Текст книги "Revealed to Him"

Автор книги: Jen Frederick

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

CHAPTER THREE

JAKE

That might be a problem?

I know plenty of men and women with PTSD. They don’t like crowded spaces. They don’t like loud noises. Many of them don’t like to be surrounded by a lot of people, but from what Graham is describing, this is a level of anxiety I haven’t encountered before.

“How so? Is meeting new people a trigger?”

“What’s not a trigger?” He sighs with resignation, seeming defeated and guilty, as if he’s frustrated by his cousin’s mental state and angry with himself for being frustrated. “That’s not entirely fair. She’s fine with people she trusts, in a controlled environment. She’s fine in my apartment, but getting there is a problem because it requires her to enter the hallway and ride the elevator—both are tasks that are very difficult for her. She’s okay with familiar people—like the doormen, although she likes the night guy better than the day guy. They can bring stuff to her door and ring the doorbell, but a food delivery person would freak her out.”

“Not being able to get into her apartment will make it difficult for me to implement security measures.”

“I’ll talk to her about it,” Graham promises.

I flip my legal pad around and shove a pen toward Graham. “Write down her email address. I’ll send her a note and see how she feels about a visit.”

Graham scrawls out her email and then pushes the pad back toward me. “I’ll text her to let her know to expect a message from you. Good luck,” he says, and his tone implies I’m going to need it.

As soon as he leaves, I make a new file for Natalie Beck and then wait about ten minutes before shooting her an email. Most of my clients are businesses who hire us to protect a high-ranking executive overseas, or to ferret out embezzlement, or to track down the selling of trade secrets. A personal request like Graham’s is rare because of the high price tag associated with Tanner Security services. But the idea of meting out some justice to a punk who’s terrorizing a traumatized woman awakens the same sort of righteous anger that had me throwing away a banking career to join the army after 9/11.

Me: Jake Tanner here. Your cousin Oliver Graham has asked me to look into the note. Mind if I come over and take a look around?

Her response is nearly immediate:

Her: Like inside my apartment? If you have spoken to Oliver, then you know I’m not comfortable with that. How do I know that you’re not the person who sent the note in the first place?

Me: Didn’t your cousin text you? If not, here’s my website.

I send her a link to the site.

Her: There aren’t any pictures on your site. I feel like there should be pictures.

Me: We’re into guarding people’s privacy and protecting them from danger. The fewer pictures, the safer everyone is.

Her: I don’t know whether to be creeped out or impressed by your ready answer for every complaint I have.

I’m a professional. Very quiet. You wouldn’t even know I’m there, I write back.

Her: I’m already hyperventilating just emailing with you. Actually having you here would make me pass out in fear. Aren’t there special things you can do from afar with spy cameras and listening devices? I watch a lot of movies on Netflix—those things definitely exist somewhere in either Hollywood or Washington DC.

I smile reluctantly. Her emails are funny enough to make me wonder what she’s like in person. It’s a damn shame that she’s got some asshole on her tail. Graham never did answer my question about what he is planning to do when I find the perp, but if some guy did that to my sisters, I’d find him and break his fingers.

Me: Think about it.

Her: Can I have a day or two to prepare?

Me: Absolutely. Text me if you need to. I’m more responsive to my texts than emails.

I send her my phone number. I’m a one-handed texter, but my typing isn’t much better. One of my employees has dyslexia and she prefers to send texts using emoji and pictures. I haven’t quite succumbed to that.

I work for a few more hours, tackling paperwork that I had been avoiding for the past couple of days. Both my phone and my inbox stay unnervingly quiet. The mini fridge behind me yields a day-old ham sandwich, which I wash down with two cans of Coke. Reviewing reports, calculating payroll, and reading résumés of potential new hires fall under things I don’t enjoy doing but can’t seem to delegate to others. Around midnight, I’m close to wrapping it up when the text message alert on my phone goes off. The phone number is unfamiliar to me, but the message reveals it’s Natalie. A tenseness in my gut I hadn’t realized was there eases.

Her: Oliver told me you were in the army. Can I ask an intrusive question?

Me: Sure.

I wonder if it’s about my prosthetics. Graham may not have paid attention to them, but he noticed the hand. It’s hard not to.

Her: Were you afraid? Ever?

Her question isn’t one that I expected, but maybe I should have. PTSD sufferers fear their response to current events and have anxiety over future ones. I suspect Natalie’s disorders aren’t much different. Fear is a big issue for her.

