“Yeah.” I squeeze her hand. “I got you.”

She snuffles and tucks her head under the covers, as if for refuge. With another squeeze to reassure her I’m still here, I look around for her phone. I wish I had someone to come and sit with her while I go interrogate the piece of trash outside.

“Natalie, sweetheart, I’m going out to talk to the clown. You stay here.”

There’s a slight movement under the covers, which I take to be agreement. I bend down and press another kiss to the crown of her head, the only part of her that is still visible. Then I draw the comforter up and over so that she’s completely engulfed. If that’s what makes her feel better, then so be it.

Out on the counter, I spot her phone. In the Favorites, there are five choices.

Editing goddess

Dr T

Big daddy

Papa

Mom

I make an educated guess that Oliver is big daddy. I tap the contact and the phone rings. Oliver picks it up on the second ring. “Natalie?” He sounds slightly breathless, as if I’ve interrupted a sex session or a workout, but I don’t really give a shit which one.

“This is Jake Tanner. Someone sent a clown to your cousin’s place. She must have opened the door thinking it was me and got this joker instead.”

“A clown? Like a real live clown or an asshole from the Internet?”

“He could be both, but yeah, he’s got the white face, a stupid wig, and a fake red smile.”

He curses. “She’s fucking terrified of clowns. I’ll be down in a second. Don’t move.”

Ignoring him, I walk out to the hall and pull out the Beretta I’d tucked into the back of my jeans. With my prosthetic, I grab the back of his purple coat and haul him upright so he can see the barrel of my gun. “Sit up.”

“Don’t shoot,” he cries again and tries to raise his arms. He forgets they are bound behind his back and the motion tips him over. I don’t even bother to set him right again. He whimpers as he lands in the puddle of his urine.

The doorway at the end of the hall bangs open. Oliver obviously took the stairs. He’s on us before I can begin questioning.

“Who’s this piece of shit?” He nudges the clown with his sneakered toe. He’s clad in workout shorts and a side-vented T-shirt. I mentally cross off sex session.

“Don’t know. I was bringing Natalie dinner and heard her scream. Ran down here and found this piece of shit standing outside her door.”

“Why does it smell like piss?” One nostril curls in disgust.

I point to the wet stain on the clown’s pants.

“Fuck. That’s foul.” Oliver takes a big step back. For a football player, he seems remarkably fastidious. Maybe I’ve spent too much time in the trenches. A little urine is nothing when you’re on a mission.

I tuck the gun into my harness. I’m not going to need it for the incontinent clown.

“You always wear that?” He gestures at my holster.

“Always.” Turning to the clown, I give him a little tap on the face to get his attention. “Why don’t you start talking?”

“I’m just doing my job,” he whimpers. “I was told to deliver a message. That’s all. The chick took five days to answer the door and when she saw me, she freaked out. She’s fucked up, man!”

Oliver sucks in a breath at the insult toward Natalie and I move between them. I don’t need Oliver hitting the clown before he babbles out his answers. The elevator dings and a small man with a shiny suit and even shinier black hair steps out. He moves purposefully toward us and stops behind Oliver. Oliver looks over his shoulder and gives a tiny head nod of recognition. I peg him as an accountant or financial advisor. Maybe agent.

Interrogating people in front of an audience isn’t my preferred method of operation, but I want to eke out what I can here and now. I don’t want to have to chase him down, plus later he’d have an opportunity to change his story. I want it fresh.

“What’s the message?”

The span between me shoving my gun in his face and him catching his breath has given him a false sense of security. He lashes out. “What’s your badge number? I’m reporting you for police brutality!”

“I’m not the police, dumb shit. Now tell me what the message is.”

“I think you should leave, Oliver,” the small man suggests quietly and tugs on Oliver’s T-shirt.

The clown’s eyes shift away from me as if noticing all over for the first time we aren’t alone. “Wait, holy shit. Are you Oliver Graham? Jesus fucking Christ. My brother is going to shit his pants when he hears this.” His eyes dart to the open foyer door and then back again, narrowing in an opportunistic gleam. “Aren’t you dating Fannie Carter? Is this your side piece? I can be quiet, you know. You got any signed jerseys?”

My gut tightens at the reference to Natalie belonging to another man. A reaction that I try to ignore. Meanwhile, Oliver sizes up the clown, probably debating how to respond. Given that Natalie and Oliver’s connection has been secret for years, he’s going to deflect, and for some reason I just don’t want to hear it. I think it would hurt Natalie, and the last thing I want is for her to be caused any more pain.

It’s damn irrational, I know, so I push that aside with all the other little things that I don’t want to examine at this point.

“Listen up. Who’s your employer?”

“I’m an indie.” He lifts his chin proudly.

“How do you take jobs?”

“People fill out a form online and pay via PayPal.”

“Great. Pull it up.”

“Pull what up?”

“Your PayPal account.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not pulling up my PayPal account for you!”

I move before he has time to react. I reach inside his coat pocket, pull out his phone, and then spin him around so his cheek is kissing the wall again.

“You can’t do that. It’s an invasion of my privacy. Oliver, are you watching this?”

Oliver backs away. “I don’t know who you are or what you’re doing. I heard someone scream and came down to help.”

“I’ll testify to that.” The suited man raises his hand. “I’m his agent and we do not know anyone here.”

“Wait,” the clown calls out to Oliver’s retreating back. “What about the signed jersey?”

He barely notices that I’ve pressed the phone against his finger to bypass the screen lock. I pull up the mail app and find the PayPal receipt. I pull out my phone and take a picture. I scroll through his contacts, swiftly snapping his favorites and his last ten emails. I look as his photo roll. Big mistake. He’s got a bunch of porn saved. I cut the zip ties and jerk him to me.

“Don’t come back here,” I warn and then give him a hard push down the hall. He steps in his urine, slips, and falls. From the elevator bank, I can see Oliver smirking at the insta-karma. I enter Natalie’s apartment and close the door firmly.

The phone rings before I can get two steps inside the apartment.

“Call Terrance,” Oliver barks as greeting.

“That her therapist?”

Oliver grunts. “Yeah. They have a love/hate relationship, but he’s the professional. She’ll need to be medicated.”

I don’t know Natalie as well as I’d like, but I’m not calling some guy she loathes. “Let’s have her sleep it off. When she wakes up, she’ll remember what happened and it won’t be an issue. We don’t need to make it an issue,” I clarify.

“Did I miss your PhD certificate in your office? Call fucking Terrance.”

I decide to hang up on Oliver.

Natalie has her issues. She’s scared of new people. She’s scared of going outside. Guys with extreme PTSD lock themselves up because they’re worried that they’ll fall apart in public. She’s scared of being scared. I get it. I’ve had my own mild case of it and so I don’t stay, knowing when she wakes up, she needs things to be comfortable and familiar. I’m neither of those things . . . yet.

If anyone is calling her therapist, it won’t be me.

I invade her office and grab a piece of paper out of the printer.