I wonder about taking her upstairs to my room, but decide against it. When she wakes up she will want to be somewhere familiar. I’m not leaving her, so I text Kaga. He appears at the doorway about five minutes later. I can tell by the look on his face that he’s annoyed at being dragged away from Sabrina.
“I left the office door open. Can you shut that for me? I don’t want to leave her.” I motion toward the bed.
“No problem.”
“And send Mike up here. He’s the tall blond. Looks like a Viking.”
Kaga leaves and a few minutes later I hear Mike thundering up the stairs. Ordinarily I wouldn’t have anyone in Natalie’s space, but we need to be on this right away.
“This way,” I tell him, intercepting him at the top of the stairs. In the office, I show him the box. “Someone delivered this today. I want you to find out who the deliverer was, where the carcass came from, who paid for it. I want this information within the hour. I don’t care how many people you have to pull off existing jobs. This needs to be done now.”
“Want me to call the police?”
“No, not until we know what we’re going to find. Sometimes it’s best if we take care of it ourselves.”
He nods. The police knowing about this could be a hassle if I need to teach someone a lesson about messing with me and mine.
I dismiss him and return to the bedroom. The huddled shape underneath the covers has not changed. In the back of my head, I hear Oliver barking at me to call Natalie’s therapist. I’m not doing it. She doesn’t need sedation or therapy at this moment. She needs answers. I’m going to provide those to her. While we wait, though, I’m going to address her physical needs. Her body is going to be cramped and sore if she doesn’t loosen her muscles. I start by pulling gently on her legs drawn tight to her chest. After a few tugs, they give way.
I start rubbing them to get the circulation going. Everything is tight; even her feet are curled. I press my thumbs into the soles of her feet until her toes straighten, and then move up to her calves and the muscular thighs. Beneath my hands, I can feel her relaxing, inch by slow inch. It’s no hardship to touch her, but it breaks my heart that she’s nearly comatose because her safe place—my safe place for her—has been desecrated.
Whoever did this is going to pay for a very long time.
I roll her onto her stomach and stroke my hands down her lovely skin. She sighs, a hiccupy, sad sound.
“Shh, I’m here. No one can hurt you now.”
She seems to understand and better, even believe, as her body sinks into the mattress under my massage.
Mike comes up a half hour later, coughing slightly at the door. I cover her and walk out, shutting the door behind me.
“The delivery truck is from a private delivery service based out of Newark. Our security cameras picked up the license plate and had the background information already available. I talked to the driver, one Kelly Pierce. He is forty-two and has a drunk-and-disorderly charge from three years ago. Zachs is pulling the police report on that along with all his financials.”
“What’s the name of the delivery service?”
“The delivery service is Here Today, Gone Tomorrow. It delivers packages locally. This one was a fax order with a Western Union payment. They were directed to pick up a box from a pizzeria in the Financial District and then deliver it here.”
“What does Western Union want from us in order to get their videotapes?” Western Union, like most cash exchange places, records every transaction.
“The manager said nothing without a warrant.”
I rub my forehead. I do not want to get the police involved yet. “Is there anything that you have on the manager that you could use to leverage the information out of him?” Mike shakes his head. “We got nothing yet. Maybe in a day or two?”
I think quickly. Oliver would help even if it meant leaking the secret of his connection with Natalie. “Is he a Cobras fan?”
“Who isn’t?” Mike says quizzically.
“Go to the pizzeria and see why they are in the business of dealing with dead pets. In the meantime, I’ll go to Western Union. Which one?”
Mike gives me the address of one in Midtown on the East Side before he leaves. I find Kaga and Sabrina in the kitchen, looking slightly mussed and guilty, but I can’t summon a give-a-damn.
I dump some milk in a pan. My mom made warm milk for me when I was a kid, and it always made me feel better. I’m at a loss as to what to do for Natalie. Sabrina comes over with a small bottle in her hand.
“Put a little almond extract in it.”
I give her a tight smile, and she shakes two small drops into the pan.
“Is she going to be okay?”
“Yes. I don’t know when or how, but I do know that she is strong. She’s gone through a lot and made tremendous progress. Coming here, away from her home, was a lot to ask of her.” My fist tightens around the handle of the pan, but there’s no pain there. I turn to Kaga. He sees what I need immediately. I turn off the burner and pour the mixture into a mug, which I hand to Sabrina.
“Sabrina, why don’t you go upstairs and sit with Natalie,” he says.
“What are you two going to do?” she asks skeptically.
“I have some information that might be helpful to your brother.”
We don’t exchange a word as we walk into the cellar.
“Do you want to change?”
I look down at my jeans and T-shirt and shake my head.
“Very well, let’s go.”
In the cellar we enter a padded room the staff and I use to train. Kaga shrugs off his thousand-dollar suit coat and his expensive shirt. He slips off his shoes and crouches. It’s not a fair fight. It wouldn’t have been even if I had two regular legs and arms, because Kaga has been fighting since he could stand. I’m faster with a gun and probably better with a knife, but in hand-to-hand combat, there are few people who could ever beat him. Because of that, he is the perfect person for me to spar with. And I need pain and punishment before I can go back up and face Natalie. These are blows she should be landing; this is pain that she should inflict. Kaga does it for her. For forty-five minutes, he spins, strikes, and jabs.
