She most likely learned early on that she was different than others, which made her stand out, made people notice and question her. This can be a weakness to the less self-aware psychopath; people see you coming…and they get out of the way.

Blakely wasn’t only wary during our meeting, she was guarded. She’s built high walls in order to protect herself from those she doesn’t understand. Which happens to be most of the human population.

Footsteps approach on the sidewalk, the hollow thud of boot heels on pavement. I check the time on my pocket watch. Noon on the dot.

I close the journal and tuck it away in my canvass backpack as she rounds the bend toward my bench.

“Are you a bird watcher, too?” Blakely asks. “Or are you just creeping on passerby?”

I smile at that. From both my interactions with her, I’ve determined she uses sarcasm in place of sentiment. Sentiment is difficult to simulate. It’s much easier to be perceived as sarcastic. It’s a good coversheet for her psychopathy.

“I’m journaling.” I look her over. She’s wearing her hair tucked into a black knit cap. Dark-denim jeans with a slim gray thermal. A camera bag is slung over one shoulder. “Are you here to spy?”

She tilts her head. “What gave it away?” I laugh as she takes up the seat on the bench beside me and unzips the leather case. “Ericson comes here every Monday to meet with one of his bigwig clients.”

As she adjusts the camera lens, I say, “It’s a little strange meeting your financial advisor in a park, isn’t it?”

She brings the camera up to her eye and pans the area. “This client is a bit eccentric. And paranoid.” She halts her scan. “There you are.”

Rapid-fire picture snaps sound out before she lowers the camera. “What do you journal?”

She’s still trying to figure me out, whether she can trust me…as much as she’s capable. “Application code. New ideas. Problem solving.” I lift my shoulders in a partial shrug. “Whatever thought I have that I don’t want to forget.” I prop my elbows on my knees, getting closer to her. “Are you going to tell me what Ericson did to get put on your list?”

Gaze steadily tracking a man in a black blazer, she says, “Cheated on his wife.”

I huff a derisive laugh, and she glances at me with a craned eyebrow. “Sorry,” I say. “I just thought it would be something a little more…”

“A little more dire?” she asks, her tone caustic. “Because a cheater isn’t that bad?”

“Fair enough.” I turn my gaze out toward the winding trail. The man in the blazer approaches another man. From this viewpoint, I can just make out that it’s likely Ericson.

“Get your program ready,” Blakely says, nodding toward Ericson and his acquaintance. “We need access to Ericson’s phone. Can you grab his metadata from this distance?”

I take out my phone and start the scan. “I guess let’s find out.”

While the program does the hard work, I study her profile. Blakely is soft in this light, an illusion.

I blink and refocus my thoughts. I made a mental note earlier that she appears to be right-handed. This is important. I need to confirm this, as it has bearing on the project.

“What does Mrs. Ericson have in mind for her cheating husband?” I ask.

Blakely snaps another round of pictures then, using her right hand, sets her camera inside the case. “If she knew that, she wouldn’t need me.” She stands. “Come on.”

I follow her to a large rock structure near the pond, where she instructs me to “look nonchalant” as she hikes up a narrow path to the top. Below, benches wrap the paved trail, and a family of three casts fishing line into the green pond.

As I move beside her, I set my pack down. She again takes out her camera, using the lens to zoom in on Ericson and the man, who are having a conversation near the bank of the pond. “He’s not just a cheater,” Blakely says.

I stay quiet, waiting for her to elaborate.

“He’s a deviant,” she says. “Gets his rocks off by beating and strangling prostitutes, though he hasn’t killed anyone. That I know of.”

I blow out a breath. “That seems to warrant a place at the top of your list.”

Her mouth presses into a tight line. “I don’t take jobs based on how deserving a target is of revenge. Although, if I did, yes. He’d be near the top.”

“Then, how do you select your victims?”

“I have a checklist,” she says matter-of-factly. “My original scheme for Ericson involved getting access to his company computer. But now…” She trails off, her gaze roving after Ericson as he heads toward the park exit. “Maybe there’s a better way to deliver Mrs. Daverns’ revenge.” She looks at me. “Did you get what you needed?”

I check the app and nod, satisfied.

“Good,” she says.

Our spying complete, I lean back and brace my palms against the rock, gaze cast out over the murky pond. “A better way to deliver Mrs. Daverns’ revenge such as…?”

“Such as—” She nods with her camera pointed toward the mountain of buildings looming over the park. “See The Plaza right there? Ericson’s eccentric and paranoid client resides in the penthouse. His name is Brewster. That’s where their nefarious negotiations and other degenerate happenings take place.”

I nod slowly as I take in the building. I don’t know much about New York architecture, but you don’t have to be a native to know The Plaza’s ritzy and historic reputation. “Why not just rent a room to get access?” I question.

“Sure,” Blakely says, then she turns her gaze on me. “You got thirty grand to throw away?”

My eyes widen. “I see your point.” I think for a moment. “I could get you into Ericson’s company network. I know how corporate closed networks operate, and even better if it’s a Linux system.”

She licks her lips, considering this. I’ve noticed she does this particular action when she’s weighing what she wants—a predatory response, a sexual reflex aimed to distract. I wonder if she realizes this, or if it’s a subconscious tactic.

“That would only lead to his financial ruin.” She leans back to join me against the rock.

“Is Mrs. Daverns aware of the deviant extent of her husband’s extracurricular activities?” I ask.

She shakes her head, her long layers beneath the cap drawing my gaze as they dance over her breasts. “Lenora is not aware. That’s why I first decided that getting him fired would suit her.”

“Revealing his criminal dealings and womanizing, abusive ways would do that and more,” I say. “He might serve a prison sentence, depending on how well you execute the scheme. But then his wife would discover just what a monster she married.”

I watch her closely, trying to detect each micro expression. Blakely can’t sympathize or feel badly for this woman; she doesn’t have the emotional capability. There has to be another reason as to why she would want to go after Ericson to this extreme.

“Lenora is strong,” she says, reasoning—or justifying—out loud. “Besides, revenge should be equally comparable to the crime against the victim.” She looks into my eyes. “In Ericson’s case, victims. He deserves to pay for the harm he’s caused.”

Interesting. On the surface, it appears she wants justice, but dive a little deeper into her psyche, and you’ll probably discover a desire to inflict pain. Blakely is a justice dealer. She can claim it’s about the money—and I’m sure that part doesn’t hurt—but oh, she enjoys making people suffer.

I have the urge to grab my journal and jot down a note.

The third step of the scientific method is the hypothesis. Create a theory with presumed outcomes. I’m close, but not quite there yet. Before I can develop a hypothesis, I need a couple key pieces of information.

One: To determine if her psychopathy is due to a brain injury or natural development.

The age-old question of nature versus nurture.

The ideal subject cannot have sustained damage to the frontal lobe, the area where empathy and impulse reside. A damaged cerebral cortex will skew the test results. And honestly, I’m not a doctor. After everything with Mary…I have no interest in brain surgery.