Cruel: A Dark Psychological Thriller: (A Necrosis of the Mind Duet 1) Page 5

Her name: Lauraleigh Blakely Vaughn.

  I say it out loud, taste the syllables. It tastes expensive.

  A Google search brings up a family connection to Michael and Vanessa Vaughn. Old New York money, at least on her father’s side. He deals in real estate development. With a family this high-profile, Ms. Vaughn is not an ideal subject.

  “Dammit.” I grip the phone in my fist. My chest tightens, pressure builds in my head, and I’m about to slam the proverbial door closed on this avenue when a thought breaks through the whirring in my ears.

  Lauraleigh doesn’t want to be known. This is a fact. She maneuvers under fake names, she carries weapons, she courts shady businessmen types…

  Why?

  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.

  “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.

  “We’re getting closer, Mary.”

  Kindred

  Blakely

  The eerie sensation of someone watching me prickles the back of my neck. I peer around to find the asshole from the club standing a few feet away.

  “Were you just, like…watching me?”

  “That’s an inherent instinct,” he says. He starts toward the table I selected in the middle of the sidewalk bistro. “To detect when you’re being watched. Thousands of years of evolution, and we still retain a primal characteristic from the days when we were prey to a larger species of hunters. Though some possess this skill more than others.”

  I arch an eyebrow. I suppose he’s referring to me.

  As he sits down in the metal chair across from me, I prop my arms on the table. “You’re just full of stimulating information.”

  He smirks. Outside of the darkly lit atmosphere of the club, I can better access him. He’s attractive. Vibrant blue eyes—the kind women get lost in. Although today, he’s sporting thin, wire-rimmed glasses. The glasses don’t detract from that pretty-boy smile with the pop of dimples, but rather enhance his overall likeability. His dark hair flops haphazard, as if he spends a lot of time driving his fingers through it. Probably while sitting at his lab desk.

  Yes, just as I know he’s done to me, I did some digging into him before I came here. According to a few academic sites, Dr. Alex Chambers is a biomedical scientist. This particular field of science analyzes how the human body works to discover innovative ways to cure or treat diseases. Apparently, Dr. Chambers helped developed some miracle vaccine for rotavirus that earned him an academic award.

  I’m not even sure what that disease is, but he’s obviously the real deal. I wonder what he thinks of me.

  “I do happen to be very full of information. It’s a side effect of having an isolating career,” he explains. “I lack the ability to do small talk.”

  “You seem to be doing just fine.” Truthfully, I despise small talk. It’s a waste of time, and makes my head hurt.

  As the waitress sets two cups of cappuccino on the table, I say, “I took the liberty of ordering for you. Hope you’re not allergic to dairy.”

  “Not at all. Thank you.”

  Dairy’s not his kryptonite. Check.

  I swirl a spoon into the foam as I watch him. “So what do you do for a living that makes you so good—and not at all creepy—at tracking down random women from clubs?”

  A test. I want to see just how honest he is…or perhaps how delusional. This guy could be into cloning people into robots for all I know. I did happen to read that biologists are doing that now.

  He glances down at the coffee, bashful. He runs his hand into his hair before he meets my eyes. “I’m a scientist,” he says. “As I admitted, I’m not great with people, talking. I spend most of my time looking at the world through a microscope. Venturing to a club was an act of desperation.”

  As it is for most people, really. “What do you mean?”

  “For human contact,” he says. At this, he looks away, to the people crossing the street.

&n
bsp; It could be the truth. His confession has just enough self-deprecation to be believable, and his blunt demeanor last night did suggest he’s socially inept. You wouldn’t think that about him by his outward appearance. Still, it’s not enough for me.

  “And the hacking my phone?” I prompt.

  “Yes, that.” He blows out a breath. “I really was testing an app that I developed. I wasn’t trying to obtain access to your phone in particular. I was testing how many networks the app could crack in a heavily populated area.” He shrugs, unapologetic. “Maybe I used it as a way to talk myself into going to a club in the first place. But it did get me there, and it did bring me to you.”

