You've Been Warned - James Patterson [54]
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 innocent bystander, right?”
“Yes.”
He laughs in my face. “Is that really what you think you are? Innocent? So virtuous that I have some nerve even talking to you?”
“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.”
I can’t talk, I’m terrified.
“You really think you’re hot shit, don’t you? A real independent woman,” he says. “Well, guess what? It’s only a matter of time before I take you down. Because you are involved with those four murders. That much I know.”
I open my mouth, fighting first for air, then words. “You’re . . . hurting . . . me,” I manage.
He shakes his head. “You don’t know the meaning of hurt. But you will.”
The back of one of his hands slowly drifts down from my neck and across my chest.
This is really happening.
What’s he going to do now? Take me in? Arrest me for murders I didn’t commit?
His hand stops just above my breast. It’s right over my heart, which is beating wildly.
“Do you feel that?” he says. He leans in, his eyes mere inches from mine. He doesn’t blink, not once. “When you think of me, you remember that fear.”
He pulls back, letting go of me. I start trembling as he walks to the door and turns around.
“I know where you live, Miss Burns,” he says. “And I know what you did at the Fálcon Hotel. Both times you were there.”
11
Chapter 74
IF THERE IS SUCH A THING as a very bad, very good thing, then that’s what I do the next day.
Penley is going to be gone all day at some fancy-schmancy kitchen tour out in South Hampton — so she says, anyway — so instead of taking the kids to school, I call there to say they have the flu, and then we play hooky.
I really feel that Dakota and Sean need this. Especially Dakota. And so do I.
First things first, we have a total pig-out breakfast at Sarabeth’s, our favorite restaurant in all of New York. Blueberry and chocolate-chip pancakes, with loads of syrup, for everybody. Then we head off to Central Park with only one purpose in mind: to get absolutely filthy dirty, to be real kids for a change, to have a blast.
For three hours, we run and jump and scream our brains out, play tag, play catch, play keep-away, and I don’t have a single crazy thought, don’t smell anything bad, don’t even see any dead people.
We end up at a little concrete playground with swings and slides, and Dakota and Sean are grimy dirty — which I love, and they love too. In fact, I’ve never seen such big smiles on either of their faces.
Of course, I have to take photographs of the kids. Dozens and dozens of beautiful shots. So cute, so picture-perfect.
And then — disaster strikes!
Sean catches his bright red Keds sneaker on the ladder at the top of the slide, and he literally goes head over heels. I watch and I can’t believe what I’m seeing as he tumbles way too fast, then hits the pavement with his face. I swear to God, with his forehead.
Ten minutes later, we’re at the emergency room at Lenox Hill, and amazingly, miraculously, Sean is totally okay and doesn’t even need a stitch. He even gets a lollipop, and so does Dakota.
It’s quiet in the cab from Lenox Hill going home, and then Dakota leans into me and puts her head on my shoulder. I wish I could take a picture of the two