He pulls out a narrow rectangular case – red leather with a white bow.
I can feel the smile breaking out on my face. “Oh, you’re scoring some huge points tonight, Turnbull!”
“I do play to win, don’t I?” He places it in my hand. “And no, it’s not a pen.”
It certainly isn’t.
Slowly, I open the elegant case, the hinges providing just enough tantalizing resistance.
Then I stare in disbelief.
It’s a bracelet. A diamond-and-sapphire bracelet! The sparkle is so bright my hands are glowing.
“It’s so beautiful!” I gush.
“Just like you,” says Michael. “Here, put it on. No, let me do it for you.”
He gently snaps it around my wrist, and I can’t take my eyes off it. Partly because I love it, but mostly because it’s from him.
“So, do you like it?” he asks. Then his voice becomes low and soft. “I’m always afraid when I pick out things for you. I want you to be happy.”
“I love it! I love you! ”
“Good answer.”
I kiss and hug him, squeezing tight. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
“Let me see that wink of yours,” Michael says.
So of course I wink, my killer wink.
“Just promise me one thing,” he says with a grin.
“What’s that?”
“Don’t wear it to work.”
Chapter 18
I KEEP STARING at my stunning, unbelievably beautiful bracelet as Vincent drives me home.
Four diamonds… two sapphires… four diamonds… two sapphires… all the way around my wrist. A perfect circle.
Well done, Michael!
It’s almost enough to make me forget why I came rushing down to see him in the first place. Not quite, but almost. I’m certainly glad I did, though. Already, my awful day seems like a long time ago. That’s a very good thing.
The limo eases to a stop at a red light, and Vincent asks me if the temperature is okay “back dere.”
I glance up at the nape of his thick neck, where a jagged scar protrudes from beneath his shirt collar. “It’s fine,” I answer. “No, it’s perfect. Thank you for asking, Vincent.”
He’s driven me home a handful of times, and we’ve yet to have what could be considered an actual conversation, though he’s always very nice to me. It’s funny how big guys like him are never much for small talk.
Then again, it could also be due to my feeling a bit awkward around him. I mean, he knows what’s going on. In a way, he’s a conspirator.
Michael says he trusts “the big guy” more than anyone, and by all indications, he has every reason to. Vincent has been his driver for over nine years. Not only does he predate me, he predates Penley.
Still, it makes me a little uncomfortable that he knows about us, that anybody does.
We ride the remaining blocks in silence, and my eyes take turns between the bracelet and the view out my window. The glistening lights, the people, the buildings – the city can be so hypnotic at night.
“Here we are, Ms. Burns.”
As he always does, Vincent steps out and opens the door for me in front of my building. I take his arm at the biceps and he guides me to the curb.
“Thank you,” I say.
“You’re welcome.”
Closing the door behind me, Vincent is about to climb back into the limo. I feel as if I need to say something, though I’m not sure what. Anything, I suppose, to ease the awkwardness. It’s about time we said something beyond general niceties.
“Can I ask you a question, Vincent?”
He turns to me. “Yes, Ms. Burns?”
I sputter for a moment. Then some words come. “Do you like your job?”
“Yes, very much so,” he says. “Mr. Turnbull is a good boss.”
“I’m sure he is. I know he trusts you a great deal.”
He nods.
“You’re pretty loyal to him, aren’t you?” I ask.
Vincent pauses for a second. He’s probably not sure where this is going, and to be honest, neither am I.
“Extremely loyal,” he answers.
“That’s important.”
“Yes, it is, Ms. Burns.” He folds his arms. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him.”
“Good answer,” I say.
4
Chapter 19
I JOLT UP from MY BED midscream, but I’m holding it inside because I don’t want to explain myself to Mrs. Rosencrantz again. I’m soaking in sweat as tears race down my cheeks, the images still burning in my mind.
From the dream… which feels so incredibly real.
I’ve had it again, the exact same one. I don’t believe this!
It’s the next morning, but that’s all that’s changed. I even hear the music, that same song playing in my head. A familiar tune, though I still can’t put a name to it.
And the smell of something burning is present too. Just like at the Fálcon. What is that smell?
Swinging both feet out of bed, I take a second to wipe my eyes dry. I feel miserable and drained. Not even the sight of my beautiful new bracelet curled up on the nightstand can raise my spirits.
It isn’t as if I’ve never had a recurring dream before. I’ve had plenty – only they’re the ones you read and hear about, the anxiety dreams apparently everyone shares, like being naked in public or showing up unprepared for the big college exam.
This one is different.
This dream seems to be all mine, nobody else’s. The Fálcon Hotel. Why there of all places? Four dead people. Who were they and how did they die?
I check my alarm clock. Like yesterday, it’s a few minutes before six. I can sleep a little more if I want to. Yeah, right. As if I really want to invite the dream to come back.
Dragging myself to the bathroom, I immediately make the mistake of looking in the mirror. Ouch. This could be worse than yesterday. Staring back at me could easily be the “before” picture of a face-lift.
Hey, at least I’ve got hot water today.
With the shower on full blast, I crank my Wet Tunes, the hope being that I can drown out one song in my head with another. Better yet, maybe they’ll play the same song, so I can hear the lyrics and figure out what it is.
Somehow, I don’t imagine myself being that lucky.
The shower does feel good, though, so I stay in there for a while. As the water cascades over my head, I begin to relax. I’ve got the radio tuned to WFUV, the college radio station out of Fordham, and they’re playing “Alison” by Elvis Costello, one of my favorites.
Before I know it – and just as I hoped – it’s the only thing I hear between my ears.
That is, until the song ends and some guy comes on reading the news.
I whip back my head from the shower spray. I could swear he said something about a tragedy at the Fálcon Hotel.
But that’s not what has me shaking like a leaf as I try to towel myself dry.
The radio newsman didn’t say it happened yesterday.
He said it happened this morning.
Thirty minutes later, Michael hasn’t called, but I’m heading out the door of my place. I turn my key to double-lock it. And -
“Ms. Burns? Ms. Burns?”
Not again. It’s way too early to face the Wicked Witch on Nine. I turn – and it’s even worse than I thought. Mrs. Rosencrantz has brought a bald old man, who towers over her despite his being no more than five-foot-five, six tops.
“You were screaming and screaming,” she practically screams in my face. “You woke up my Herbert. He heard it. Ask him, Ms. Burns.”
I don’t ask Herbert. I scurry away. I don’t even use the elevator; I take the stairs. Hurry!
Chapter 20
EVEN BY MANHATTAN STANDARDS, I’m walking incredibly fast a few minutes later. People are parting for me left and right. I’m a sidewalk Moses.
Next stop, the Fálcon Hotel. Probably the last place in the universe I want to visit. But I have to go there.