And I take it because it’s only a fraction of the suffering I deserve. Kaga calls a halt.
“We’re not done yet,” I snarl and spring forward.
He glides away. “Yes, we are. I have no intention of receiving another blow.”
I notice with some grim satisfaction that I managed to land a punch on his upper cheek, which is bruising.
“Your sister will think that we’ve had yet another disagreement about her.”
I pull my shirt off and wipe my sweaty face with it. “You know, Kaga, you’re so hell-bent on having her. I’m not gonna stand in your way. But if you think for one minute she’s going to accept the life that you can give her, then you’re not as smart as I think you are.” I shrug the shirt back on. “And if you hurt her, we’re done. I will always choose my sister over you.”
He nods his head, almost a bow, to acknowledge the rightness of my statement. Family honor means everything to Kaga, which is why he’s in the bind he’s in now.
“I vacillate back and forth,” he admits, “between wanting everything and wanting just one thing.”
“Make up your mind before you go ruining people’s lives.”
He takes the hit, absorbs it like none of the physical blows I was able to land. And I’m almost regretful, but this is my sister. And I fear that whatever future she might have with Kaga will be too painful for her big heart to endure.
Back in my office I exchange my sweaty clothes for clean ones and ask for another report, ready to go to Western Union.
“I offered a signed Cobras jersey and the owner coughed the information up immediately. One of the frequent customers of the pizzeria is Daphne Marshall. She’s an editor at Brook Myles. There was a dog that ran out into the street and got hit by a car. It lay in the street for some time, so final
ly someone from the restaurant went and picked it up. They were going to throw it away, but Daphne objected. She said that the dog should have a funeral and that she would pay for it. She asked them to box it up in some dry ice and said that she would send a driver for it.”
“Daphne Marshall?” I repeat dumbly.
“That’s what they said. I ran some preliminary information. No criminal record, but she’s in debt up to her earlobes. Credit cards maxed out and one month behind in her rent. She lives in a complex downtown.”
“Shit, I thought for sure it was a dude,” Zachs says.
“Thanks. I’ll take it from here.” I’m not sure how I’m going to break it to Natalie that the person who has been tormenting her for the last few weeks, who has been instrumental in destroying the progress that she’s made in conquering her anxiety, is her closest friend and editor. I can’t even fathom why.
Natalie has the answers, and she deserves to know what I’ve discovered. I don’t even think she’s ready to hear it. Knowing who the perpetrator is, though, makes it easy enough to shadow her to make sure no other harm comes to Natalie. “I want a tail on her twenty-four/seven. She doesn’t take a shit without us knowing.”
Mike nods and Zachs trails behind. “Are you sure it’s not a guy?” he asks in disbelief. He had been so convinced it was a man. His notion of females as the weaker, milder gender is taking a blow.
I’d laugh if the situation weren’t so fucking tragic.
With a heavy heart, I climb the stairs. In the bedroom, I find Natalie packing. Sabrina is gone and the almond milk lies untouched on the end table.
“What’s going on?”
She draws in a shaky breath and then turns to me. “I should go home,” she says. “I don’t belong here. I’ve embarrassed myself enough. I called Dr. Terrance. He said to take two diazepam and go home.”
“This is your home.” I fold my arms across my chest and stand in the doorway, blocking her way.
“Then I called Dr. Crist and he told me the same thing. To go home.”
“Your home is here,” I repeat.
Her eyes fill with tears, but she swallows hard, fighting them back. “It’s not.”
I push away from the door so I can gather her into my arms. “Natalie, I love you. You love me. This is your home. I want you here with me.”
Her lips tremble and her face scrunches up as she tries to keep the tears in her eyes from falling. “I’m embarrassed and ashamed and maybe I shouldn’t feel that way, but I do. I want to be able to lick my wounds in peace.”
“I’ll leave then, just for tonight, but don’t go.” She’s shaking and feels slight and frail. I don’t want to let her go. Not now. Not ever. “Listen, sweetheart. I know who is doing this to you and I can make it stop.”
“You can? You can magically make all my anxiety go away?” She twists out of my grip and zips her suitcase closed. “With your penis or what? You are so well adjusted. You’ve conquered all your demons and now go around saving others. Well, you can’t save me. I’m a mess. I know this. But I just want to be a mess by myself.”
The shame and anguish in her voice is killing me. “You don’t have to go this alone.”
“You know agoraphobia isn’t fear of the outdoors or crowds. It’s the fear of having a panic attack in public and not being able to do a damn thing about it. It’s literally fear of fear itself. That’s why even in my own home sometimes I have a hard time with change. When I first moved in, I stayed in the bedroom. Sometimes I slept in the bathroom because it was the smallest room in my house and I figured if I passed out, pissed myself, or vomited, I’d just have to reach up and turn the shower on. I can’t do that here. There’s too much space. It’s just all too much. I can’t stay here.” She shuts her eyes and the water leaks out. I wipe her tears away with my thumbs and when I place my lips against hers and she opens in response, I feel like the crisis is momentarily averted. I taste salty tears and infuse as much love and tenderness into the kiss as possible.
