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my building. I take his arm at the biceps and he guides me to the curb.
    “Thank you,” I say.
    “You’re welcome.”
    Closing the door behind me, Vincent is about to climb back into the limo. I feel as if I need to say something, though I’m not sure what. Anything, I suppose, to ease the awkwardness. It’s about time we said something beyond general niceties.
    “Can I ask you a question, Vincent?”
    He turns to me. “Yes, Ms. Burns?”
    I sputter for a moment. Then some words come. “Do you like your job?”
    “Yes, very much so,” he says. “Mr. Turnbull is a good boss.”
    “I’m sure he is. I know he trusts you a great deal.”
    He nods.
    “You’re pretty loyal to him, aren’t you?” I ask.
    Vincent pauses for a second. He’s probably not sure where this is going, and to be honest, neither am I.
    “Extremely loyal,” he answers.
    “That’s important.”
    “Yes, it is, Ms. Burns.” He folds his arms. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him.”
    “Good answer,” I say.

Chapter 19
    I JOLT UP from MY BED midscream, but I’m holding it inside because I don’t want to explain myself to Mrs. Rosencrantz again. I’m soaking in sweat as tears race down my cheeks, the images still burning in my mind.
    From the dream . . . which feels so incredibly real.
    I’ve had it again, the exact same one.
I don’t believe this!
    It’s the next morning, but that’s all that’s changed. I even hear the music, that same song playing in my head. A familiar tune, though I still can’t put a name to it.
    And the smell of something burning is present too. Just like at the Fálcon.
What is that smell?
    Swinging both feet out of bed, I take a second to wipe my eyes dry. I feel miserable and drained. Not even the sight of my beautiful new bracelet curled up on the nightstand can raise my spirits.
    It isn’t as if I’ve never had a recurring dream before. I’ve had plenty — only they’re the ones you read and hear about, the anxiety dreams apparently everyone shares, like being naked in public or showing up unprepared for the big college exam.
    This one is different.
    This dream seems to be all mine, nobody else’s. The Fálcon Hotel. Why there of all places? Four dead people. Who were they and how did they die?
    I check my alarm clock. Like yesterday, it’s a few minutes before six. I can sleep a little more if I want to.
Yeah, right.
As if I really want to invite the dream to come back.
    Dragging myself to the bathroom, I immediately make the mistake of looking in the mirror.
Ouch.
This could be worse than yesterday. Staring back at me could easily be the “before” picture of a face-lift.
    Hey, at least I’ve got hot water today.
    With the shower on full blast, I crank my Wet Tunes, the hope being that I can drown out one song in my head with another. Better yet, maybe they’ll play the same song, so I can hear the lyrics and figure out what it is.
    Somehow, I don’t imagine myself being that lucky.
    The shower does feel good, though, so I stay in there for a while. As the water cascades over my head, I begin to relax. I’ve got the radio tuned to WFUV, the college radio station out of Fordham, and they’re playing “Alison” by Elvis Costello, one of my favorites.
    Before I know it — and just as I hoped — it’s the only thing I hear between my ears.
    That is, until the song ends and some guy comes on reading the news.
    I whip back my head from the shower spray. I could swear he said something about a tragedy at the Fálcon Hotel.
    But that’s not what has me shaking like a leaf as I try to towel myself dry.
    The radio newsman didn’t say it happened yesterday.
    He said it happened
this morning.
    Thirty minutes later, Michael hasn’t called, but I’m heading out the door of my place. I turn my key to double-lock it.
And
—
    “Ms. Burns? Ms. Burns?”
    Not again. It’s way too early to face the Wicked Witch on Nine. I turn — and it’s even worse than I thought. Mrs. Rosencrantz