Me: Yes. Frequently.

Her: Thought army guys ate fear for breakfast. Also lunch, dinner, and for snacks in between.

Me: Nah. We ate shitty meals from a bag heated up by a chemical triggered by water. Snacks were candy. Fear lived with us.

Her: Shouldn’t you be sleeping? I thought you’d read this in the morning.

Me: I’m still working. Reports. Very boring.

Her: If I was alone in an office, I would be afraid. I’m afraid all of the time. During breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Also during snack.

Me: Fear is a healthy thing. When you stop being afraid, you aren’t as careful and alert.

Her: But at some point fear becomes the only thing. Then what?

I stare at the messages, wondering what I could say. I don’t want to feed her platitudes. When I was recovering from my injuries, I felt suffocated by the pain. It took me a while to come to the place where I am now. Five years ago, I wondered why the IED hadn’t just killed me instead of taking my hand and foot. Five years ago, I was a frickin’ mess. She’s not going to get judgment from me.

Me: Then you try to go to sleep and wake up to face the next day. And the next, until fear is the thing that keeps you sharp instead of the thing that makes you bleed.

Her: God. I like that. I like that a lot. I’m going to bed now to prepare for tomorrow.

Tomorrow will be a good day. I pause, my finger hovering over the screen. Text me when you wake up.

She sends me a thumbs-up and I leave the office with a smile on my face. The long day makes my stump throb inside its vacuum-sealed socket, and since no one is around, I let my left leg drag a little as I climb the stairs to the part of the townhouse that serves as my living quarters. But I avoid the elevator that I used frequently when I first moved in because pain, like fear, is something I’ve become accustomed to. It reminds me I’m alive and that’s a good thing.

Someday Natalie’s fear will be a good thing too.

In my bathroom, I pull down my jeans and push the button to release the pin holding the prosthetic in place. Once I tug off the limb, the instant relief is followed by a pins-and-needles sensation. I give the stump a good massage until all that remains is a low-grade ache. The arm comes off next and instantly I feel better. With my one hand balancing me against the wall, I hobble into the bathroom for a quick shower. After drying off and making my way to the bed, I drop my cell phone on the nightstand, face up. Just in case someone needs to text me in the middle of the night.

The number of people I’d stay awake for is small, but with wry amusement, I realize I’ve added Natalie to the list.

I wake up a few hours later, my body having long since rejected sleeping in. A quick glance at the phone tells me that no one else is awake, or at least not needing my attention. From the closet, I grab the blade for running, strap it on over the gel liner, and quickly dress. I don’t need the arm to run, and leave that off. It’s a lot more comfortable.

The one big benefit for an amputee with money is that I don’t have to rely on the government or insurance for my prosthetics. I get what I want and as many as I want. Whenever I visit another vet, I’m keenly aware of that particular privilege.

Ordinarily when I run, I like to zone out, but this morning I think of Natalie, stuck inside her apartment with all her great progress shot to shit. What kind of wart on humanity intentionally messes with a woman like that? Makes me want to punch something . . . hard.

The house is empty when I get home, which makes me wonder if I’m avoiding Sabrina or she’s avoiding me. Either way, I haven’t seen her in a couple of days. Upstairs, I shower again—a cold shower because heat makes my stump swell and then the prosthetic doesn’t fit as well. That was a hard lesson I learned early on.

When I get out, I see a message alert. Is my heart pumping a little faster because it’s from Natalie? Nah, it’s because I just got done running, I tell myself.

Her: I’m feeling anxious now that Oliver’s contacted you. I want to feel safe in my own home.

Me: Who doesn’t? I have a shit ton of security in my home. Biometric sensors. Cameras. Pressure pads.

Her: Pressure pads?

Me: Those are weight-sensitive sensors. Anything over a certain weight triggers an alarm. We could put those on your balcony. Or radio-frequency sensors that determine the size of objects based on the interference of radio waves.

Her: Have you already made the trip to LA? Because all of that sounds very Hollywood.

Me: Where do you think Hollywood gets its ideas? ;)

I stare at my phone. Fuck. A winky face, asshole?

To regain my manhood after sending that message, I go downstairs and yell at a few employees.

CHAPTER FOUR

NATALIE

“Oliver’s security guy sent me a text.” I show Daphne the message and grin.