I brush her hair back. “You’re stronger than you know. This too shall pass.”
It is the wrong thing to say. She gasps and breaks away. Bending down, she grabs her suitcase. It swings around and hits me in the knee joint and I fold, like a stupid house of cards.
“Fuck,” I cry, sounding like a goddamned broken record.
“Oh my God,” she cries and claps a hand over her mouth. “I’m so sorry. I—I have to go. I’m sorry.”
She runs out and because of my stupid fucking prosthetic, I can’t get up and chase after her. I crawl to the bed and pull myself up, and then limp downstairs only to see her run out the door. Adrenaline must be overcoming her fear. A car service is waiting. She dives into the backseat. I see her bending over, blowing into a paper bag as the car speeds away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
JAKE
“You bastard,” I say, ripping the door open.
Isaiah is on his phone and he looks at me coolly as I charge in. “I have to go now,” he speaks into the receiver, “an emergency has arisen. Here’s Sarah. Make an appointment, first available free date.”
“You’re goddamned right this is an emergency,” I snarl. “What the fuck did you say to Natalie today?”
I want to leap across the desk and strangle him.
“Have a seat, Jake.” He gestures toward the chairs.
I plant my palms on his desk and lean over. “No, I won’t fucking sit down. Now tell me what you said to make Natalie leave. I know you said something and I want to know what the fuck it was and how you’re going to fix it.” He stares at me. “Now,” I roar and pound on the desk.
Isaiah jerks back and then rises. He waves to the person behind me. “No, Sarah, we are just fine. No need to call the cops.”
“You don’t know that,” I fume. “I’m two seconds away from taking you down, no matter what our history.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “Now, son—”
I cut him off with a slash of my hand. “No, you don’t get to ‘son’ me. I am not your patient. I am not in your platoon. You don’t get to tell me what to do. You are going to sit down and you are going to listen good. You took something from me that was vital. You broke her, and you need to call her right now and fix it.”
Hands spread, he shrugs helplessly. “That’s just it, Jake, she is broken, but I can’t fix her and neither can you. She has to get better on her own. I spoke with Dr. Terrance—”
“You did what?” I ask incredulously. “I came to you because I fucking trusted you, Isaiah. You knew I didn’t like this guy and that I thought he did more harm than good.”
“So are you.”
I rear back as if he struck me. “What?”
“You aren’t good for her either.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Isaiah comes around his desk and stops a little too close to me for his own safety. My right hand curls into an involuntary fist and the left follows seconds after.
“You were enabling her. In your house, she didn’t need to go anywhere. You saw to her every need.”
“So what? She was having therapy. You yourself said she’d get better in her own time.”
“She wanted to get better for you, not for herself.”
“That’s bullshit. She wanted to be better before I ever met her. She was outside her apartment and walking down the street, going to local cafés. Her progress and subsequent reversal had fuck-all to do with me.”
He takes a step back and then another as I advance on him. “You’re not a therapist, Jake. You were her lover.”
“Am,” I say stonily. “I am her lover. Will be. There will be no one else for her.”
He shakes his head. “You’ll never be happy if she’s not sufficiently well.”
“Fuck you, Isaiah. You don’t know what makes me happy or what I need. As long as she was happy, that’s what fucking mattered. When she was ready, she would have left the house. When she was fucking rea
dy. You think taking her away from people who love her was really the best decision?”
“I do, yes,” Isaiah says, with the pompous reassurance of a man who’s fucked with one too many minds.
“If you weren’t twenty years older than me, my fist would be in your face. Don’t ever call me again, Isaiah. I don’t want to have anything to do with you.”
“Jake, wait,” he calls.
I don’t turn around or answer any of his pleas. That man is dead to me. I want to break something or someone, and if I stay another minute in his presence, I will lay him out. He messed with me; worse, he shit on Natalie. He’d said something to her, made her think she was weak and less-than.
Instead of building her up, he tore her down. Did no one recognize how strong she was? In her own time, my ass. Everyone was imposing a time line on Natalie that fit their idea of when she should be at what mental health marker.
Did I care that she didn’t leave the townhouse? Fuck no. Did I care that she preferred to spend her time locked up in her two rooms on the third floor? Double fucking no. I care that she looks at me like I could lift the world on my shoulders. I care that when she smiles, my whole day gets better. I care that she’s clever and talented and can think rings around me. I care about the sweet way she and Sabrina have bonded. I care that she loves me and that I love her. That she, in the noncorniest way, is my other half. Probably my better half.
At home, I find Sabrina in the kitchen. There are already two full boxes of cookies and from the looks of it, she’s well on her way to a third one. She gives me a sad, trembly smile. “I thought I’d bake some cookies for her.”
Folding Sabrina in my arms, I try to comfort one woman in my life. “I’m going after her. She’ll be back here sooner rather than later. I have her treadmill desk. She loves that damn thing.”
“Do you think she’s all right?”
“She will be.”
And I’ll be there to hold her hand and celebrate every success, even if it’s just answering the door.
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