The elevator opens and I glance around, checking to make sure that there are no police waiting to haul me in. But the lobby’s empty, so I quickly exit to the street.

There aren’t quite as many pedestrians around now. I make some quick calculations as I walk. In New York, carrying this much cocaine is considered possession in the third degree. I could serve up to nine years in prison, and even if I didn’t, any felony drug conviction means I will no longer be eligible for welfare or public housing or any of the other things I’ll need when employers start rejecting my job applications due to my felony record.

I walk a block, then two, wanting to get as far away from that building as possible before hailing a cab. I try not to appear conspicuous, refusing to look over my shoulder even though I’m still haunted by the feeling of being watched.

Maybe this is a legitimate errand . . . Well, not legitimate, socially speaking, but maybe it’s what it seems to be on the face of things. Maybe Travis actually uses cocaine. Or . . . well, okay, maybe he and fifty friends use this much. Or it’s possible that he’s trading the coke for some kind of favor. If either of those scenarios is true, he’s just handed me the fuel I need to put my plan into overdrive. With a few added creative flourishes I’ll be able to take him and the rest of his family down within a week . . . two weeks tops.

But Travis just doesn’t strike me as the user type . . . at all. And while I can see him loading his wife up on Zoloft and Ambien, I can’t imagine him giving her cocaine. The last thing that man wants is a hyped-up wife with chemically induced narcissism.

I hail a cab, and as I slide into the backseat I finally allow myself to look back for the first time. Everything seems normal. A few scattered pedestrians, a few cabs . . . not a cop in sight.

I tell the cabbie to take me to HGVB Bank and then shut down his attempts to strike up a conversation as he starts our journey out of Brooklyn.

Clenching my teeth, I open my purse and peek inside. I run my fingers over the brown bag without taking it out and think about something Lander told me over a recent dinner, something about the bullies in his world:

“There are plenty of those, and they all look and dress like me . . . Many of them are so subtle in their aggression that you don’t know you’re a target until you’re already down for the count.”

So if that’s true, what’s Travis playing at? Am I a target or does he take me for an ally? Or perhaps something in between?

God, there are so many possibilities, I can’t keep them straight.