Revealed to Him Read online

  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

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  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.

  It’s safe to say that sometimes I can’t stand myself.

  But not today. Today I’m going to open my apartment door. I’m going to walk the twenty steps to the elevator, and I’m going to push that damn elevator button. I won’t try to get on. My little brain can’t handle that kind of exposure today. Maybe tomorrow or the day after. But I won’t get outside again unless I take that first step.

  “What if you gave me a push?” I suggest.

  Daphne makes a frustrated noise. “Why are you doing this to yourself? I feel like I’m watching you volunteer for torture. Your face is shiny and your skin is clammy.” She pats my cheek with the back of her hand. “Shit, you’re already going into shock.”

  “I’m not.” I take two deep breaths and start counting. Counting helps to slow my breathing from freaked out back to semi-panicked. So does focusing on the picture of the Eiffel Tower that I have hanging near the entry. Also pressing the large middle vein on my wrist repeatedly.

  I do all of those things so that I can unstick my feet and move toward the door. Just to the elevator, I tell myself. Heart pounding so hard, I’m sure Daphne can hear it, I take my first step and then another. I keep going until I’m at the doorway. Daphne’s slim body is a welcome presence behind me.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” I say between heaving breaths. I raise a shaky hand to wipe away the cold sweat that’s formed on my forehead.

  “Of course. If you were to pass out, I wouldn’t get the next chapter in your book that is due in, oh, thirty days.”

  “You’d get it,” I protest, ignoring the doorknob in front of me. “It might not be for a few days, but you’d get it.”

  “So you say.” She leans around me and places her hand on the door. “Want me to open it for you?”

  I hesitate, but then nod reluctantly. If she doesn’t open it, it might take me another fifteen minutes to muster up the strength to even place my hand on the knob. With her taking the initiative, I only have to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other.

  When her hand reaches for the doorknob, I avert my gaze and focus on the Eiffel Tower. I should have put the picture of Mount Dick up there instead.

  One step.

  A long journey.

  Hell, I’d take a short journey. The click of the latch releasing ratchets up my panic. My heart starts racing again. I rub my slick palms together and try to start breathing from my belly instead of my chest.

  In through the nose.

  Out through
the mouth.

  My heart is strong. It beats so powerfully because it is strong and I am alive.

  In through the nose.

  “Maybe you should come back inside?” Daphne says quietly.

  “No. I can make it.” I want to turn and hug her for enduring this with me. It must be hard. When my cousin Oliver, who plays quarterback for the NY Cobras, gets hit on the field, my heart stops until he gets up. She’s an amazing friend.

  I press my hand against my stomach and take one step. Only thirteen to go.

  Out through the mouth.

  After each step, I stop and breathe. I reassure myself I am doing fine. Daphne waits patiently behind me.

  I don’t know exactly how much time passes, but after thirteen steps and thirteen deep breaths, I find myself at the elevator bank. I choke out a laughing sob. “I made it.”

  “Good job,” she says.

  Licking my lips, I raise my hand and press the DOWN button. The walls of the hall seem to shake as the elevator rises from the lobby. The lights above the elevator shift as the elevator passes each floor.

  “I should go back,” I say, but apparently I’m not loud enough, because Daphne doesn’t respond. She’s staring at the elevator doors, waiting for them to part.

  What if there’s someone inside the elevator? What if it’s the note writer? What if it’s someone from my past? My stomach starts churning and I can feel the acid rising. “I should go,” I say again, but no one hears me. I must be so quiet.

  I clear my throat, but all I taste is bile. I choke it back.

  The note. That goddamned note.

  Five words on a throwaway piece of paper shouldn’t get to me. The threat is stupid and vague and clichéd. Although if it is from who I think it is—one of those cowardly, dickless wonders whose unwashed sweatpants are filled with Cheetos dust and whose only form of social activity is hurling insults on the Internet—then it should come as no surprise that the threat sounds like it was cut and pasted from the cheesiest pulp novel ever.

  And I hate that it gets to me. I hate that I’ve been driven inside, a prisoner of my home. I hate that I’m gasping for breath standing in front of this goddamn elevator. I hate that the first fucking breath of fresh air that I sucked in took two years to achieve. I hate all of it, but my hate isn’t stronger than my fear.

  That’s probably what I hate the most.

  “Daphne.” I reach out for her.

  She’s lost in her own thoughts. I’m drowning in mine.

  Why should that note affect me so greatly? There has never been a robbery or assault in this building. There are famous people, like my cousin Oliver, who live here. All signs point to being safe.

  I’m safe and I’m at the elevator.

  I’m at the ELEVATOR!

  Black dots start to swim in front of my eyes as my stupid brain starts telling every part of my body that we’re in danger. My heart is pounding so hard and fast I fear it might leap out of my chest. My breath is stuck in my lungs and can’t get out because my throat has completely closed up. I’ve got no strength in my legs and I’m shaking so hard my vision has blurred. When the bell dings and the elevator slides open, I collapse.

  And then there’s nothing.

  CHAPTER TWO

  JAKE

  “Does that disguise work for you?” I run my eyes over one of the most famous figures in New York City. Despite the battered cap over his hair and mirrored aviators covering his eyes, I can still tell it’s Oliver Graham, quarterback of the recent Super Bowl–winning NY Cobras. With the new season right around the corner, everyone in the city is ready to start another run for the ring. His face is plastered on buses and subway cars and billboards. There’s hardly anyone more recognizable.

  He tugs off his cap and runs agitated fingers through his hair. “Worked all the way from Tribeca.”

