Picking up my phone, I press the second contact on my Favorites screen. Favorites is a misnomer. If I never had to see or talk to Dr. Terrance again, I would be so happy. He’s not a bad guy but he’s a visible reminder of my psychosis. If I could, I’d make a list called “Un-favorites I have to stay in contact with.” I wouldn’t have gotten to the point of being able to stand outside without his aid. Even so, every visit and phone call is just a reminder of my weakness, my mental illness.

While another person might have fired him and found a new doctor, Daphne recommended Dr. Terrance, and I’ll admit that up until two weeks ago his methods have worked.

“Hello, Natalie, how are you today?”

“Not bad, Dr. Terrance. I was wondering about getting out of the apartment.”

He tut-tuts, the clicks of his tongue against the roof of his mouth as clear through the phone line as if he is standing next to me. It’s just as annoying in person.

“And what happened the last time that you ventured out?” he asks. Psychiatrists ask questions—at least that’s what I’ve learned. If I wrote a book featuring a psychiatrist, I’d wear out my question mark key. Were you sad when your parents died? When Oliver went away to college, were you upset? Why did you move to New York? When the person called you a whore and threatened to send dogs to rape you, were you scared?

Yes, yes, because Oliver came here, yes. He always knew the answers, but wanted me to say them, as if saying the answer, acknowledging my pain, somehow lessened the sting. It hasn’t yet, but I keep going back to him because I did get better. I was improving and I’m not going to let some note from some faceless neckbeard keep me from going outside again.

“I made it to the elevator.” I project as much gaiety as possible.

“And then you felt faint, vomited, and lost consciousness. You frightened your cousin, who called me in a panic and, had you not been revived, he would have taken you to the hospital where you would likely have been admitted—at least overnight—for observation.”

Hot-cheeked, I remain silent because his recitation is terribly accurate and nothing scares me more than being admitted. The feeling of suffocation inside the white walls of the psych ward with the antiseptic smells and the constant interruptions by the nurses and aides is a million times worse than the fear that overtakes me when I try to leave my apartment.

“Natalie?” he prompts.

Natalie with a question mark. I answer with my own query. “When do you think I’ll be able to leave my apartment?”

“It all depends. I’ve written you a scrip for Tofranil and you should take four 25 mg tablets a day. With food,” he adds as an afterthought. “Stay away from triggers like visitors and leaving your apartment. Once you’ve been on the dose for seven days and your anxiety is down to manageable levels, you may call me and we’ll try the elevator together, which is how we should have done it in the first place, isn’t that right?”

I ignore that question, which probably doesn’t require a response anyway. Dr. Terrance likes to be with me for every big “breakthrough.”

“Are you saying that I shouldn’t see Oliver or Daphne?”

“You can talk to them on the phone, but no in-person contact.”

“How am I supposed to eat?”

“Order in and have the food deposited outside your door as you usually do. You are still comfortable with the doormen delivering your goods, correct?”

I drop my head into my hands. Seven days of forced solitude? Well, Daphne would say to look at the bright side and think of all the writing I’ll get done. “Yeah, I’m okay with the doormen. Does it have to be Tofranil? I feel like a zombie on that.”

“You and Prozac have never gotten along, Natalie, or have you forgotten?”

“No.” Prozac makes me violently ill.

“Good. Take the Tofranil and let’s get ready to face the elevator together, hmm?”

Suitably chastened, I reply, “Right.”

“Oh, and Natalie, think about my proposition again, will you? I think it would be a wonderful service for the community.”

“Sure.”

Never happening in a million years, Dr. Terrance, I silently vow.

Hanging up, I stretch out on the floor and press one hand against the glass. Dr. Terrance wants to write a book about my experience. He says when I recover it will be a triumphant story of recovery and provide hope to other sufferers of extreme anxiety.

I don’t believe him, but partly because I don’t want it to be true. If it is true then repeatedly turning down his offer is super selfish of me because I should want to help other people, but it would mean laying my entire life bare; I had enough of the fishbowl three years ago when someone leaked that I was Natalie Beck. The unhappy trolls, who’d discovered that their favorite game had been written by a woman and not a man, made it their mission to uncover every piece of dirt in my past—who I’d slept with and how many times was of greatest interest. They read my innocuous tweets about cats and movies. Looked me up on message boards. They discovered my Facebook page and proceeded to comb over every status update as if they were the Watergate reporters.

Thankfully my connection to Oliver was never revealed. It was apparent early on in Oliver’s high school career that he was someone special. To prevent me from suffering abuse from nosy people on the Internet as he became more famous, we hid our connection. It was easier to do that now when we lived in the same building. Most of the people here were very private for one reason or another, and Oliver’s visits to my apartment or mine to his have never been remarked on publicly.

After my identity was revealed, he wanted to blast everyone who hurt me, go on talk shows and the like, but I begged him not to. I knew it would only make it worse. He’d been coming off a terrible season and his social media accounts were filled with hostility too. It would have been gasoline on a fire.

No, there won’t ever be a book written about me—at least not without my permission.

I roll to my side and stare out the bottom of the glass door. It’s all academic anyway. There’s no triumphant recovery. Not yet.

And after the note?

Maybe not ever.

CHAPTER EIGHT

JAKE

“Glad you could make it,” Ian says with sourness as I slip into my courtside seat.

“Work,” I answer. I’d spent the afternoon running down possible leads in Natalie’s case. Oliver provided me a list of her former coworkers, people they thought could have been behind the subway attack, and her ex-boyfriends—only one actually lives in New York City; the other two were from her hometown in Indiana. I put an investigator on the one who lives in Brooklyn. “How long has he been like this?” I ask Kaga, who is seated next to Ian. Their long legs are stretched perilously close to the out-of-bounds line. Anyone who thinks Asians are short hasn’t met Kaga, who tops me by an inch.

“Since the opening tip-off,” Kaga replies with a roll of his coal-black eyes.

We both turn to look at Ian, who apparently came from the office since he’s still wearing his suit. His collar is unbuttoned and his undoubtedly very expensive silk tie is hanging halfway out of his pocket. He invited us out tonight to witness the shellacking of the Knicks by the Atlanta Hawks. He flips us off but doesn’t take his eyes off the court.