Page 16 of Cruel Malady: A Necrosis of the Mind

All that tech jargon simply means is that my mystery woman gave up her IMEI data, and now I’m using it to clone her phone with my hardware.

After a few minutes, I insert the SIM and I have a duplicate of her phone in my hand. She has her GSP tracker turned off, but lucky me, she uses apps that record GPS location covertly. It’s not much, but there’s enough data to work with.

Her phone’s last pinged location was pinpointed at an apartment building in Tribeca. She’s in this location a lot, which leads me to deduce it’s most likely her home.

Pricey. Trendy. Tribeca isnotthe type of neighborhood where the typical escort would live…I don’t think. To be fair, I haven’t done much research into the profession, and I don’t thinkPretty Womanis an ideal basis for a theory.

I recline back in my desk chair. Stare at the large whiteboard along the wall. At the top, circled twice in black, is the wordunnoticed.

I don’t keep much at my apartment, only the basic necessities of my project. Reminders, half-hatched theories and notes. Nothing that could tie me to my main work space—and that is exactly whatunnoticedreminds me.

Just how important is my mystery woman?

How unnoticed is she, if at all?

For the next hour, I scour her phone, digging through emails, combing through texts, appointments, web searches. She’s gone to some length to hide her identity. I wonder if she keeps a second phone with more personal information, but I find enough metadata to build a general person.

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 middle 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.

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