  “You’re not going to say this is kismet…”

  Head canted, he smiles. I like the way his smile meets his eyes, squinting the creases in an adorable, boyish way. “If you knew me, you’d know I’d never say that.” He leans in from across the table. “The truth is, I never would’ve hacked your phone had you not stolen my pocket watch. Ultimately, that is why we’re here, isn’t it?”

  Maybe the truth, or he’s just well-practiced. I could keep probing, but now I’m curious about this app. Sounds like a program that I would attempt to code myself.

  Still, something feels off. If he’s not lying, he’s omitting some important truth. “And the whole trying to buy me for the night…?” I prod.

  At this, his mouth flattens into a thin line. “That was pretty lame.” He clears his throat and adjusts his glasses. “Look, I’ve admitted I’m not versed in the art of social etiquette. Think of last night as a social science experiment. I was trying out a few variations, testing theories, looking for—”

  “Pussy,” I cut in.

  A moment of uncertainty, then a laugh erupts. It’s a deep sound, right from the base of his throat. “To put it so bluntly, yes.”

  “I may not be a super nerd, Dr. Chambers, but you don’t have to mansplain this to me, or try to excuse away your attempt to get laid. Blunt honesty goes a long way with me.”

  He blinks slowly, smiles that boyish smile again. “Why am I the one explaining myself when you attacked me?”

  I cock my head. “You grabbed me,” I say pointblank.

  “Yes—” he lowers his voice as passerby filter by our table “—and the Taser was a logical retaliation. But the GHB cocktail…?”

  I sink back into my chair. Right. He’s a scientist. Of course he analyzed the substance in his blood that I injected into him.

  At my intended silence, he says, “Okay. My turn. Who the hell carries a Taser and potent club drugs in a syringe?”

  I lick my lips, stalling. How truthful do I want to be with him? Is he an adversary or possible connection? “I’m revenge for hire,” I blurt. What the hell—I’m curious to see his reaction.

  “Huh.” He nods a few times as he considers my answer. “That actually makes sense.”

  The corner of my mouth hitches into a slight smile. “How so?”

  He ticks off the reasons on his fingers. “You were the only escort from a different company. You were annoyed by my presence; I was an interference. You were very interested in watching Ericson’s martini…which I now gather was the intended target of your drug cocktail. And the most obvious: Ericson seemed like a prick. The type of guy who’d have a few women vying for retribution.”

  I snort a laugh. “Very observant.”

  “I knew something was strange about you…,” he continues. “Never would’ve come to this conclusion, however, but that’s why I followed after you last night.” His eyes narrow on me. “I was curious about you.”

  I take a sip of cappuccino. Run my tongue over my lips as I consider him. As a scientist, he’d have a curious nature. This I can believe. I reach into my very expensive tote and pull out his pocket watch. “Why do you carry an antique timepiece?” I slide the watch his way along the table.

  He takes the watch, and I study how he noticeably relaxes now that it’s in his grasp. Like I realized last night, this watch is very important to him.

  “My sister gave it to me.” He clicks the cover open. His fingers touch the backing reverently as his blue gaze traces the object. “Before she died,” he adds.

  His sister. That would explain the inscription. I would offer my condolences, but I don’t feel the need for forced commiseration with him. He’d perceive it as banal. For that, I’m thankful.

  “So, is it hybristophilia?” he says suddenly, shifting topics.

  “Excuse me?”

  “How you came to be in the business of revenge,” he says. He slips the watch into his front pocket and looks up at me. “A paraphilia where one is attracted to dangerous men, such as serial killers…or perhaps prick financial advisers?”

  “Wow. You really are an awkward conversationalist.” I take another sip of coffee. Despite my criticism of him, a tiny corner inside me can relate to this man. Had I not spent years studying how to blend in, I’d probably be even more awkward than him. I can’t fault this guy for investing his time in the study of curing disease rather than manipulation. It’s admirable.

  “Or maybe…” He scoots his chair around the table, closer to mine. “It’s just about the danger itself. Or you were wronged by someone. Someone close. You’re a scorned woman bent on delivering righteous vengeance.”

  Now I laugh out right. He smiles, enjoying the sound of my laugh. “None of the above,” I say, tossing my newly dyed hair from my shoulders. “It pays well.”