“Is that a winky face?” She arches an elegant eyebrow and scoffs, “Only a hipster on Molly would send that. One who wears flannel ironically because he’s never seen the woods and would never be caught dead in a cabin unless it’s in Vail and has a full-service butler on call. He probably thinks John Cusack is the epitome of manhood and aspires to have as many vinyl records as possible.” She wipes the sauce from her mouth.

She’s here for lunch and lunch only, she told me when she arrived with bags of food from ’wichcraft. I try not to pout because I like having Daphne here all day whenever I can. It’s almost like going out. Almost.

“I think John Cusack is the epitome of manhood. Like, if that was in Jake’s Tinder profile, I’d totally swipe right.” I push my food aside because all I want to do is talk about this Jake Tanner guy. And privately I disagree with her. Only a guy with a lot of confidence sends a winky face.

“That’s all you need to swipe right?” Daphne says in amazement. “I’d need at least one pic of his face, none of this ‘nose and lower’ shit.”

“I’m not picky.” I shrug and pick up the phone to reread the messages. His replies are instantaneous, as if he just can’t wait to interact with me. When’s the last time that has happened? Even before I was housebound, I never had that kind of interest from males. The last guy I’d dated was more of a convenience. I’m not even sure you could call it dating, because we were working seventeen-hour days getting ready for the game launch. And then after? We had sex because he was a boy and I was a girl and we had been in close proximity with each other for two years. There wasn’t even a flame to burn out when it was over. “I’d swipe right if the guy was the Son of Sam at this point.”

“That’s not saying much about either your taste or his appeal.”

“True.” I stop at the message “Then you try to go to sleep and wake up to face the next day.” And the next, “until fear is the thing that keeps you sharp instead of the thing that makes you bleed.”

He’s been where I am now because that is the only way he can write sentences like those, full of understanding and compassion. I want to keep texting him, sending nonstop messages all day to see what he’ll send me next. I don’t, though, because even someone as socially awkward as I am knows that kind of behavior would drive anyone off, even the sensitive hipster types. Plus, I need to work on my book, not write to Jake, because I’m perilously late. So late I’m concerned Daphne might develop her own anxiety disorder.

But maybe I can sneak in a few messages before I lock myself in my office. I guess it is best that Daphne leaves after lunch.

“I’m done,” I announce. “I just had an idea for the next chapter.” Jumping off the counter stool, I gather up the lunch items and stuff them in the trash. Daphne gives me a strange look, but doesn’t object, because no one wants this book finished more than she does. Not even me.

She wipes her mouth once more and crumples her half-eaten sandwich up in the wrapper. I throw it away and then wipe down the counter as she’s gathering her purse. “Maybe I’ll see some pages later tonight?”

“Sure,” I promise. I actually have a few I’ve been working on that I can send to her even if I get distracted by something . . . or someone. “I’ll send you something tonight or early in the morning.”

“I take that to mean you’ll be staying inside and not trying to take field trips down the hall?”

“Scout’s honor. I will be in my office until I produce something printable.” I hold up two fingers in what may be a Scout’s salute. I wouldn’t know, having never been a Scout.

Once she’s gone, I do go to my office and I do settle in front of my computer and I do open my manuscript. But I also text Jake.

Me: You were right. Today’s a better day.

Him: I’m always right.

Me: Really? You’re going with that?

My image of Jake as a flannel-shirted, skinny-jeans-attired male with a trendy beard is reshuffled. A sensitive hipster does not say he’s always right. My first instinct, that he was confident and maybe even arrogant, appears to be correct.

Him: What’s the better response? Because I’ve got “I know” and “Yes” saved in my autotext.

I lift a hand to stifle a giggle even though no one is around to hear me.

Me: Are you now or have you ever worn flannel?

Him: Whoa. Whoa. Are we already at the What-are-you-wearing stage? Because if so, you need to go first. And if you’re fully clothed, please feel free to lie and say, “Nothing.”

My eyebrows shoot so far up my forehead, I fear they are going to be lost. I reread his message. And then read it again. I might lack a lot of experience with the opposite sex, and I have been a shut-in for nearly three years, but I’m pretty sure that Jake Tanner, former army person, according to Oliver, and owner of a high-profile, very expensive security firm, is flirting with me—Natalie Beck.

And while I’m contemplating this, I get another message.

Him: There should be a message retrieval. Some kind of feature that allows someone to take back a stupidly written text before the recipient reads it. (1/2)

(2/2) That was very inappropriate. Please accept my apologies. Not sure what came over me. Probably blood loss. Or just being a man. Men are dumb. Always right but dumb.

