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Penley.

That and what she likes to call “light housekeeping,” or sometimes “chores.”

While the kids are at school, Penley keeps me busy with . . . well . . . busywork. Let’s just say the woman is extremely anal-retentive. Last week, while having me organize the pantry, she insisted I arrange the cans of soup in alphabetical order.

As for the “heavy housekeeping” — changing the bed linens, washing and ironing, cleaning the bathrooms, et cetera — that’s taken care of by Maria, the twice-a-week maid. I think she’s great. Originally from Morelia, Mexico, she’s an incredibly hard worker and boasts a wonderful smile. As for how she manages to put up with Penley and her biting tongue, I can only attribute it to Maria’s very limited grasp of the English language.

I, on the other hand, can understand perfectly all the ridiculously demeaning things that Penley says to me on a daily basis.

So rushing back to that penthouse apartment after dropping off Dakota and Sean holds little appeal. I prefer to take my time, today being no exception. Since I haven’t been able to make any sense of what happened, or seemed to happen, earlier, I’m trying to keep my thoughts on anything but.

I stroll south on Madison Avenue. The sunlight is perfect, and the urge to snap some pictures returns. I reach for my camera and automatically I’m excited.

As I take off the lens cap, I can’t help thinking about Michael. When he’s not trying to put me into a nicer apartment, he’s offering to jump-start my career by financing my own gallery or getting me a prestige magazine shoot.

But I won’t let him do that. None of it.

It’s important to me that I do this on my own, even if that means barely scraping by, living paycheck to paycheck. I’m not a complete fool, mind you — Michael is allowed to take me out, buy me dinners and other fun stuff — but I never want to feel as if I’m beholden to him. And deep down, though he’ll never admit it, I think he doesn’t want me to feel that way either. That’s another reason I love him. I do. I do.

I keep looking for more great shots to build my portfolio, clicking away when I’m lucky enough to see them. And today — yeah! — I’m seeing them.

A little farther down Madison, I spot a man in a skullcap, washing the front window of a restaurant, his disgruntled reflection crystal clear in the wake of his squeegee.

It creates a fantastic double image of working-class angst, and I shoot it from a couple of angles, commiserating with the guy.

Then I pass a woman smoking a cigarette outside a Coach leather store. She’s undoubtedly a sales clerk on break, the hunched posture and faraway gaze providing more than enough proof. I take two shots, one of her and one of her shadow.

I smile behind my lens. This is really good stuff!

So good in fact that I lose track of how far I’ve walked.

Before I know it, I’m standing less than a block away from the Fálcon.

That was a close one, I tell myself. Surely the only thing worse than returning to work would be facing that hotel again. Especially since the Fálcon and I have some history anyway. To put it mildly.

So why aren’t my feet moving?

All I have to do is turn around and head up and over to Fifth Avenue. Easy as pumpkin pie.

And yet I don’t. It’s as if that powerful undertow has taken hold of me again, fighting my urge to walk away.

What, are you nuts, Kristin?

No, I’m not. I’m one of the sanest people I know. That’s what makes all of this so strange.

Inexplicably, I feel drawn to the Fálcon and what happened there this morning.

What did happen there?

I don’t know, do I? Not really.

I need to watch the news. I need to develop the pictures too. But first I need to do something else.

Walk away.

Quickly, I do just that.

See? I’m back in control.

Chapter 11

I RUSH THROUGH the door of my apartment at a few minutes after five that night.

I should be exhausted. Penley had me polish every piece of silverware for sixteen place settings, including not one, not