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I can still see the red light flashing on my answering machine. It might be Michael, and maybe, maybe he’s okay now, back to normal.

Of course, it could also be Delmonico, calling from where, exactly? Do they have phones there, wherever dead people hang out these days?

I approach the infernal message machine and I’m starting to shake like a leaf. How insane is that? Given what’s happened to me? Not so crazy.

I stab the button on the machine.

I get myself ready to listen to whomever, about whatever.

I hear a voice I don’t know — a woman’s voice. Who’s this?

“Kristin . . . this is Leigh Abbott. I own the Abbott Show on Hudson Street, and I’m calling to tell you that we all love your stuff. Love it! Please give me a call at 212-555-6501. I would like to put your astounding work in the Abbott Show. Call me, Kristin: 212-555-6501. We are so impressed with your vision of New York.”

I press the button on the machine again.

Listen to Leigh Abbott again.

It’s the best news I’ve gotten since I moved to New York City. Absolutely the best by far. My dream has come true.

So — why am I crying uncontrollably?

Chapter 93

THE SOUND OF MY OWN SCREAM jolts my head off the pillow, piercing the still air of my bedroom like a jet engine on takeoff. I rip back the sheet in a panic, the sweat dripping from my hair.

I’m burning up — almost literally.

The dream’s never been more real. It’s getting worse.

I feel sick to my stomach and barely make it to the bathroom. I throw up so violently, my neck muscles convulse, cramping into knots. I begin to gag, then choke. Collapsing to the floor, I can’t even call for help. This is it, I’m going to die — on a cheapo bath mat from Bed Bath & Beyond!

And the very last thing I’ll hear is the music now starting to blare in my head.

Somehow, though, I keep breathing. What saves me is my lack of appetite last night. The stomach’s barren; there’s nothing left to get caught in my throat. I’m dry heaving and it hurts like crazy, but at least I’m alive.

Any other morning I’d be crawling back into bed, calling in sick. Instead, I take a shower and quickly get dressed. I don’t have a choice. No free will at all. This is no time to be on the sidelines.

I try calling Michael at his office. The odds are he’s arrived by now, but his line rings and rings and rings. It’s too early for his secretary, Amanda. She doesn’t normally get to her desk until around eight-thirty.

So I head off to Fifth Avenue, knowing no more about Michael’s intentions than I did yesterday. Is he going to hurt somebody? Is he another Scott Peterson?

For the first time, I’m actually eager to see Penley. She needs to be okay. I certainly don’t want her murdered. My God, could it have happened already? Is that why Michael isn’t at work?

Chapter 94

“KRISTIN, IS THAT YOU?” I hear from down the hall as I step into the foyer of the Turnbulls’ apartment.

“Yes, it’s me.”

And that’s her. Phew. I instantly feel guilty about thinking the worst of Michael, putting him in the same company as a wife killer.

Penley turns the corner of the foyer and peers suspiciously at me. She’s dressed in her “workout” clothes.

There’s a moment as we eye each other, and it feels weird. So what else is new?

“Are you okay?” she asks. “You look a little pale, Kristin. You’re not coming down with something, are you?”

“I’m fine. A little tired, I guess.”

She gives me that “just us girls” smirk. “Late evening, huh?”

And a rough morning to boot. Of course, I’m not about to let on to anything, not with her. “No, it was pretty quiet,” I say.

“That reminds me. Maria said you called last night. Did you need to talk to me about something?”

Thanks, Maria!

I hesitate, thinking fast.

“Oh, that,” I say. “It was a false alarm. I thought I’d left my cell phone here.”

She seems to buy it, nodding anyway. This is some game we’re playing here, the Pencil and I.

“By the way, how was your dinner?” I ask.

“Pardon?” Point, Kristin.

“You and Mr. Turnbull.