  He shakes his head. “Not buying it. Nothing is ever really about money. Besides, after a quick Google search, I know that you have plenty of money.”

  “Family money,” I correct. “Not mine.”

  He just watches me, waiting.

  As I trace the pad of my finger around the mug, I think about how I came to be where I am, maybe for the first time ever. I’m not really the reflective type.

  “Fine,” I say. “Here’s the truth. My first year at Brown, I decided college wasn’t for me. My mother wanted to ‘put me in my place’ and cut off all financial means. I was always good at computers, and there’s a plethora of work to be found on the dark web.”

  He holds up a hand. “Wait. Just like that? No, hey, let me work my way up to the big jobs.”

  I lift my chin. “I came across an ad for a revenge job, and I took it.” I shrug. “I knew I’d be good at it, and I was.”

  I leave out some finer details, like how the adrenaline-inducing danger surrounding my work is the only thing that penetrates the nonfeeling parts of me. That’s not a great conversational piece. Admittedly, Alex has gotten me to open up more in the first five minutes of talking to him than I have to just about anyone else.

  That realization is curious, and a little alarming—and somewhat thrilling in its own way. This is different. I haven’t experienced different in a while.

  His gaze holds mine, resolute. “You might be the most decisive person I’ve ever met.”

  “What can I say? Vengeance is my ethos. It suits me.”

  “So ultimately, it is about the money.”

  I nod in affirmation. “Sometimes, it’s just that simple.”

  “And what did our friend Ericson do to earn a spot on your list?”

  “I don’t discuss clients or targets,” I say. “It’s unfortunate enough that you know who he is.”

  “Come on,” he prods. “Who am I going to tell? I’m in a lab all day and talk to molecules and cells.”

  I stay firm. “Absolutely not. You don’t want to get involved in this, Alex.”

  His mouth tips into an endearing grin.

  “What?” I ask.

  “I like how you said my name. Sounds like we’re friends.”

  I reach for my mug. “You need to guard yourself better.” I drain the rest of the now-cold cappuccino. “Or else you’ll keep winding up in supply closets.”

  He watches me while he drinks the rest of his coffee. The waitress offers us a refill and I shake my head. “Just the check. Thanks.”


  “You don’t have to cover me,” Alex says.

  “It’s the least I can do,” I say, reaching into my tote. “I mean, after I drugged you and all.” I pause while holding my billfold. “Although you did botch my job…”

  “For that, I’m sorry I got in the way,” he says, but that little grin conveys he’s not sorry in the least.

  I pay the tab and put my credit card away in my bag. “It was…interesting to meet you, Dr. Alex Chambers. Have a nice life, and try not to end up on my list.”

  “Wait—” He goes to reach for my wrist, but holds his hand up at the last moment. “Sorry. Reflex. But I’m a quick learner. No touching.”

  Halted, I stare down at him. Waiting.

  “When can I see you again?” he asks.

  I bite the corner of my lip. Does this guy have a death wish, or is he just that bored with his life? “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “Alex…” I sigh. “Look, you’re a clever guy. And honestly, I’m tempted to offer you some kind of monetary compensation for that application you developed. It’s definitely a program that interests me. But—”

  “But you’re not interested in making new friends.”

  “I don’t do friends. Like you, I work a very solitary job. I happen to like it that way.”

  He considers this a moment, then: “But I know who you are, Blakely. I know what you do. I’m a loose end…just dangling out here in the wild.”

  I sit back down. “Are you trying to blackmail me? Just for the record, that’s a terrible way to try to make a friend.” Even so, I’m curious to find out just what he thinks he has on me.

  He leans forward. “You’re either going to have to create a whole new identity or kill me.” When I stay silent, he laughs awkwardly. “Sorry. Terrible joke. I’m really bad at this.”

  “You really are,” I agree.

  He reclines back in the chair and crosses his arms. “What I mean is, you’re going to have to develop a new revenge scheme for Ericson, right?” He arches an eyebrow. “It’s not as if you can bait him as an escort again.”

  I don’t like that he’s put this much thought into it, but he’s right. I doubt Ericson will call on my services again after the way I left him…holding his aching balls. I have to devise a different strategy to get access to his office computer, or construct a new revenge plan altogether.