The man sitting across from Simone Miller  didn’t look like a psychopath. If anything, he looked more like he could have been a male model if it weren’t for his unfortunately pale skin. Pallor like his was very unusual for California. Simone looked down at his chart. Even his name was unusual.

“Leonadis Sinclair?” she asked, looking up at him to see if she’d pronounced it correctly.

The nod he gave was barely perceptible.

“Does anyone call you Leo?”

“No.” His voice wasn’t deep, but had a silky quality to it. It was as if he breathed the words as he said them. A hypnotist’s voice.

Simone shook my head to clear it of these thoughts. She wasn’t there to analyze this man’s looks and voice. She was there to inform him of the conditions of his parole.

She glanced at his chart again and cleared her throat.

“You should count yourself fortunate,” Mr. Sinclair, she said. “If the police had been able to locate the victim they spotted you beating in the alley they would have charged you with attempted murder.”

She lifted a few pages and looked again at his mug shot. It was chilling. Leonadis Sinclair stared at the camera, his pale face impassive. Blood covered his shirt. Not his blood, but the blood of the man he’d been beating in the alley in the trendy downtown theatre district. The cops had happened on the scene quite by accident. The brutality of the attack stunned them and they surprised Sinclaire and saved his victim.

Oddly enough, though, the man whose blood stained the assailant’s clothes was nowhere to be found. The cops searched everywhere, assisted by some of the members of the public drawn by the lights and sirens.

The victim’s absence was a mystery; how could a man who’d lost so much blood survive, let alone seemingly vanish into thin air.

The lack of a victim made it difficult to establish motive. Sinclair refused to address the issue, only saying he’d acted in self-defense. The prosecutor’s only evidence was the police witnesses who – as they public defender pointed out – saw the altercation from the end of dark alley without knowing what had precipitated it.

The judge weighed the police testimony against the lack of evidence, ultimately convicting Sinclaire of aggravated assault with attempt to cause serious bodily injury, and reluctantly released him with a suspended sentence and probation. He was to meet with his probation officer every week.

It was Simone who had gotten his case.

“Is this what you call it? Fortunate?” His silken tone was amused.

Simone looked up from the folder. “You could be sitting in jail right now,” she said.

“No,” he replied. “That was never an option.”

She frowned, her scowl doing little to mar the prettiness of her face.

“Well, Mr. Sinclaire,” she said. “It’s my job to remind you that jail most certainly will be an option if you violate the terms of your probation. You’ll have to wear this electronic ankle tag….”

She reached into the drawer and took out the one that would be issued to Sinclaire.

“And you’ll have to report to me each week. No excuses. Is that clear?”

He regarded her with dark eyes that suddenly seemed to go darker as Simone looked at him. She blink and looked again, wondering if she were imagining things. But she wasn’t. His eyes had gotten so dark that it was hard to see the pupils.

“Is something wrong, Miss Miller?”

She blushed, realizing that he’d noticed that she was staring.

“No,” she said, adopting what she hoped was a no-nonsense, professional gaze. “I just want to be sure you’re going to take this seriously.”

“You’ll have to forgive me,” he said. “I’m not used to dealing with women in position of authority.” He paused, his fingers tapping on the arm of the chair. Simone’s eyes were drawn to his hand now. His fingers were long and elegant, the nails longer than most men wore.

“It’s 2009, Mr. Sinclaire,” she said abruptly. “You’d better get used it it.”

“I’ll try,” he said. “But you will need to be patient. It won’t be easy deferring to you. It’s a cultural difference.”

“A cultural difference?” She looked back down at his folder. “It says here you were born June 4, 1963 in Lansing, Michigan. I’ve been to Lansing. I don’t remember it being quite as backwards as you’re making it sound.”

“I didn’t stay in Lansing,” he replied.

“Oh. Well…” Her voice trailed off. “It really doesn’t matter, Mr. Sinclair. I’m your parole officer so like it or not you’re stuck having to listen to a woman. At least until you’re released next year.”

Simone stood and picked up the ankle bracelet. “Now, Mr. Sinclair, if you don’t mind I’ll need to put this on your leg.”

A shadow of a smirk crossed his face and Simone got the distinct impression that everything he seemed to think he was humoring her by cooperating. This annoyed her almost as much as the clients – both men and women – who thought they could hit on her sexually.

She ignored is expression and concentrated on affixing the ankle bracelet. “Lift your pant leg, please,” she said, kneeling down in front of him.

Simone affixed the bracelet, explaining as she did how it worked.

“This bracelet sends out a GPS signal to a monitoring station back here at headquarters,” she said. “It’s tamper resistant, so don’t even try to remove it.”

She stuck her finger between the bracelet and his leg and then pulled back, shocked, and rubbed her hand. His skin was unusually cold.

Simone looked up at him. “Are you well, Mr. Sinclaire?”

He smiled again and she realized his lips were dark against his face, making his mouth stand out.

“Never better, Ms. Miller,” he said, seemingly amused. “Why do you ask.”

She paused.

“If you have any medical conditions, I need to know now. That way, should it suddenly show that you’ve gone to the hospital for something…”

“I haven’t been sick in many, many years,” he replied.

She glanced up at him. “Good for you.” She stood. “That’s it then. You’re allowed to go between work and home. If I recall correctly, your file says you work at home. Is that right?”

“It is,” he replied.

“Then going to work isn’t an issue for you. However, if you want to go somewhere else essential, like to the grocery store or doctor then you’ll need to check in with us first and provide an address for your destinations. Understood?”