  It’s seven and I meant to close two hours ago, but I’ve had a steady stream of new clients and investigators this afternoon. Given that Tanner Security is a young company, I don’t have the luxury of turning anyone away, particularly not a client of Graham’s stature.

  “I fear for the city then. Jake Tanner.” I offer my right hand.

  “Oliver Graham.”

  I resist the urge to say “I know” and Graham avoids any mention of the fact that my left hand is a prosthetic. We shake and I gesture for him to follow me down the hall to my office. Graham’s got a good game face.

  I lost my left foot and hand to an IED explosion in Afghanistan five years ago. For some people, the prosthetics bring out pity. For others, it’s a turn-on. Athletes like Graham are often in the first category. They are afraid my loss of limbs is contagious.

  Early on, I might have felt that way too, but the long war had consequences and veteran amputees were one of them. I came to terms with my loss and decided I was just glad to be alive.

  I take a seat behind my desk and wait for Graham to settle into one of the leather club chairs that set me back a cool grand. My sisters and mother decorated my office and I’d sat in the damn things for a month before the credit card bill showed up or I might have sent them back to the store.

  “What can I do for you? Crazed fan or scorned woman?” I ask. A man like Graham, who lives much of his life in the media spotlight, probably has more than a few security concerns. Or it could be that he wants to run a background check on a potential employee, or hell, even a new girlfriend.

  When I began Tanner Security four and a half years ago after getting out of the army, I didn’t realize that my bread and butter would be made off of people who wanted to know other people’s secrets. Eight years in the army failed to ferret out every atom of idealism, but security work did it in half the time.

  “I’d like to say it was either or both, but I’m here because of my cousin.” He hooks his sunglasses on the collar of his dark gray T-shirt and pulls a large envelope wrapped in plastic from his messenger bag.

  I try not to look surprised, but plastic wrap suggests evidence and fingerprints.

  “Hold on.” I leave and grab a box of latex gloves in the bottom shelf of the storage cabinet down the hall. Back in my office, I snap a glove over my good hand and strip the plastic film from the envelope.

  “Sorry,” he apologizes as I peel off a second layer of wrap. “We didn’t have any plastic bags.”

  “This is better than nothing.” The side of the envelope had been ripped open. I tap on it and two ordinary sheets of cheap copy paper slid out. “I know who you are.” As I read the words aloud, Graham’s brows tighten in anger.

  The second page is a printout of a screenshot of someone’s Twitter feed dated three years ago. The tweets are innocuous. The avatar is of a cat wearing sunglasses in front of a planet. The tweets range from horror over a Bladerunner remake to a posting of a cat wearing glasses. There are a lot of cat-related tweets.

  “’I’m surmising that there is something more to this story than a cat tweeting pictures of other cats.” I look inside the envelope, but there’s nothing else there.

  “Some sick motherfucker sent this to my cousin Natalie a week ago.” He jabs a long finger on the desk. “I want you to find out who it is.”

  “Why not go to the police?” I turn the papers over as I process Graham’s statement. I didn’t know he had a cousin. He’s kept that well hidden. There aren’t any identifying marks that I can see. Devon Zachs, my computer expert, would probably be able to tell me which printer was used just by smelling the ink.

  “Because we’ve tried them before and they were completely ineffective. We don’t trust them.”

  “You and Natalie?”

  “My whole family.”

  I’d never heard of the Grahams having any problems that necessitated police intervention. As far as I recalled, Graham’s family was from the Midwest—some state starting with a vowel—but I don’t follow the gossip papers. My baby sister, Sabrina, might know something. I make a mental note to check with her tonight.

  “Is your cousin
hiding somewhere? She in witness protection?”

  “No.” He looks confused, but I am too. “I know who you are” is a threat directed at people who are hiding their identities.

  I try a different angle. “How was it delivered?”

  “It was delivered with the rest of her mail. She has a different last name. Beck.”

  The envelope was unstamped and had no address. Only the words N. Beck were written in block letters.

  “How’d it get in there?”

  “I don’t know. I asked the building manager and she said that it was probably left with the doorman or at the concierge’s desk and shuffled into the mail at the end of the day. I haven’t asked any more questions, because Natalie was against raising a stink about it.”

  “She hopes it goes away.”

  He nods abruptly. Clearly he doesn’t agree with this Natalie’s decisions.

  “All right. Tell me the background.”

  “Are you familiar with the game Saturnalia?” he asks.

  I pull out a recorder. “Mind if I record this?” When he hesitates, I assure him, “It’s all confidential. This is so I can refer back to it as I investigate.” At his nod, I press RECORD. “I’m not a big gamer, particularly of first-person shooter games. I’ve lived it, so it’s not my idea of relaxation.” Some guys who were in the service loved those games, but I always thought that was a good way of triggering PTSD. Besides, as a thirty-five-year-old male living in New York City, there is plenty of live entertainment, particularly of the female persuasion.

  “It’s not a shooting game. It’s a role-playing, civilization-building game. You start out in a pod in space containing biogeneration units, having jettisoned yourself from dying Earth. There’s a planet ahead of you and you have two different entry choices. You can crash land or take extra time to circle the planet. At every juncture you have choices and the decisions you make throughout the game yield different results. Your objective is to re-create human civilization. The game allows you to do it a million different ways, but each choice that you make delivers different rewards. Make enough of the right choices, and as the game progresses, you meet a potential mate, have children, find more people. If you make too many of the wrong choices, your options are bad. Like your mate dies before you can have children or your potential mate will have a fundamental belief difference and won’t accept your advances and your civilization will eventually die.”