You've Been Warned by James Patterson Page B

I’ve stopped dancing.
    He’s getting closer, and maybe because of what’s happened lately, my skin is starting to crawl.
    “Beth! Connie!” I say again.
    But the music’s too loud.
    A strobe light kicks in, hurting my eyes. It’s like a million flashbulbs going off, one after the other. I can’t see him anymore, and that makes it worse because I know he’s there. And getting closer.
    There he is!
    A dozen feet away.
    What does he want?
    He’s stopped in the middle of the dance floor. It seems as if everybody in the club is moving except for the two of us.
    His blank stare is gone. In its place, a slight smile. I get the feeling he knows me, or at least knows who I am. This isn’t a chance encounter, is it? Could he be a detective? Maybe he works with the older, skinny guy? That makes some sense to me, as much as anything does lately.
    He comes up to me and stands maybe,
oh, I don’t know,
two feet away.
    “You were watching me,” I say. “You were staring.”
    “You caught me. You’re very pretty, y’know. You must know that?”
    I do — kind of. Usually I dress down, but not tonight. Maybe because I feel safe with my girls around.
    I start to say something, but he raises his hand and cuts me off. Like he’s used to being in control.
    “Listen. You seem like a nice person. You ought to really watch yourself. Be careful, huh?” He leans in real close. Too close. “I’m not kidding around. You’ve been warned.”

Chapter 28
    NOT AGAIN.
    Please, not again.
    I awake the next morning to everything repeating itself. Well, actually, that’s not accurate.
    This time I open my eyes to total darkness. Not the darkness of a room in the middle of the night. Like — nothingness. Blackness.
    With a sound track — that unidentified song playing in my head.
    Then comes
picture
— the dream — the four gurneys, the hand emerging from that body bag . . . and I’m jolting up in bed, screaming, sweating, trembling.
    I hear a loud banging, only it’s not at my door.
    This time it’s coming from my ceiling, or rather, from the apartment above me. Apparently it’s not only Mrs. and Mr. Herbert Rosencrantz I’m waking up at the crack of dawn.
    “Sorry!” I shout out. I truly am.
    Double sorry because it’s Saturday.
    I hope my upstairs neighbor will be able to get back to sleep. As for me, I know I can’t. Or won’t. As exhausted as I am from being out last night with Connie and Beth, I’m not about to close my eyes again. It doesn’t matter that I’ve got the weekend off. My dream — this nightmare — doesn’t.
    Besides, how could I sleep with this music in my head?
    It’s still there — the mystery song. Worse, I think it’s getting louder.
    Or is that just my head throbbing? Yesterday was Michael’s turn to have the hangover; today it’s mine.
    Slowly, I will myself out of bed and into the bathroom, where I shake a couple of aspirin into my hand, washing them down with some New York tap.
    Then it’s straight to the kitchen to make some coffee.
    I’m not much of a java junkie and usually only drink the stuff for “medicinal purposes.”
Like now.
A while back, though, Michael turned me on to Kona coffee from Hawaii, and I’ve been loving it. I get it over at Oren’s Daily Roast on 58th Street.
    Michael’s particular about his coffee but not really in a snobbish way. The only reason he doesn’t like Starbucks, he says, is due to the “laptop losers” who treat the place like their own personal office and hog all the seating. One morning I saw him go a little nuclear on a guy who was using two chairs for just his knapsack.
    Sipping a cup of Kona in my kitchen, I try to get a handle on the growing weirdness of the past few days. Is that even the right word for it, I wonder?
Weirdness?
    Maybe there’s more to this than I realize. Or maybe it’s the opposite, and I’m overreacting.
    Or maybe I’m simply thinking about it too much. It’s not as if I have a solution to make it stop.
    I’m