Ыоуве Been Warned   ::   Patterson James

“I’m sorry,” I say meekly, starting to put away my camera. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess I just got scared.”

“Four murders,” he says. “That’s scary, all right.”

I can feel the detective’s eyes on me as I fumble with the lens cap for my camera, but I don’t look at him. And as I turn to slink away as quickly as possible, I don’t say another word. No good-bye, no apology, no nothing. Way to go, Kristin. You’ve just made a complete fool of yourself.

It’s been a morning to remember.

Four dead bodies.

Déjà dead?

Whatever.



2

Chapter 7



THE RASH, whatever it was, is gone now. So is that awful burning smell. Why was that different than in my dream?

Thankfully, I’m not very good at running and dwelling, otherwise I’d be obsessing about what did or didn’t just happen as I race up to the Turnbulls’ building on Fifth Avenue across from Central Park.

For now, what I force myself to think about is that I’m late for work and how that’s a major no-no with the boss, something Louis, the morning doorman for the building, is all too pleased to point out as I blow by him.

“Uh-oh,” he says, slowly shaking his nearly bald head. “Somebody’s in trouble. Never let ’em see you sweat, Miss Kristin.”

“Good morning to you too, Louis,” I say over my shoulder.

“Overslept, huh?”

If only.

I hop on the elevator and press PH for the penthouse, the top, the ritz.

Eighteen stories later, I step out onto the black-and-white-checked marble of the foyer that separates the only two apartments on the floor. My rushed footsteps echo as I steer left to the Turnbull residence with key in hand.

Please let her be in a good mood.

Fat chance.

Opening the door, I see Penley’s rail-thin frame standing before me. It doesn’t matter how much Restylane she’s got spackling her frown lines, I can tell she’s pissed.

“You’re late,” she announces, her voice detached and chilly.

“I know, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t work for me, Kristin.” She picks a piece of lint from her designer workout clothes. Nearly every morning, she heads to the gym after I arrive. “You know I have to be able to rely on you,” she says.

“Yes, I know.”

“From where I’m standing, I’m not so sure you do. In fact, I’m pretty sure that you don’t.”

I look at Penley “the Pencil” Turnbull and want to scream so loud it will break crystal, and there’s plenty of it in earshot. Her patronizing tone, the way she refuses to yell at me because that would be sooo middle-class, it drives me absolutely bonkers.

Penley folds her arms. It’s her Mommie Dearest pose. Actually, her Step mommie Dearest pose. “So, can I still rely on you, Kristin?”

“Yes, of course you can.”

“Good. I’m glad we’ve had this little talk.”

She begins to walk away, then stops, very nearly pirouettes. Almost as an afterthought, she updates me on the kids, of whom she isn’t the natural mother. Their real mother died in a shooting accident the year Sean was born. “Dakota and Sean are both in the kitchen, finishing their breakfast. Oh, and be sure to double-check that they have everything for school. I don’t want to get another note home saying they forgot something. It’s embarrassing. ”

Yes, Your Highness.

I watch Penley glide down the hallway to her bedroom before I start for the kitchen. I only get a few steps when the phone rings. I pick it up in the study.

“Hello, Turnbull residence.”

“Is the boss in the room?”

It’s Michael.

I lower my voice. “No. You just missed the mistress.”

“Were you late?”

“Yes.”

“Was she a bitch to you?”

“You have to ask?”

“I guess you’ve got a point there,” he says. “So, how are you, anyway?”

“Michael…”

“What?”

“What did I tell you about calling me here?”

“Who says I called for you?”

“Yeah, right, like you actually want to speak with Penley.”

“What, a guy can’t talk to his wife?”

“You know what I mean; it’s risky.”

“I keep telling you, Penley doesn’t believe in answering the phone. That’s what she has you for.”

Right then, I hear a voice behind me. Her voice. “Who is that, Kristin?” asks Penley.

I nearly swallow my stomach.

“Oh, gosh, you startled me,” I say, breathless.

She couldn’t care less. “I asked who you were talking to.”

“No one,” I answer.

“It’s obviously someone. ” She gives me a disapproving glare. “That’s not a personal call, is it? Because you know how I feel about those when you’re supposed to be working.”

“No, it’s not a personal call,” I assure her. Unless, of course, you count your husband.

“Then who is it?”

I think fast. “It’s some guy from Lincoln Center. He wants to know if you’d be interested in attending an opera series they’re doing.”

Penley cocks her head and shoots me a suspicious look.

So I gamble.

“Here,” I say, offering her the phone. “You can talk to him if you want.”

Penley – a devout macrobiotic dieter – looks at the phone as if it’s a Twinkie. No, worse – a fried Twinkie. She wants nothing to do with any “salesman type,” even one from Lincoln Center.

She sniffs. “I thought we were on that do-not-call list.”

“You know, you’re right,” I say, relishing the thought of repeating this to Michael. He’s undoubtedly been listening the entire time. “We are on that do-not-call list,” I say into the phone.

Sure enough, as I hang up I can hear him laughing hysterically.

Michael Turnbull, my almost perfect man, loves to live on the edge. And he loves it even more when I join him there.



Chapter 8



I LOVE DAKOTA AND SEAN. Who wouldn’t? That’s the message lettered on T-shirts I gave the Turnbull kids last Christmas. It also happens to be absolutely true. I feel sorry for the kids because their stepmother is such an uncaring bitch toward them.

As we ride the elevator down to the lobby, Sean stares up at me with his big blue curious eyes. At age five, everything – and I mean everything – is a question for this darling little boy.

“Miss Kristin, how old are you?” he asks.

His sister, Dakota, seven going on seventeen, immediately chimes in. “You’re not supposed to ask a woman how old she is, dummy!”

“That’s okay, sweetheart. Sean can ask me anything.” I flash him a reassuring smile. “I’m twenty-six.”

He blinks his baby blues a few times as if mulling it over. “That’s really old, isn’t it?”

Dakota slaps her forehead. “Oh, brother! And I mean brother.