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But he isn’t.

Taking a giant step back, I breathe in deep and try to think. Dead or alive, real or imagined, what does Detective Frank Delmonico have to do with me? I’d never heard of him before, never seen him until that first time at the Fálcon. What does it mean that he wasn’t there when the four bodies were carried out but afterward he was Frankie-on-the-spot, investigating me? That’s something, but what does it mean?

Just then, I feel a pair of eyes on me and I nearly jump out of my skin.

Chapter 90

I TURN TO SEE my father staring down coldly from behind his thick glasses.

Next to the picture of him is the one of Dr. Magnumsen. They certainly have a connection with Delmonico. They’re dead. At least they’re supposed to be.

I study the image of my father on the streets of New York, his body such a startling contradiction: the square jaw versus the hunched shoulders; a strong man beaten down by an unfair world. My dad was a gifted carpenter, a volunteer fireman. Once, he rescued a little boy from a flooded ravine by tying a loop in his belt and hanging upside down from a bridge.

But being the town hero didn’t pay well, and when his carpentry jobs started to dry up during the recession of the eighties, money in our house got tight. Ironic, really. He helped to build so many homes but ultimately couldn’t afford to keep his own.

Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad had my mother been a little more understanding. She wasn’t, though. I remember the night at the dinner table when she called him a failure in life, right to his face.

That’s about when the drinking got out of control. But never in front of me. Never. I was his princess, his girl. No matter how bad things got, he always had a hug and a smile for me.

Right up until the end. Less than an hour before Dad shot himself in our dilapidated backyard shed, he held me in his arms and squeezed me tight. “It’s going to be all right,” he whispered in my ear.

I never forgave him for that lie. I know that I should’ve felt sorry for him, but I was too busy feeling sorry for myself.

Now, after all these years, he shows up somehow on a street corner in Manhattan. If only he hadn’t run away that morning. I’d have given him the biggest hug and kiss, and whispered softly in his ear, “It’s okay, Dad. I understand.”

Chapter 91

I’M CRYING IN MY DARKROOM, the tears falling faster than I can wipe them away. I miss my dad. I miss a lot of things right now, but most of all my own sanity.

Could I be more of a mess?

It’s late, and I’ve given up on trying to reach Michael tonight. I’m exhausted and should get some sleep.

But knowing that the dream — and God knows what else — awaits me in the morning, I instead reach for the shots I snapped of Penley and Stephen in front of the hotel.

Talk about a great Exhibit A.

In fact, it’s enough to swing my mood. As I look at the first shot, I can’t help relishing the thought of Michael going for the jugular in divorce court. I’m so giddy — or is it punchy? — I actually start singing, “Penley and Stephen in NYC, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”

But the feeling is short-lived.

I stare at Stephen’s transparent image — the exact same ghosting effect — and I surrender all faith in myself and in the real world as I experienced it before the last few days. I know I stood outside the Fálcon and watched those gurneys get wheeled to the curb, but I also know a pattern when I see one.

First Penley.

Then Michael.

Now Stephen.

One by one, the body bags are being accounted for, and I don’t have to be Einstein to do the math.

There’s one left.

Chapter 92

I COME OUT OF THE DARKROOM and notice there’s a message on my answering machine — just one — and I’m afraid to listen to it. No, I’m petrified to press the button and hear what somebody has to tell me.

What now?

Who could this be? Another call from Kristin Burns?

I get a cold bottle of water in the kitchen and gulp it right down. How did I get myself into this mess? How do I get out?

There has to be a way, but I can’t imagine what it might