You've Been Warned--Again

by James Patterson

  “Well, look who it is, the prodigal daughter!” my older sister, Stella, says. Her voice seems to boom from the rafters. Then I spot her gliding down the main staircase like a runway model, her grand entrance.

  She’s visiting from Hollywood, wearing the classic celebrity-in-hiding disguise—black yoga pants, Ugg boots, and pink off-the-shoulder sweatshirt.

  Not that she’s ever been stalked by the paparazzi. She’s appeared in exactly one Lifetime movie, three failed drama pilots, and a personal injury law firm commercial.

  “Prodigal? Prodigal how?” I ask her.

  “Uh, because nobody’s heard from you in forever?”

  “You know that’s not what prodigal means, right?”

  Mother moves toward the fire. The floorboards creak under her heels. “You girls…if Alan were here…” she muses.

  Oh, God. Two minutes.

  It took Mother two minutes to say the worst possible thing. The last of my optimism for this evening drops like an unhitched anchor into murky water. So much for the Rhode Island state motto of “hope.”

  “Don’t you dare!” Father bellows at her, leaping up from his seat.

  He snatches the Dorothy Parker bottle from Mother’s hands and hurls it into the fireplace. The bottle shatters and the fire flares up, casting angry orange light across his face.

  “Jesus, Pops,” Stella complains.

  “I hope you’re happy!” Mother screeches. Then she drapes herself across the sofa and throws a forearm over her eyes.

  The Drama Queen completes her scene, but I am struggling to hold it together. Today, I have to set myself apart from them, no matter what the cost. Otherwise I’m doomed.

  Chapter 3

  In the kitchen, my rage settles a little. But another feeling, a softer disquiet, takes its place. The humming fridge, the dripping faucet—everything seems to chant an evil spell.

  An alarming sulfurous smell comes from the stove, but there’s a turkey roasting in there, at least. I’m actually impressed Mother has managed to start a dinner without her personal chef.

  My eyes move to a closed-circuit television monitor mounted near the fridge. There’s movement on the screen. I recognize the scenery, a high angle on the driveway outside, just before the security gate.

  An elderly man in a long overcoat shuffles around in the snow, as if looking for something. He’s using a long, twisted branch as a kind of walking staff. I step toward the monitor for a closer look, blinking a few times to make sure I’m not just seeing things.

  Fat snowflakes drop past the lens, obscuring the view. But he seems to be peering through the bars toward the house—this house. Then, while I watch, he turns his glance upward, into the camera lens, at me.

  Startled, I shrink back. But I’m being paranoid. There’s no way he can see me, no possible way. Besides, he’s just a curious neighbor out on a walk, probably. Or a local farmer in search of his lost goat. There’s some explanation.

  Nate comes in, his hands pocketed, his shoulders raised in a shrug. I turn away from the monitor like I’ve been caught spying. I’m so mortified by my family’s behavior that I can’t even look at him.

  “I’m so, so sorry.”

  “You don’t have to apologize for them,” he says.

  “I warned you,” I said, busying myself with cranking open a can of cranberry sauce. On the CCTV monitor, the old man is gone, thank God. It’s beyond me why Father would even install security cameras way out in the boonies.

  As soon as Nate wraps his arms around me, my throat tightens up. I refuse to cry but it’s already happening, my eyes going damp and blurry. For years I’ve been searching for a path through my family’s tangled history. I’ve taken careful steps because I know real pain and suffering lies behind these cracks in their character. I’ve appealed to their common decency, but there’s only so many times a person can walk into the same trap knowingly.

  I don’t think I can do it anymore. After today, Nate and I can start the rest of our lives. It’ll be tough without my family’s fortune as a buffer, but we’ll be free of the emotional burdens, too. I want to be a teacher, anyway. A trust fund is nothing compared to the satisfaction of helping the kids who need it most.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t totally get…the extent of it,” Nate says.

  “Will you still marry me? You can back out if you want.”

  “Aw, come on, Joanie.”

