I let myself drop to my feet, wipe the sweat and rust particles from my forehead. No one inside will be aware that a sprinkler line has just burst, but alerting them isn’t my intention.

Even on an old, outdated system like this the fire department will be notified.

I return to my post across the street and wait. Within five minutes, the firetrucks arrive. Two of them blaring horns and blocking off the entrance to the warehouse. As people start to exit the building, I search for Alex. I watch him emerge—alive and apparently in one piece—and I make sure he’s alone before I send him a text.

Me: Across the street.

He whips out his phone from his back pocket and then looks up, his gaze hunting for me. As our eyes connect across the distance, I start toward him…until I notice something appears off.

He storms toward me with fierce murder carved in his expression.

“Well, shit.”

11. Chemistry

11

Chemistry

Alex

If Blakely has a sliver of cognitive empathy in her being, she’s doing a poor job of employing that capability now. There is absolutely no compassion in her eyes, her expression more condescending than sympathetic. I wasn’t prepared for this reaction from her.

My hypothesis wasn’t only correct, it was alarmingly accurate. I was the sacrificial lamb she literally pushed onto the altar.

I was expecting her to portray some semblance of remorse. Which I could use to springboard to the next stage. Every time I think I know what I’m dealing with, that I’m prepared…she surprises me.

Surprises aren’t good. Not in this context.

So I resort to the easiest emotion to manipulate: anger.

When confronted with a situation that is out of our control, a centric, no range emotion such as anger masks any uncertainty. I’m sure Blakely is well aware of this ploy herself.

“You could’ve gotten me killed,” I say as I approach her, my expression contorted. “You almost did.”

“Walk.”

Her response catches me off guard again. Despite my resistance, I keep moving, trailing behind her as she dips between buildings.

“You need to stop.” I halt in the middle of the alley. “What you did back there…” I grit my teeth and stare down at the oily pavement, summoning the ire I need in this moment. The light from the lampposts reflect in the sludge, shimmering in iridescent colors in the motor oil.

Blakely faces me, expectant. Truthfully, I’m trained in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. For the most part, I can hold my own. I was unprepared for the brute attack earlier, yes—but I could’ve defended myself instead of letting that guy use my face as a butcher block.

That’s not a detail Blakely needs to be made aware of yet, however.