You've Been Warned - James Patterson [2]
But it was so real.
The body bags . . . a woman’s hand coming out of one of them.
I turn to my alarm clock — a little before six a.m. Good, I can still get a few more minutes of sleep. But the moment I close my eyes, they pop right open again.
I hear something, a pounding, and it’s not just my stressed-out heart. Someone’s at the door.
Throwing on the same blue terry cloth robe I’ve had since my Boston College days, I trudge across my tiny apartment, which is decorated with the very finest furnishings from the Crate & Barrel factory-reject sale. So what if my couch has only three legs and belongs in a Farrelly brothers movie?
The pounding gets louder. More urgent and annoying.
All right already, hold your horses!
Approaching the door, I don’t call out and ask who it is. That’s what peepholes are for, especially in Manhattan.
Quietly, I lean forward and squint to look with a tired eye.
Shit.
Her.
I open the door. Glaring at me through a pair of drugstore bifocals is my nosy old neighbor from down the hall, Mrs. Rosencrantz. She’s clearly ticked off about something, and that makes two of us.
“Do you realize what time it is?” I grumble.
“Do you realize what time it is?” she shoots back. “Once and for all, you’ve got to stop this psychotic screaming every morning.”
I look at Mrs. Rosencrantz — all four feet ten of her — as if she’s the one who’s psychotic. I may have been crying, but I certainly wasn’t screaming.
“You know, if you really want to hassle someone about noise, Mrs. Rosencrantz, you should find out who’s playing that music at six a.m.”
She gives me a sideways look. “What music?”
“C’mon, you don’t hear that? It’s coming from . . .” I step into the hallway, turning my head left and right.
Wait — where exactly is it coming from?
Mrs. Rosencrantz shakes her head and huffs. “I don’t hear any music, Ms. Burns. And if you’re trying to be a little smart-ass with me, I’m telling you right now I don’t appreciate it.”
“Mrs. Rosencrantz, I’m not trying to —”
She cuts me off. “Don’t think I can’t get you evicted, because I can.”
I frown at the old bat, who happens to look even more unpleasant and haggard than usual, if that’s possible. You want smart-ass, lady? I’ll give you smart-ass!
“Mrs. Rosencrantz, I’m going back to bed now . . . and if you don’t mind my saying so, you could use a little more beauty sleep yourself.”
With that, I promptly close the door on her stunned, sourpuss face.
I’m about to turn and make a beeline for my bed, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror by the coat closet. Whoa! I’m sporting some serious raccoon eyes and a pretty spectacular case of bedhead. Omigod, I look almost as bad as Mrs. Rosencrantz!
Supposedly, I have this killer wink that everybody loves. I wink at myself in the mirror. It doesn’t help. I wink at myself again. Nope, nothing.
I laugh out loud, and for a moment, I forget about the horrible dream and my neighbor from hell.
But only for a moment.
Because I still can’t figure out the music and where it’s coming from.
Walking around my apartment like Elmer Fudd hunting rabbits, I press my ear against the walls. Feeling totally ridiculous, I drop to my knees and try listening through the floorboards.
Only after grabbing a chair to climb closer to the ceiling do I realize what’s going on. The music isn’t coming from anywhere.
The music is inside my head.
Chapter 3
THIS IS NOT GOOD!
I stand perfectly still in my living room and try to listen . . . between my ears. The music is faint, but it’s definitely there. How bizarre is this? How scary? What a weird, weird morning this has been, and I’ve barely been out of bed five minutes.
I close my eyes. It’s a song, and it sounds familiar. I’ve definitely heard it before. For the life of me, though, I can’t put my finger on it.
Just keep quiet and keep listening, I tell myself.
But in the next second, I can do neither, as the silence in my apartment is upended by the phone ringing. It