you didn’t know any of them.”

“I was upset. I told you that. They were sitting out there on the sidewalk,dead. ”

“But you thought one of them was still alive. That’s what you told me, anyway.”

“No, what I thought was… I mean, yes, but I didn’t actually… uh…”

The more I hesitate, the harder the detective looks at me. I know I’m not making total sense. Worse, I’m digging a deep hole for myself.

“Which is it?” he asks. “Did you or did you not see a dead person come back to life?”

“This is ridiculous. You know I had nothing to do with those murders.”

“You’re just an i

“Yes.”

He laughs in my face. “Is that really what you think you are? I

“I don’t know what you’re implying, but I don’t like it. I’m done answering your questions. You can leave.”

Delmonico nods, tucking his notepad and pen back into his pocket.

Thank God! He’s going.

No.

He’s just freeing up his hands.

In a blur, he grabs my shoulders, slamming me against the wall. I hit hard, and pictures go flying, the pain shooting up my spine. I can’t believe he just did that.

“Listen to me! Listen to the bad cop!” he says, breathing fire. “You’re not done with anything until I say you are. You’re wondering whether you’re a murder suspect? Yes, you’re a murder suspect, Miss Burns. For starters.”