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down,” Ruby said, feigning an irritated tone. “You’ve got to let a sick girl get her rest.”
    “I’m sorry,” I said.
    “So sorry that I was such a fool,” Ruby sang, soft and sweetly.
    She held up a finger. Another point. I recognized the melody from a classic country tune but didn’t recall the artist. I smiled weakly, giving Ruby’s forehead a mollifying kiss. Meanwhile, I’m thinking, We’re screwed.

CHAPTER 4
    S tanding at the base of the Wilhelm Genetics skyscraper, I tingled at the thought of riding up in the glass elevator. I was sure the view of the Boston skyline from the fortieth floor would be spectacular, but there were lots of spectacular views I could no longer stomach. I had only five minutes before my appointment with Vivian Sutcliffe, director of patient access for Wilhelm Genetics, to get my nerves on.
    Train delays. Damn trains.
    I did everything possible to get here early enough to take the stairs. Man plans. God laughs. Still, arranging this meeting was no simple task, and I wasn’t about to let a little thing like paralyzing acrophobia keep me from making the appointment on time.
    My conversation with Leonard Tate, now two days in the past, deteriorated faster than a reality star’s career. Tate must have said, “I’m sorry, but that’s our policy,” at least a dozen times before I demanded to speak to a senior customer service representative from Atrium. Then, like tag team wrestlers, it was Carlotta Duncan’s turn to say, “I’m sorry, but that’s Atrium’s policy.”
    I hung up the phone, leaving the Atrium reps with the highly ineffective parting salvo, “Thanks for nothing.” I couldn’t think of anything more clever to say. I was too floored, too angry, too dumbfounded to speak.
    Rather than stay stuck in Atrium’s maddening constraints, I turned my attention to the Web, where I found a glimmer of hope in the form of Wilhelm Genetics Access Solutions program—a service for patients and their health-care providers to assist with coverage and reimbursement support. Hopefully, this trip on the insurance merry-go-round would yield me the brass ring.
    Wilhelm Genetics newly constructed headquarters in Boston’s downtown financial district stood in stark contrast to the surrounding historic buildings that gave the city its unique architectural character. The towering skyscraper was a rectangular structure, ultramodern in design, which reflected Boston’s scenic harbor in its mirrored glass windows. I entered the foyer, shaking off a seasonally cool early April day in New England. If there was one bit of hope to be extracted from the building’s sleek interior, it was a feeling that this company could afford to be charitable. The burnished marble floors and walls appeared flecked with gold, while the majestic light fixtures descending from a thirty-foot-high ceiling would fit in just fine at the Museum of Fine Arts.
    My footsteps echoed across the cavernous space on my way to the security desk, manned by two sentries well dressed in white oxford shirts, black ties, and official-looking badges. I signed the guest registry, noted the time on my iPhone—two minutes until my meeting with Sutcliffe—and then followed their directions to the elevator bank. Already I was shaking, and I hadn’t yet set foot inside what my brain considered a glass tomb.
    My mind kept saying, Don’t be late, but my body spoke otherwise.
    I wish I had listened to my body.
    Acrophobia comes from the Greek ákron, meaning “peak, summit, edge,” and phobos, meaning “fear.” Fear of heights is not an irrational emotion, especially if there is no protection to safeguard one from a fall. But I’m a mountain climber, dammit. I once lived my life on the edge. Now, years after what I did to Brooks Hall, I can’t even get near an edge without getting the shakes. My shrink wasn’t too surprised by the sudden onset of the condition. Acrophobia has historically been attributed to a traumatic