“Harder,” she says, and I do as I am told. My mind completely turned off. No more thoughts about who I might be or might not be. I am just here. Fucking the hottest girl I have ever seen with my fist.
2
JANE
PLAYLIST: PARTITA NO. 1 FOR SOLO VIOLIN IN B MINOR, BWV 1002: IV. DOUBLE — JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH, HILARY HAHN
The classical violin music resounds through my entire lab, beautifully accompanying my every move as my fingers type in the exact same rhythm. It is impossible for me to work without music; it keeps the structure and my mind in perfect order.
I am alone in my lab. Not just any lab, but the one I built from scratch for my groundbreaking research in creating a predictive model for criminal behavior and intervention.
I am a neuroscientist. But I am also a behavioral expert who has a degree in computer science. My life runs on routine, perfection, and a drive to become the best possible version of myself.
Perfection, prediction, and order are the most important elements to achieve greatness. The greatness my parents expected of me, and I, of course, have to exceed their expectations—which is still a work in progress, because my mother’s standards are higher than my own.
But I exceeded everyone’s expectations, which is why I received the MacArthur Fellowship and, three years ago, an offerfrom Columbia University to teach Behavioral Neuroscience at the mere age of thirty.
Some say I am too young to be a professor, but I know I have earned my place. While others went partying, I studied. I jumped several classes, graduated from high school at 14, and earned my first undergraduate degree before I turned 17.
I am gifted. I work hard. And I may be the youngest professor at Columbia, but I am motivated and bring knowledge that not many have gained.
Teaching is something I enjoy most of the time. It is an interesting change to explain to outsiders what is happening inside my mind.
Right now, I am working on an update for the predictive model, which is, in its core, a statistical equation that fills an entire board, but I am experimenting with an AI that develops parts of its code itself.
Suddenly, a loud bang rips me from my thoughts, and I spin around.
My eyes find the door with the frosted glass, and I see a person standing behind it. My heart beats faster, and it’s hard for me to catch my breath.
Without thinking twice, I grab my phone to call campus security.
“It’s me, Jane. He’s back. At my lab,” I tell the man on the phone, as the man outside the door starts banging at the glass.
“I’ll get you one day,” the man shouts through the glass. “You are mine.”
I get up from my desk and retreat to the back of the room.
Security tells me they’re on their way, and just when the man starts shouting, he is grabbed and taken. One of the security guards opens the door with his keycard and asks me if I am alright.
I stand in the corner of the lab, my hands and arms in front of me like a T. rex with fists clenching and trembling. It’s what I do. Whenever stressed out, T. rex arms it is.
But it’s not just my hands. My entire body is trembling. I am not a person who does well with threats, let alone when it breaks my routine.
“Slow breaths,” says the guard, and holds out his arm at a distance from me. They all know me and know I dislike being touched. It is not the first incident with that man. He has been following me a while now and randomly appears wherever I am, shouting at me that I am a bitch who just wants to be fucked by him and carry his child.
I roll back my shoulder and shudder, just thinking of it. From a behavioral perspective, I know I must be sick, and yet, it’s hard to separate the emotional impact it has on me.
I dislike men in general, but this man is a threat.
I breathe in and out and look at the security guard. He is a known face. Routine. Control. Predictability.
“I’ll be okay,” I say and try to shake off the sensation in me.
“How could he even get in here?” I ask the guard. Because my lab is on a closed floor, no one gets in here without a key card.
“We don’t know, but we will find out and make sure he won’t appear again,” he says.
I scoff half-heartedly, because last time they said the very same, and it happened again. I already had exactly six encounters with the man, the first after I won the fellowship and my name was circulated publicly. Since my appointment here, he appeared irregularly, and as far as I have been told, he escaped from a mental facility.