  Nate moves to adjust the dial on a countertop radio. Only then do I realize it’s been spitting out static this whole time. He catches a distant channel broadcasting a weather update. Widespread emergency conditions. Area residents and visitors are advised to shelter in place.

  “That’s comforting,” I say. “Shelter.”

  Then the storm overcomes the radio signal again. Nate scans for some hint of music while I wiggle the cranberry sauce onto a china serving plate.

  Stella and Mother’s bickering drifts in from the other room. At least they’ve stopped screaming, for now. If I can just keep my distance, distract myself, ignore that overpowering sulfur smell…

  Just as I turn to the fridge with the china plate, I feel a tingle, like sweat is running between my shoulder blades. There’s somebody else in the room with us. Right behind me.

  I turn around to find my brother, Alan, by the doorway. He’s wearing the same black suit and tie he was wearing last time I saw him. His pants seams and his haircut are as crisp as always.

  The china plate I am carrying hits the floor. Cranberry sauce splatters all over the kitchen, like blood at a crime scene. I can barely keep my knees from buckling.

  Nate rushes for me. He grabs my shoulders, steadies me, repeats my name again and again, like waking me from a nightmare.

  That noxious burning stench. I can’t breathe.…

  “Joanie, what is it? What’s wrong?”

  “I’m sorry—I don’t—” I can’t explain to him what’s happening, except that this must be some new magnitude of panic attack—not just a physiological freak out, but full-blown hallucinations as well. I’ve psyched myself into this, and if I don’t find my inner balance, it’s going to get so much worse.

  Then the doorbell rings. It reverberates like church bells hidden in the walls. The sound of it knocks me out of my stupor. The space where my brother stood is empty now, just like it’s supposed to be. Just the way any sane person would see it.

  I am sane. I don’t see things that aren’t there. If I were crazy, I wouldn’t know the difference.

  “You expecting somebody else?” Nate asks.

  I shake my head. Nobody else should be here.

  Especially not my brother, because my brother is dead.

  Chapter 4

  When I open the front door, the rush of cold air makes me gasp. It’s either that, or the stranger standing on the doorstep.

  Because let’s be honest, he’s breathtaking. A strikingly Nordic face, with long blond hair, bangs swept across his forehead. He wears a double-breasted cashmere overcoat and brown suede gloves.

  “I’m so sorry to bother you.” His voice is like leather—smoky and soft.

  I can’t speak. It’s almost like he’s placed a gloved finger over my lips. And I’m still reeling from that freakishly vivid hallucination of my brother in the kitchen.

  Maybe I forgot to take my Prozac this morning. This happens when I miss a pill—amorphous shapes in the corner of my eye, phantom sounds. Childhood anxieties seeping up from some deep subconscious well. But never quite as high-definition as this.

  See, I know this is the guy I saw on the CCTV monitor a few minutes earlier. Except the one on camera was a decrepit old tramp. The man at our door is none of those things. The stark disparity makes me doubt my own senses—and when you can’t trust yourself, what can you possibly hold on to?

  “My car ran off the road, just nearby,” the stranger says.

  “Cripes, man, you all right?” Nate asks. He’s suddenly right beside me with his arm draped possessively over my shoulder.
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  The stranger dabs at a swollen scrape above his left eyebrow. “This? It’s nothing,” he says. He’s not carrying the walking staff I saw him with before. Or thought I did. I catch myself staring at him, but only because I’m determined to steady my vision on what’s really there.

  The rest of my family has finally noticed our guest. Stella has even set down her wineglass to pay us more attention.

  “If I could just get warm for a minute? Use your phone?”

  “Hold it,” Father says, his bald head reddening. “How did you get through the security gate?”

  The stranger sweeps his hand like a carnival barker toward the gate in the distance. It’s standing wide open. Another wave of discomfort washes over me. I know I saw that gate slide shut. I’m sure it was closed in the camera feed, too. As sure as I can be of anything right now.

  “Damn it, Trish, you’re fired,” Father grumbles, like his assistant is still around. He plucks a remote fob off a wall-mounted peg rack by the door. The display key for his BMW 7-series is also hanging there, I notice.

