It works best if I appear unassuming, unremarkable. I could have Lasik, but I actually prefer to wear glasses, which shields my eyes from the blue light of the screen that I stare at for hours every day. Plus, as my eyes are vital for my work, I don’t trust anyone to stick a sharp object anywhere near them.

That thought sparks an idea, and I quickly jot down a note in my journal before I resume the program update. I coded the program myself, as I require software that’s untraceable and performs specific functions for my needs.

The second step in the scientific method is to collect data. Gather information, record facts and findings. In order to do this, I must locate my subject.

The sly one who carries a Taser.

Who masquerades as an escort.

Who stole my watch, just because it’s in her nature to do so.

I sync my phone to my encrypted network and run the updated program.

She Tasered me. Not only that, she drugged me. This woman has a serious dark side. Once I got back to my lab, I tested my blood. The results showed low levels of GHB, otherwise known as liquid ecstasy, with a high amount of Rohypnol, the date-rape drug.

She didn’t just want to escape; she wanted me put down. Out of the way.

I’m still wrapping my head around that fact. But, while I was convulsing like an idiot on the floor, my phone was busy doing some gathering work for me.

Before I confronted her, I started the scanner on my phone. It used to be that analog systems used CDMA technology to transmit a phone’s ESN and MIN when a call was made. Now, with digital systems in place, a phone’s IMEI—or equipment identity—is required. Capturing this data was once fairly simple, then all one would need to do was flash a blank phone to create a clone. IMEI is a little trickier. Once you capture the data, you need a SIM reader/writer to clone the SIM.

All that tech jargon simply means is that my mystery woman gave up her IMEI data, and now I’m using it to clone her phone with my hardware.

After a few minutes, I insert the SIM and I have a duplicate of her phone in my hand. She has her GSP tracker turned off, but lucky me, she uses apps that record GPS location covertly. It’s not much, but there’s enough data to work with.

Her phone’s last pinged location was pinpointed at an apartment building in Tribeca. She’s in this location a lot, which leads me to deduce it’s most likely her home.

Pricey. Trendy. Tribeca is not the type of neighborhood where the typical escort would live…I don’t think. To be fair, I haven’t done much research into the profession, and I don’t think Pretty Woman is an ideal basis for a theory.

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 work 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 middle 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.