I wince.

“They posted her personal information online, including her address. For shits and giggles, they sent stuff to her house, like dozens of pizzas that she’d have to pay for. One asswipe called 911 on her, saying that they heard gunshots and a baby crying. It was fucking terrifying for her. They made a game out of tormenting her. Finally”—he chokes up and his head falls forward hiding what I presume to be a fuck ton of emotion—“she was attacked in the subway. He was never caught, but someone pushed her and”—he pauses and shudders—“and if it weren’t for a couple of college girls who caught her and dragged her back, she would have fallen onto the tracks and been crushed.” Graham raises his head, and by the haunted look in his eyes, the memory of his cousin’s near-death experience is still fresh. I have two sisters—it’s easier to accept danger to yourself than it is to someone you care about.

“Three years ago she was attacked and the person was never caught,” I sum up. “You think this is the same person?” I gesture toward the letter.

“I don’t know who it is,” he says with a lot of frustration. Graham is a big guy and has big hands, which are currently fisted and look ready to drive a hole through my desk. “The subway attack triggered a big problem for Natalie. She became housebound, because stepping outside her apartment brought on disabling panic attacks. It took her another year before she could leave her apartment and walk outside. She still can’t ride the subway, but at least she could walk around the building, go to the park across the street. Get coffee at a coffee shop. This letter,” he practically spits, “set her back. She tried to leave her apartment two days ago and got as far as the elevator before puking on herself and passing out. Thank Christ her best friend was with her or who knows how long Natalie would’ve lain like that.”

I’ve watched Graham play football in New York, both in person and on television, for going on six years now. I’ve seen him pissed off and jubilant, but this is the first time I’ve seen him defeated. Not even during the 24–21 loss to the Green Bay Packers in the NFC Championship game when he threw two pick-sixes did he appear this upset.

“What happens when I find this guy?”

“You think you can find him?” His head jerks up.

“Why did you come to me if you didn’t think I could find him?”

“These fuckers are ghosts. They create a thousand fake accounts and come after you at the same time. You can’t ever pin them down.” He leans forward, his big Super Bowl–winning hands clutched together. “Natalie went through hell three years ago. She’s not the same person she was. Getting her out of her building was an enormous victory. This fucker has ruined it and I want him caught. Yesterday.”

“I’ll look into it. I’ll have one of my men—”

“No.” He holds up a hand. “This is Tanner Security and you’re Jake Tanner. I want you.”

His tone allowed no room for disagreement. Mentally I review my current assignments. I’m busy, but making time to hunt down someone who is harassing an innocent woman isn’t hard for me to do. I give him a nod of agreement.

“Then I need to meet Natalie.”

He heaves a big sigh. “Yeah, that might be a problem.”

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.