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.