Killers were often excellent actors, too. The problem for Brian was that no matter how smooth and polished his performance, he could not disguise the faint, almost invisible wavelengths that sparked in his aura. To a woman who could read energy fields as easily as she read books, the shafts of pale radiance spelled one word: blank. It was the paranormal community’s slang for sociopath.

That information, while chilling, was not what signaled Brian’s intention to attack—not all sociopaths were violent. A lot of them were content to lead relatively quiet lives as con artists and fraudsters. They broke people’s hearts and ripped off their money, but they didn’t slice open jugulars.

But there was the other kind, the sort that fed on people’s fear, pain and, in some cases, blood. Brian Gatewood was one of those. The warning blazed in his aura in the form of hot currents of bloodred energy.

“I’m on the ninth floor,” she said. “You’ll love the gym. It’s on the top floor.”

“Looking forward to trying out the equipment,” Brian said.

She calculated the distance back to the relative safety of her car and then estimated how many steps she was from the locked doors of the elevator lobby. It didn’t take a mathematician to know she was trapped. She didn’t stand a chance of escape in either direction. Even if she could outrun Brian—doubtful, given that she was in heels—he would have no problem overtaking her while she was in the process of trying to unlock either the car door or the lobby entrance.

She stopped, careful to keep smiling. “Lucky me. I’m so glad you’re here. I just remembered I left my key fob on the kitchen counter. You can let me into the lobby. I won’t have to call the concierge desk and ask someone to rescue me.”

Brian hesitated for a split second, just long enough to confirm her suspicion that the fob in his hand wouldn’t open the lobby doors. Things were not going quite the way he had planned.

He recovered quickly. “Sure. Hang on.” He glanced at the vintage camera hanging from a leather cord around her neck. “That looks like an antique.”

“It is,” Olivia said. “Mid-twentieth century.”

“Do you collect old cameras?”

“Just this one.”

He lost interest in the camera and went toward the door. The path he was following would bring him very close to her. She stepped aside as if to get out of his way. He altered course ever so slightly, just enough to ensure he closed the distance between them.

She took another step back and let her handbag slide off her shoulder onto the concrete floor.

“Damn,” she said. “I just bought that bag. Now it’s going to have garage dirt on it. That stuff never comes off.”