  Father aims the fob at the stranger. Behind him, the snow falls thick as mist, but I can still see the gate quietly shutting.

  Inside my chest, something else locks shut. It’s an awful feeling, a premonition I can’t explain, a sure sense that we’ve passed another point of no return. After my overheated mind called up a false vision of my brother, everything else feels hallucinatory, too. Even the people I know to be real—their voices seem to be reaching me from down a long corridor.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you on a holiday like this.…” A frigid wind gust snaps the stranger’s coat collar upright. The chill slaps me raw in the face.

  “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry. Please come in!” I say.

  The stranger just about leaps over the threshold, clapping his gloved hands together. He whoops like he’s just won the grand prize on a game show. It’s abrupt, disconcerting. Not at all what you’d expect from someone who just crashed his car.

  “You’re all saints,” he says. “You won’t regret this.”

  All of us step back in unison, even though the stranger hasn’t threatened us in any way.

  “Anyone mind if I crawl into that fireplace for a while?” the stranger asks. His laughter resounds in the room for far too long.

  Grudgingly, Father leads him over to the fire. Just when I hope the stranger’s presence will make everyone act decent, Stella snatches my wrist and breathes her pinot noir breath in my face.

  “Why’d you let him in?” she whispers. “We’re not a freaking charity. Plus, he’s probably a serial killer. The Thanksgiving Day Strangler or something. I bet he’ll butcher us all.”

  Our visitor crouches by the fire. He gingerly pulls those gloves off his hands, one finger at a time. The sight of it makes me lightheaded, like he’s removing his own skin.

  And when our eyes meet, he winks.

  Chapter 5

  The stranger tries the landline in an adjacent room. We can’t call out with our cell phones because none of us gets service here. Case in point: Stella wanders around with hers like it’s a divining rod. “Stupid-ass 5G. You don’t know what I paid for this!”

  “See, I don’t personally carry a phone,” Nate says. “I just find it so oppressive, you know?”

  Father glowers, but thankfully he doesn’t call Nate a brain-dead dipshit, even though I know he’s thinking it.

  I’m trying, unsuccessfully, to remember even one of the positive mind-set techniques my therapist taught me. All I can do is imagine his disappointment at our next session when I have to tell him that I backtracked from months of progress in less than an hour.

  The stranger clears his throat to let us know he’s back. He’s got his overcoat draped over one arm. His black turtleneck is less Steve Jobs than it is cat burglar.

  “I’m afraid the phone is out,” he says.

  “Impossible,” Father grunts. He shoulders his way into the room he calls the library, even though the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves are all completely empty.

  At the desk, Father presses the cordless phone to his ear and thumbs the power button a few times. He smacks the phone back onto its base with a muttered curse.

  “Listen, you’re welcome to stay for dinner—” I offer the stranger, trying to lighten the mood, trying to make the stranger feel at ease among all these tense and judgmental faces, a small act of humanity.

  “Oh, God…” Stella groans, much too loudly.

  The stranger’s attention lingers on my sister. I can’t believe it, but there’s a glimmer of recognition. He asks, “You’re not Stella Regan, are you? The actress? From Each Night for Love?”

  Stella’s hand rises to her throat. She tries desperately to stop herself from melting all over the floor. “You saw my movie?”

  “Sure. A couple times. You played a pitch-perfect heiress.”

  “You know what? I agree, actually. I’m proud of my work,” she says. “I don’t care how that sounds. A surgeon can brag about a successful heart operation, so why not me?”

  “Why not?” the stranger agrees. “I’d love an autograph.”

  “Oh, you’re sweet,” Stella says, batting her eyelashes.

  This seems like too much of a coincidence. Troubling thoughts begin to darken my mind, thoughts about unhinged stalker fans, and whether Stella might’ve been right about not letting him inside.

  “How much? For an autograph?” the stranger asks Stella, as he takes a clipped wad of cash from his overcoat. It’s an inch thick, with a hundred-dollar cover bill.

