It’s safe to say that sometimes I can’t stand myself.

But not today. Today I’m going to open my apartment door. I’m going to walk the twenty steps to the elevator, and I’m going to push that damn elevator button. I won’t try to get on. My little brain can’t handle that kind of exposure today. Maybe tomorrow or the day after. But I won’t get outside again unless I take that first step.

“What if you gave me a push?” I suggest.

Daphne makes a frustrated noise. “Why are you doing this to yourself? I feel like I’m watching you volunteer for torture. Your face is shiny and your skin is clammy.” She pats my cheek with the back of her hand. “Shit, you’re already going into shock.”

“I’m not.” I take two deep breaths and start counting. Counting helps to slow my breathing from freaked out back to semi-panicked. So does focusing on the picture of the Eiffel Tower that I have hanging near the entry. Also pressing the large middle vein on my wrist repeatedly.

I do all of those things so that I can unstick my feet and move toward the door. Just to the elevator, I tell myself. Heart pounding so hard, I’m sure Daphne can hear it, I take my first step and then another. I keep going until I’m at the doorway. Daphne’s slim body is a welcome presence behind me.

“I’m glad you’re here,” I say between heaving breaths. I raise a shaky hand to wipe away the cold sweat that’s formed on my forehead.

“Of course. If you were to pass out, I wouldn’t get the next chapter in your book that is due in, oh, thirty days.”

“You’d get it,” I protest, ignoring the doorknob in front of me. “It might not be for a few days, but you’d get it.”

“So you say.” She leans around me and places her hand on the door. “Want me to open it for you?”

I hesitate, but then nod reluctantly. If she doesn’t open it, it might take me another fifteen minutes to muster up the strength to even place my hand on the knob. With her taking the initiative, I only have to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other.

When her hand reaches for the doorknob, I avert my gaze and focus on the Eiffel Tower. I should have put the picture of Mount Dick up there instead.

One step.

A long journey.

Hell, I’d take a short journey. The click of the latch releasing ratchets up my panic. My heart starts racing again. I rub my slick palms together and try to start breathing from my belly instead of my chest.

In through the nose.

Out through the mouth.

My heart is strong. It beats so powerfully because it is strong and I am alive.

In through the nose.

“Maybe you should come back inside?” Daphne says quietly.

“No. I can make it.” I want to turn and hug her for enduring this with me. It must be hard. When my cousin Oliver, who plays quarterback for the NY Cobras, gets hit on the field, my heart stops until he gets up. She’s an amazing friend.

I press my hand against my stomach and take one step. Only thirteen to go.

Out through the mouth.

After each step, I stop and breathe. I reassure myself I am doing fine. Daphne waits patiently behind me.

I don’t know exactly how much time passes, but after thirteen steps and thirteen deep breaths, I find myself at the elevator bank. I choke out a laughing sob. “I made it.”

“Good job,” she says.

Licking my lips, I raise my hand and press the DOWN button. The walls of the hall seem to shake as the elevator rises from the lobby. The lights above the elevator shift as the elevator passes each floor.

“I should go back,” I say, but apparently I’m not loud enough, because Daphne doesn’t respond. She’s staring at the elevator doors, waiting for them to part.

What if there’s someone inside the elevator? What if it’s the note writer? What if it’s someone from my past? My stomach starts churning and I can feel the acid rising. “I should go,” I say again, but no one hears me. I must be so quiet.

I clear my throat, but all I taste is bile. I choke it back.

The note. That goddamned note.

Five words on a throwaway piece of paper shouldn’t get to me. The threat is stupid and vague and clichéd. Although if it is from who I think it is—one of those cowardly, dickless wonders whose unwashed sweatpants are filled with Cheetos dust and whose only form of social activity is hurling insults on the Internet—then it should come as no surprise that the threat sounds like it was cut and pasted from the cheesiest pulp novel ever.

And I hate that it gets to me. I hate that I’ve been driven inside, a prisoner of my home. I hate that I’m gasping for breath standing in front of this goddamn elevator. I hate that the first fucking breath of fresh air that I sucked in took two years to achieve. I hate all of it, but my hate isn’t stronger than my fear.

That’s probably what I hate the most.

“Daphne.” I reach out for her.

She’s lost in her own thoughts. I’m drowning in mine.

Why should that note affect me so greatly? There has never been a robbery or assault in this building. There are famous people, like my cousin Oliver, who live here. All signs point to being safe.

I’m safe and I’m at the elevator.

I’m at the ELEVATOR!

Black dots start to swim in front of my eyes as my stupid brain starts telling every part of my body that we’re in danger. My heart is pounding so hard and fast I fear it might leap out of my chest. My breath is stuck in my lungs and can’t get out because my throat has completely closed up. I’ve got no strength in my legs and I’m shaking so hard my vision has blurred. When the bell dings and the elevator slides open, I collapse.

And then there’s nothing.

CHAPTER TWO

JAKE

“Does that disguise work for you?” I run my eyes over one of the most famous figures in New York City. Despite the battered cap over his hair and mirrored aviators covering his eyes, I can still tell it’s Oliver Graham, quarterback of the recent Super Bowl–winning NY Cobras. With the new season right around the corner, everyone in the city is ready to start another run for the ring. His face is plastered on buses and subway cars and billboards. There’s hardly anyone more recognizable.

He tugs off his cap and runs agitated fingers through his hair. “Worked all the way from Tribeca.”

It’s seven and I meant to close two hours ago, but I’ve had a steady stream of new clients and investigators this afternoon. Given that Tanner Security is a young company, I don’t have the luxury of turning anyone away, particularly not a client of Graham’s stature.

“I fear for the city then. Jake Tanner.” I offer my right hand.

“Oliver Graham.”

I resist the urge to say “I know” and Graham avoids any mention of the fact that my left hand is a prosthetic. We shake and I gesture for him to follow me down the hall to my office. Graham’s got a good game face.

I lost my left foot and hand to an IED explosion in Afghanistan five years ago. For some people, the prosthetics bring out pity. For others, it’s a turn-on. Athletes like Graham are often in the first category. They are afraid my loss of limbs is contagious.

Early on, I might have felt that way too, but the long war had consequences and veteran amputees were one of them. I came to terms with my loss and decided I was just glad to be alive.