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 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.