This time I didn’t even cover my mouth when I laughed out loud. I look down at my penguin pajama bottoms and my pink tank and lie like a politician.

Me: I’m not fully clothed, but I’m not naked either. Your turn.

There’s a pause, and for a moment I worry. Maybe he did mean for me to forget it. I never had much game before eliminating contact with the outside world. Even before the sight of a full inbox gave me sweaty palms, before doorbells made my heart stop, before the thought of stepping outside the safety of my apartment caused dread, I was a nerdy, socially awkward girl. An alpha male like Jake, full of testosterone, wouldn’t have paid even the slightest attention to me before, so why do I think he’s flirting? But then the phone dings and my eyes devour the words he sends back.

Him: I don’t remember wearing flannel. Since I’ve already revealed that I’m an asshole, what with the winky face and the blatant and inappropriate request, I should probably admit that I don’t even buy my own clothes. My mom and sisters still shop for me.

Me: Don’t feel bad. Oliver is the same. The only clothing interest he has is workout gear.

Him: I have a friend, Ian, who has a personal shopper. Is that more manly?

Me: So he has to pay someone to do what your mom and sisters do? I don’t think that’s more manly. More expensive, but not more manly. Is that important?

Him: Being manly? Yes. I grunt in the morning and five times at night to inject the right amount of testosterone into my system.

Me: Grunting is the key to manliness?

Him: It’s one of the keys. Also belching, scratching of the balls, being able to spit—not spray—actually spit.

Me: I don’t think I like manliness. Can we revisit the flannel? Maybe you should look into it. I bet you’d look good in flannel.

Him: I shave. Daily. I think you have to have a beard to look good in flannel. Also, you are required to be holding an axe. I prefer guns. Besides, all my manliness is done in private.

If I were braver, I’d take that innuendo-laden statement and launch into something sexy and provocative such as: “Not an exhibitionist?” Or, “What else do you like to do in private?” But I’m not. Plus, I want him to keep texting me. I want him to text me forever. I want—oh, what am I even thinking?

I can’t even open the door. The idea of Jake Tanner in my apartment terrifies me. It’s one thing to joke and flirt via innocent message bubbles, but normal people want face-to-face contact, skin-to-skin contact.

Him: Did my keys to manhood scare you off? Manliness also requires you to recognize a good Scotch, know how to kiss, and know that you drive a woman home after an evening out. No matter how late or early it is. Is that better?

He’s so sweet. He probably does wear flannel and because of that, I text him the truth.

Me: I want you to come over. But I’m afraid I won’t be able to open the door.

Him: There are things I can do without coming inside.

Me: But not as effective for you.

Him: It helps to have eyes on the inside to see exactly what we’re dealing with.

Me: What if I can’t open the door?

Him: Then you don’t open the door and I deal.

A wave of emotion swamps me—part gratitude and part yearning. This man, with whom I’ve only exchanged written messages, is killing me with his humor, his understanding, and most of all, his kindness.

Me: Why are you so kind?

Him: As opposed to what? Making you feel bad? Seems to me that you have a lot on your plate without me adding guilt to your fight against anxiety.

I decide right then and there I don’t care if Jake wears flannel, if he’s mean to small children, if he forgets Mother’s Day, and if he uses the horn too much when he drives. He’s perfect and I’m half in love with him already. Of course it will never go anywhere. Because I live inside, and every other normal person is outside.

I wish I was okay with my current status—that I didn’t long for human interaction. It would make life so much easier. Then I could look in the mirror without disgust. I could take my fear and wrap it around me like a warm comfortable blanket. I could stop wanting what I probably can never have—a real relationship with someone like Jake.

But the part of me that hates my fear? It wants out and now it wants Jake. That part drives me to type: Come over tomorrow.

CHAPTER FIVE

JAKE

The next day, I drive down to Tribeca early enough that there’s still street parking available. The seven-story brick condo complex the Grahams live in isn’t much to look at from the outside, but given that Graham just signed a five-year, $145 million deal this summer, I’m guessing the inside is much more interesting. Security consists of one doorman and no visible exterior cameras, which doesn’t surprise me. Cameras require someone to actually look at the tape, and a complex like this is too small to have on-site management. The company that owns and manages this property is probably down in the Financial District.

