I recline back in my desk chair. Stare at the large whiteboard along the wall. At the top, circled twice in black, is the word unnoticed.

I don’t keep much at my apartment, only the basic necessities of my project. Reminders, half-hatched theories and notes. Nothing that could tie me to my main working space—and that is exactly what unnoticed reminds me.

Just how important is my mystery woman?

How unnoticed is she, if at all?

For the next hour, I scour her phone, digging through emails, combing through texts, appointments, web searches. She’s gone to some length to hide her identity. I wonder if she keeps a second phone with more personal information, but I find enough metadata to build a general person.

Her name: Lauraleigh Blakely Vaughn.

I say it out loud, taste the syllables. It tastes expensive.

A Google search brings up a family connection to Michael and Vanessa Vaughn. Old New York money, at least on her father’s side. He deals in real estate development. With a family this high-profile, Ms. Vaughn is not an ideal subject.

“Dammit.” I grip the phone in my fist. My chest tightens, pressure builds in my head, and I’m about to slam the proverbial door closed on this avenue when a thought breaks through the whirring in my ears.

Lauraleigh doesn’t want to be known. This is a fact. She maneuvers under fake names, she carries weapons, she courts shady businessmen types…

Why?

By her psychopathic nature, she would be drawn to more risky dealings. Is that all last night was? A way to avoid a high-profile name and experience a little danger and excitement?

I plunder deeper into her programs and unearth a deleted text message from a woman named Rochelle. There’s enough detail here for me to piece together that Lauraleigh has a side business—one she keeps secret.

I pace the length of my apartment to think.

With the little information I’ve obtained from her phone, I don’t have enough to build a proper conclusion. To effectively determine whether or not she’s a candidate, I need to evaluate her in person. I need more time with her.

I just need more…of her.

There are two ways to go about this. One: Track her phone. Follow her. Log her daily routine. Study her. Only this takes time.

Two: I go directly to her.

The impulse to check my pocket watch grabs me fiercely, and I make what is probably the rashest decision since the inception of this project.

I call her.

“Blakely,” she answers. Her voice startles me. I don’t know why; maybe I wasn’t expecting her to answer, or maybe it’s exactly as I remember it, that breathy cadence that slinks down my back.

I clear my throat, forcing my brain to focus and gather the little information she’s just given me.

Blakely. She goes by her mother’s maiden name.

“You have something of mine,” I say. “I want it back.”

Silence fills the line. I can hear her breathing, the distant honking of horns in the background, a faint cord of a cello, some classical piece—the soundtrack of her life.

“Who is this?” she demands.

“You know who.” I take a beat to think about my next words. “The guy you Tasered and drugged and shoved into a closet.”

She laughs. It’s a surprising tinkling sound that tightens my stomach. “Oh, right. The asshole.”

“You gave me a pet name. How sweet.”

“You grabbed my arm. Guys should know better in this day and age.”

The Taser I can justify as far as defense—but the extreme concentration of club drugs? Who was that for? Her personal use or another unsuspecting victim?

“I’d really like to know where my pocket watch is.” I force the subject.

I hear a distinct click over the line and recognize the sound of my watch cover springing open. “And I’d like to know how you got this number.”

I settle in my desk chair and brace a hand to my knee. When dealing with a psychopath, it’s important to think through the conversation. That watch is important. I’ve given her this power over me. I need her to feel like the one in charge…but only the appearance of it.

“I’m kind of a computer geek,” I answer honestly. “I was testing new phone software at the club to scan phone data, and I just happened to snag yours.”

There’s a lengthy pause, then: “What’s your name? Your real name.”

I hesitate for only a moment. “Alex Chambers.”

“Meet me at Bean House on the corner of third and Broadway in an hour, Alex Chambers.”

I open my mouth to confirm, but she ends the call first. I pocket my phone as I replay the conversation, mentally assessing her responses.

The fact that she wants to meet says she’s at least curious about me. Or apprehensive. She chose a public place. Although, had she not, considering our last encounter, I would have made that request.

I’m not so arrogant that I don’t fear this woman. Fear is healthy. Smart.

On her part: I hacked her phone. I know her identity. She’s intelligent enough to be just as wary about me, although her psyche may transmute that fear into outrage. I can go on to speculate just how this interaction will go between us…but I stop myself. Honestly, I’ve never encountered a subject like her before.

She’s unpredictable.

The second step of the scientific method is to collect. While I’m collecting my pocket watch from Blakely, I’ll also be gathering the data I need for the next phase.

On my way out, I pause at the console table and touch the framed picture of a young girl and boy with smiling, innocent faces.

“We’re getting closer, Mary.”

Kindred

Blakely

The eerie sensation of someone watching me prickles the back of my neck. I peer around to find the asshole from the club standing a few feet away.

“Were you just, like…watching me?”

“That’s an inherent instinct,” he says. He starts toward the table I selected in the middle of the sidewalk bistro. “To detect when you’re being watched. Thousands of years of evolution, and we still retain a primal characteristic from the days when we were prey to a larger species of hunters. Though some possess this skill more than others.”

I arch an eyebrow. I suppose he’s referring to me.

As he sits down in the metal chair across from me, I prop my arms on the table. “You’re just full of stimulating information.”

He smirks. Outside of the darkly lit atmosphere of the club, I can better access him. He’s attractive. Vibrant blue eyes—the kind women get lost in. Although today, he’s sporting thin, wire-rimmed glasses. The glasses don’t detract from that pretty-boy smile with the pop of dimples, but rather enhance his overall likeability. His dark hair flops haphazard, as if he spends a lot of time driving his fingers through it. Probably while sitting at his lab desk.

Yes, just as I know he’s done to me, I did some digging into him before I came here. According to a few academic sites, Dr. Alex Chambers is a biomedical scientist. This particular field of science analyzes how the human body works to discover innovative ways to cure or treat diseases. Apparently, Dr. Chambers helped developed some miracle vaccine for rotavirus that earned him an academic award.

I’m not even sure what that disease is, but he’s obviously the real deal. I wonder what he thinks of me.

“I do happen to be very full of information. It’s a side effect of having an isolating career,” he explains. “I lack the ability to do small talk.”

“You seem to be doing just fine.” Truthfully, I despise small talk. It’s a waste of time, and makes my head hurt.

As the waitress sets two cups of cappuccino on the table, I say, “I took the liberty of ordering for you. Hope you’re not allergic to dairy.”

“Not at all. Thank you.”

Dairy’s not his kryptonite. Check.