“That’s not really any of your concern,” I say, and start again to stand.
“Hear me out.” His wide eyes implore me to listen. “I have a mandatory week of vacation time, and I know I’m going to lose my mind just sitting around my apartment. Let me make last night up to you. Let me help you with this one job for the next few days.”
I shake my head. “I don’t need help.”
“I believe you.” His gaze touches mine, a depth there that I envy. “But I do have a number of programs that just might sweeten the deal.”
I inhale a deep breath as I consider his offer. He did track me down, an ability that requires a certain notable skillset, I admit. I should’ve felt threatened—any other rational person would—but I was impressed. That’s ultimately why I set up this meeting, to evaluate him.
He’s definitely intelligent and has unique skills that could be beneficial. I could use him for this job…then ghost him if it gets weird. Maybe I’ll get a couple new fun programs out of the deal to make it worth my time.
“Say I consider this offer,” I say, gauging him closely. “What do you get out of it?”
He places his hands behind his head, relaxed, at ease. “I don’t know. Excitement. A break in monotony. What I was looking for at the club and found exceedingly lacking.”
All right. Maybe I can use him. My identity with Ericson is blown. Starting from scratch means money, spending capital, losing the profit I’ll make on the job—and Ericson did seem to glom on to this guy. “What do you know about company finances?”
He lowers his arms, taking my question seriously. “I know math. So…give me the afternoon to learn the rest.”
“Cocky,” I remark. But I like it. I’m pretty cocky myself in knowing my strengths. “Okay then. I hope I don’t regret this.” I swipe a napkin and jot down a location. “We’ll meet up here at noon. Bring your best toys.”
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 secret, I’ll keep the blond. I find I’m starting to like it, too. It’s a part of this unpredictable change that, in any other circumstance, would frustrate me. Yet I’m somehow enjoying the sudden spontaneity of it all.
Hypothesis
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, that thick layer, every time I take a breath. It tastes like the way one would imagine fog to taste.
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…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 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…”