JК
Ыоуве Been Warned :: Patterson James
Страница: 9 из 138Not another word!
I complete the sentence in my head and suddenly, embarrassingly, I realize how crazy it all sounds. I sneak a quick peek at that last body bag, which still hasn’t moved. I want to tell this guy about the dream; I want to make him believe me.
So of course I can’t tell him about the dream.
“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.
I complete the sentence in my head and suddenly, embarrassingly, I realize how crazy it all sounds. I sneak a quick peek at that last body bag, which still hasn’t moved. I want to tell this guy about the dream; I want to make him believe me.
So of course I can’t tell him about the dream.
“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.