  “Careful, now, you’ll make her pretty head explode,” Mother says. She’s at the drink cart mixing her potions.

  “Apologies,” the stranger says. “Some stars make you pay.”

  “Oh, she’ll make you pay, all right,” Mother quips.

  “So are you two sisters?” he asks Mother.

  Now Mother’s the one striking poses for a nonexistent camera. “Aw, pshaw. That one’s the sister.”

  She points to me. The stranger’s sudden scrutiny makes me want to hide underneath a bed somewhere. “Of course, the Good Samaritan,” he says. “I know this goes against decorum, but could I bother you for a whiskey on the rocks? It’s been a rough day.”

  Mother imitates a smile. “Where are our manners?”

  Father lingers by the fire, brooding. I can tell he’s on guard.

  While Mother tongs ice into a glass, the stranger says, “Let me welcome you to the neighborhood. I have to admit, I started to doubt this property would ever—”

  Father snaps to attention. “You live around here?”

  “Oh, once upon a time, before I was cast out. But I remember the joy of family togetherness. Once time passes, you lose something you can only get back on the holidays when you’re all together again. I’m sorry. I’m oversharing. Grief gives you perspective, doesn’t it?”

  “Have a cup of cheer,” Mother says, passing him the highball glass of whiskey. She’s poured three fingers.

  The stranger downs half of it in one gulp. “I have a good feeling about you Whitmores. There’s a lot of history in this house, and you’re going to bring it back to life. When I think of the Thorpe family, what happened—”

  “Christ Almighty!” Mother belts out, just after an electronic screech drives into my ears. It’s the kitchen smoke alarm.

  Stella and Mother dart off, eager for a new disaster. I’m not far behind. Black smoke billows from the stove, filling the kitchen with a noxious stench.

  With oven mitts Mother lifts out the charred turkey and tosses it in the sink. She’s ululating and flailing her arms over the bird sacrifice like it’s some weird Santeria.

  Guilt overcomes me, even though I know this is not my fault. But I was the last one in the kitchen. I am here, so I am responsible, just like always.

  “Joanie,” Mother scolds. “You ruined everything.…”

  On the CCTV monitor there’s something I hadn’t spotted before. A car on the roadside
. One headlight is visible. It’s some kind of antique muscle car—a Mustang.

  I can’t believe I didn’t notice it before.

  The stranger didn’t crash his car. He parked it at the end of our driveway.

  That’s it. I barge back through the living room and storm up the main staircase. I want to be alone. Let them say I’m having a tantrum, I don’t care. It’s way better than the nervous breakdown I’ll have if I stand here with these people for one more second.

  Chapter 6

  Carter Whitmore pours another splash of scotch. He wants no part of the catfight in the kitchen. He’s much more concerned about this fraud who’s shown up at their door with some bullshit about a car wreck.

  He’ll boot the guy, sure, but not before he figures out his angle. Probably a specious real estate claim or maybe an outright blackmailing scheme. Looking for a handout with nothing to sell, like everybody else.

  Mercifully, Joanie’s lapdog boyfriend Nate excuses himself to follow Joanie upstairs. She only brought the kid along to be provocative, anyway. Used to be, she liked to please her father. At five years old, she’d patrol the lobby of the Fálcon Hotel telling guests, “Anything you need, let us know!”

  Granted, that was years before the Turnbull murders stained the Fálcon’s reputation and the Whitmore brand. The beginning of the end. The steady slide toward chaos. Eventually, everything goes to hell.

  “You’ve got a beautiful house here, Mr. Whitmore,” the stranger says. He’s planted himself in Carter’s recliner, smugly sipping that drink he insisted on having. “It just has that vintage, familiar feel that puts me right at home, you know? And so serene. Your own little private island, just about.”

  “As long as the gate stays shut,” Carter says.

  “Listen, a man’s domain is sacred, I know.”

  Carter narrows his eyes. The way this guy talks is too breezy, too coded. Could it be he’s a fruit? Ironic, seeing how he’s got all the Whitmore bitches salivating.