“I’m here to see Oliver Graham,” I lie to the doorman. He’s young, 20 to 25 years old, with enough gel in his hair to style an entire boy band. It’s easy to peg him as an aspiring actor or model. I want to see how simple it is to get inside.

“You need to sign in,” he says, swinging a ledger book toward me.

“Did I see you in The Lion King? You look familiar.” I push the ledger to the side.

He takes up the invitation immediately. Excited that someone, anyone, has recognized him, he leans forward and his elbow pushes the ledger farther down the marble-topped reception desk.

“No, but I have been in a couple off-Broadway shows.” He rattles off the names of them. I haven’t even heard of the theaters he names let alone the plays. My youngest sister would. She’s pretty artsy.

“Why don’t you give me a flyer?” I invite and close the ledger. He doesn’t notice because he’s too busy digging under the desk for a piece of promotional material.

“Here you go. We’re doing a reinvention of Waiting for Godot, only the characters have been transformed into animals. So it’s like a cross between J. K. Rowling’s Fantastic Beasts and Death of a Salesman.”

I nod like I would ever want to see something like that. “Sounds good, man.”

“So you a friend of Mr. Graham’s?” From his skeptical expression, I must not look like Graham visitor material. He takes in my boots, jeans, and T-shirt. I have a nylon jacket despite the early spring heat because I’m carrying. I’m always carrying.

“Business.” Graham’s visitors are probably leggier, shorter, and sporting much longer hair. Mine is still military-short. Some parts of the army can’t ever be carved out of me. I can grow a beard and leave my bed a rumpled mess, but the minute my hair touches my collar, I start to get itchy.

Business must make sense to the doorman because he nods twice and jerks his head toward the elevators. I wave the flyer at him in thanks. The elevator doors slide open when I reach them and the top floor—the seventh floor—is already lit up. Over at the desk I can see him on the phone, likely calling Graham, who I know for certain is not home right now.

I watched him leave two hours ago and he hasn’t returned, something the doorman missed when he darted out to get a coffee. I wonder if Graham knows how shoddy the security is here.

When the elevator stops on the top floor, I take one quick look around and then jog down to the third floor—the one Natalie lives on. There were two doors on the top floor, but six on this one. Sounds come from only two of them. I pause to make a calculated guess as to which one is hers. I asked Graham not to tell me because I wanted to see how easy it was to find her.

The middle units had the fewest number of windows whereas the front and back units had at least six windows each. Natalie’s fear of the outside world could mean she’d want as little access to it as possible or she may enjoy what little access she had through greater exposure. I take a chance and knock on 3A, a corner unit with eight windows.

Behind the door there’s a slight scuffling noise, which stops and then starts and then stops again. Someone is walking toward the door, but can’t get close enough to open it. Bingo.

Because I’m not here to scare the shit out of her, I announce myself. “Natalie. It’s Jake Tanner.”

“How do I know you’re who you say you are?” a distant female voice calls back. “Your website didn’t have any pictures, remember?”

The low, husky tone sends a chill up my spine. Graham failed to mention that Natalie’s voice is the sultry kind that hits a man in the solar plexus. Silently I cough into my hand to chase the vague tingle of interest away. Completely unprofessional. That said, nothing about our contact so far has been professional. I try to regret that, but I can’t seem to summon up any outrage. I spent the night thinking about her.

“I’m sliding a card under the door.”

“Anyone can print up a card.”

Her voice is closer, unfortunately for me. I slide the cream card with the bold black print under the door and give it a shove. Graham said she wrote the damn game, but I’m wondering if she did voiceovers for it. A game with that voice crooning into a headset would sell millions of copies. She could convince half the male population to open their wallets and buy dirt with that voice.

“Think you’re up for opening the door?” I lean against the wall to the right of the door and watch the doorknob, but it doesn’t move.

“I don’t know.” She sounds nervous and I don’t want that, but . . . I also want to meet her. Shake her hand. Or, if I’m completely honest, I want to put a face to the ill-advised fantasies I’m starting to have.

“You don’t sound like you’re hyperventilating. Besides, I thought I’d give it a try.”

“I’m big on trying,” she says. She’s close enough to the door that I can hear her sigh, an extended exhale full of longing. This is a woman who doesn’t want to be locked in her apartment. I respect that. “But not so much on doing.”

“All you need to do is open the door. Let me take a look around.”

