As I hike back toward Tribeca, I replay the past half hour in my head, looking for any cues I missed. Honestly, despite his annoying incessantness, I like Alex. I like very few people. He’s different, interesting.

I shake out my hair. Now that my identity is no longer a secret, I could revert to my natural hair color. Yet I find I’m starting to like the blond. It’s a part of this unpredictable change that, in any other circumstance, would frustrate me.

I decide to keep the new look for a while longer. At least until I’m through having my fun with Dr. Alex Chambers.

OceanofPDF.com

7

OceanofPDF.com

HYPOTHESIS

OceanofPDF.com

ALEX

The scratch of the lead across the page sends a prickling sensation over my skin. As I work on the outline of Blakely’s features, the woman begins to materialize. It’s an image right out of my memory bank. Blakely sitting across from me at the bistro table, her tousled blond hair falling over her slender shoulders, those sea-green orbs staring right down to my marrow.

I keep a journal for each subject. Filled with notes, observations, results, and sketches. I find that, even though I work primarily with data, a visual representation alongside all that data helps me see the whole picture.

I look up from the page and stare blankly as I recall her features. A building-choked horizon looms over green treetops of Central Park. The park is muggy today, like so many other days in the spring. There’s a filmy haze in the air that settles on my skin. I can taste it, like fog, a thick layer pulled into my lungs every time I take a breath.

I’m camped out on the bench at the entrance to the park, my journal spread open before me, as I saver another few moments to sketch Blakely’s beautiful face. I know she’s watching me. I arrived here fifteen minutes early, and I felt the moment her stone-cool eyes snared me in her perceptive gaze.

She’s assessing me. Even though she agreed to let me “tag along”, she’s not entirely convinced it was the right choice. I had to appeal to her greedy nature in order to get this far. I have something she wants; a tempting program that intrigues the hacker in her.

If I hadn’t been convinced of her nature after I woke up in the supply closet of the club with a pounding headache, then her admission of how she came to work in the field of revenge sealed my resolve.

She wanted money. She knew she could do the revenge job and she did it.

A person with a psychopathic disposition doesn’t have the same kind of fears as the average person. What holds us back—fear of failure, fear of success, fear of change—the healthy types of fear that help govern our choices and actions, doesn’t reside within Blakely.

Her lack of fear propels her forward. Very little holds her back. She makes rash, impromptu decisions based on her wants. This doesn’t mean she’s impulsive. Rather, she’s exceedingly crafty, sharp-witted. Cautious when the situation calls for it.

In order to lower her defenses, I had to downplay my own similar attributes. I can’t be competition. Better she believe I’m a loser than a rival.

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 canvas 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 Sunday 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.”

A rapid-fire round of shutter clicks 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 we’ll 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 cast 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 sex workers, 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, then 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?”