OTHER BOOKS BY JEN FREDERICK
Losing Control
Taking Control
Hitman series
Last Hit
Last Breath
Last Kiss
Last Hope
The Woodlands Series
Undeclared
Undressed
Unspoken
Unraveled
Unrequited
The Jackson Boys
The Charlotte Chronicles
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2015 Jen Frederick
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle
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ISBN-13: 9781503947559
ISBN-10:1503947556
Cover design by Marc J. Cohen
To my sister, whom I once lost and found again.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
NATALIE
Every long journey begins with one step.
I read that on an online forum a while back. It was one of those photoshopped inspirational quotes done in a curly typeface on top of a beautiful sunset. To this day, I remember the image vividly not because it featured a blonde beauty clad in a sports bra and tight shorts with a golden retriever by her side, but because my best-friend and editor Daphne Marshall pointed out that the cliff formation in the background looked like a penis. Once someone points out a penis in a picture, it can’t be unseen.
“Do you remember the Mount Dick photo?” I ask Daphne. She and I are standing at the kitchen island as I stare at the door of my apartment.
“The one with the chick running on the beach with her dog? How could I forget?” She arches an eyebrow. Daphne is tall, slender, and every inch the fashionable New York working woman. She could be on the cover of Women’s Wear Daily with her slick black outfits and perfectly shod feet. In contrast, I’m wearing pink flannel pajama pants decorated with penguins and a faded NY Cobras T-shirt that I’d stolen from my cousin Oliver a few years ago. I did brush my hair and teeth, though. That’s a plus. “Did we decide that she was running toward Mount Dick or away from it?”
“Away. There was genuine terror in that dog’s eyes. Like whatever lurked behind that penis would haunt him forever.”
“Maybe that’s just you projecting.”
“Ouch.” I slap a hand over my chest, but I can’t deny her charge. I am haunted by a lot of things in my past, but I’m trying to move past them, which is why Daphne’s with me today. Today I’m going to push the elevator button, and she’s going to make sure that if something bad happens, I’ll get back to my home safely.
It’s a huge step forward for me, metaphorically speaking. The elevator is only twenty steps away from my door. And there are only fifteen steps between me and the door of my apartment. I know precisely because I’ve documented them in the journal I started keeping three years ago. The journal doesn’t contain my thoughts and dreams—it’s a collection of numbers and tally marks recording how many times it took to open the door, then step into the hall, then push the elevator button, then wait in the hallway before puking, crying, and losing consciousness because my throat closes up from fear. Not fear of anything in particular. Nope, my fear is of fear itself.
The worst kind.
The stupidest kind.
The seemingly incurable kind.
Two weeks ago I was able to leave my apartment and go down to the subway stop three blocks away. It was a huge victory for me, seeing as I’d not been able to leave even my building three years ago, let alone be within sniffing distance of a subway tunnel. One anonymous note that was barely threatening sent me scurrying back inside—years of therapy shot to shit.