“Jake, I’d love to be able to open the door,” she responds with a touch of asperity and I can’t help smiling. Housebound she may be, but she’s got bite. “I might not be gasping for breath, but right now it’s taking everything I have to just stand in the entryway talking to you.”

Graham had said she’d been making progress getting out when the note arrived, which made it all the shittier. My fingers curl into a fist and I have to force myself to straighten them. People who prey on the vulnerable are bottom-dwellers. I might have to be there when Graham doles out the punishment.

I shouldn’t care. She’s a client. Feelings interfere with a rational review of the facts and evidence. I’ve terminated more than one security employee because he couldn’t keep his pants zipped, yet I’m breaking all the rules for her. “Go into your bedroom and call me. You already have my number, and it’s the same one on the card.”

As the footsteps fade away, I pull a simple lock pick set from my wallet. The phone rings and her name shows up on the screen.

“Why should I go into the bedroom?” she asks.

“Because it’s the room farthest from the front door. Once you’re in your bedroom, I’ll come in and take a look around.” The phone line doesn’t reduce the effect of her voice. I try to shut it out and concentrate on the task at hand. Her lock is a standard pin tumbler. It will take me all of a minute to pick.

“How do you know where my bedroom is?”

“The floor plans are on the Internet from when this building was being leased.” Sticking the tension wrench into the keyhole, I press until the plug begins to rotate. Time for the rake. Three passes of the rake later, the pins bounce into place and the lock disengages.

“Ugh,” she replies, but she doesn’t hang up.

She’d probably never leave her bedroom if she knew how easy it was to gain entry into her home.

Natalie’s apartment is good-sized by Manhattan standards. She has a fairly large living room with floor-to-ceiling windows that run along the far wall. Two of the windows are actually doors that open onto a small balcony overlooking Howard Street. To the immediate left is the kitchen. My card lies on the granite island counter. To the right a door rests slightly ajar.

“You and Graham could live in a place with more security.” I poke the door and it falls open. Inside is an office. There’s a treadmill with a platform attached to it at elbow height. A laptop sits on top of the platform. She must . . . type while she walks? I hadn’t seen one of those before. There’s a whiteboard filled with text, arrows, Post-it Notes. The room is ringed with bookshelves. I venture further in.

The shelves are filled with nonfiction and fiction alike. Romances, science fiction, mystery. She has eclectic taste.

“This is a small condo and we don’t get a lot of attention here, which Oliver really likes. Plus, we have a doorman.”

“He’s pretty useless.”

“You are the bearer of not very good news. Are you like that with everyone or am I getting special treatment?”

If she’d texted that, I might have thought it was a come-on, but she sounded weary rather than flirtatious.

“I give out facts. How my clients choose to interpret those is up to them.” At the very top row of the bookshelves are multiple copies of the same book by the same author—a very famous author. “M. Kannan?” I murmur.

“Are you inside my apartment?” she shouts.

I pull the phone away from my ear.

“Yup.”

“Oh my God, you picked my lock. You’re in my apartment!” Her too-quick breaths fill my ear.

“Natalie, go sit on the bed. Imagine a square. Breathe in for four seconds and then walk to the other side of the square and exhale. Breathe in for four seconds and then out for four seconds,” I command in my best drill sergeant voice. I wasn’t a DS in the army, but I got yelled at by one enough that I can replicate his commanding voice with ease. I can almost taste her panic over the phone. “Start counting. One, two, three, four.” She doesn’t obey, and I hear her breathing coming in short pants. “Now,” I bark.

There’s a shuffling and then I hear the numbers. The first one is quavery and it takes her about five seconds to get the second one out. “Louder. I want them loud and crisp.”

She starts over at one. By the fourth set she’s breathing more easily. Yeah, the guy who did this is going to have a real pleasant visit from both Graham and me. “Good girl, Natalie. You’re doing fine. I’m almost done here. Keep counting.”

“Fuck you,” she gurgles out between numbers three and four.

The insult makes me grin, but my smile fades as I spin around. This place isn’t that big. And if it’s the only place she feels safe, then her life is pretty miserable.

In the soft blue living room are three large framed posters of the covers of a bestselling science fiction series—a series that is being made into a movie. The light bulb turns on over my head. Natalie Beck is M. Kannan. That must be how she affords this Tribeca condo. And it makes sense. She wrote the storyline for one of the most famous games of recent memory, and now she’s writing bestselling science fiction. And it’s a series I fucking love.