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.