She noticed he was looking out the window, his gaze staring off somewhere into the distance.

“Mr. Sinclair, were you even listening to me?” she asked. “This is really important?”

His dark eyes turning back to focus on her eyes. Simone felt her pulse quicken as those dark eyes met hers. She’d had many men look at her eyes, but this man looked into them. She felt her heart quicken; it was as if his gaze had fingers that dipped into her soul. She took a step back.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I’m afraid I am guilty.” He paused and smiled.

“Guilty?” she asked.

“Of not taking this quite as seriously as I should.”

“Then you’re making a mistake, Mr. Sinclair. The terms of probation are very important. Violate them and you loose your freedom.” Simone’s tone was stern as she talked, and she stood to her full height, slight though she was, as a way to emphasize her authority over this tall, dark stranger.

“I’ll try to remember that,” he said.

Simone noticed again that his tone carried something of an amused edge, and she sought to hide her irritation. If this man thought he was going to mock her, he was wrong.

“Let him posture,” she thought. “We’ll see how smug he is after a few unannounced visits from his parole officer.”

“That’s all then,” she said. “You’re free to go. Good day, Mr. Sinclair.”

She turned her back on him and walked to her desk and began to leaf through paperwork on her desk. When she leaned over she felt a finger lift her hair and the warmth of breath on her neck. With a little cry of surprise, Simone turned to confront the parolee. But there was no one behind her.

She turned quickly to see him in the doorway across the room. He turned at the sound of  her gasp.

“Mrs. Miller, are you all right?” he asked.

Simone failed to find her voice right away. When she did the “Yes, I’m fine,” she managed was barely audible. Her hand was still pressed to the back of her neck, where the breath she was sure she felt – still seemed to linger as a warm spot on her skin.

She blinked in confusion. Leonadis Sinclair was all the way across the room; there was no way he could have been responsible for what she’d just felt.

She turned back and began leafing through the papers with shaking hands, not really seeing what she was looking at. Then she stopped and went to the bottom of the stack to retrieve Sinclair’s file.

Sitting down, she opened it again and began looking through it.

“Sinclair, Leonadis,” it read. “Born June 4, 1965 at Lansing Community Hospital to Minerva and Jan Leonadis. Occupation: Artist.”

She looked again at his mug shot, his face impassive above the bloody shirt. Then she looked at the crime scene photo. The victim wasn’t in them and she wondered why his body had never been found; there was no way someone could lose that much blood and walk away. Perhaps Leonadis Sinclair had an accomplice. She wondered if the cops had thought of this and picked up the phone to ask. Then she thought the better of it and put the phone down. It wasn’t her job to second-guess the police. She had enough of her own work to do without interfering with theirs.

Simone sighed and put the files in her drawer. It was a long day and she was glad it was over. She felt disjointed and distracted for some reason and decided a walk in the park was in order.

The afternoon was cool and breezy for June. Simone ordered her latte to go and drank it while walking under the sweeping oaks that shaded the path that ran through the park. The exercise helped clear her head and she smiled as she passed a couple walking hand in hand.

“Lucky,” she thought as they passed. Seeing happy couples was the only time she missed Richard, not because he was such great company but because she really preferred to be in a relationship – even a mediocre one – than to be alone. She knew it was a flaw, this kind of neediness. But she couldn’t help it. Richard – while being a talented and charming musician -  was a self-centered lout, but cooking elaborate meals and working out or reading books on karma sutra sex to please him had given her a feeling of fulfillment.

In the end, when he left, she consoled herself with the knowledge that he’d just been using her;  but could she really feel too sorry for herself? She’d been using him, too, to fulfill her hidden need for a man she could cater to and serve. She’d known all along he didn’t deserve what she was offering him, which could have been possession of her  - body and soul – had he wanted it. Richard, while handsome and creative, was not strong. At least not in the way she defined it. His departure had been something of a relief, for he hadn’t been quite what she was looking for. Of course, the kind of man she was looking for didn’t exist.

Deep down the relationship Simone sought was the stuff of dark fairy tales – a prince with an edge who would know when to bend his knee and when to sweep her off her feet and kiss her protesting mouth until only pleas for mercy escaped between bruised lips.

She hated herself for her archaic desires and balanced them with an aggressive and self-assured professional persona. Her dedication to her job had led to a reputation as a no-nonsense parole officer with no tolerance for rule-breaking or the excuses that went along with them.

Her mind drifted back to Leonadis Sinclair and she frowned. No doubt he’d received the same warning that other parolees did – that he’d better mind his P’s and Q’s while under the watchful eye of Simone Miller.

Most did, but some did not and either dismissed her as another pretty face or hit on her. In those cases she let them know that under know uncertain terms would she hesitate to recommend that the judge reconsider their sentence. That got their attention with all off them – except for this last case.

It still infuriated her that he seemed to be somehow amused by her. What had he said? Something about not being used to women in positions of authority?

“Jerk,” she said to herself. A man like that, handsome and with an obvious tendency towards violence likely appealed to a certain segment of women and was probably used to using them at his will. But if he thought he was going to run roughshod over her, he was wrong. She could handle this man. No problem.

A gust of wind blew leaves from a nearby tree and Simone looked up to discover the sky had turn suddenly and almost unnaturally dark. Above the tall building surrounding the park dark clouds gathered and swirled. The branches of the big oaks groaned and twisted in the increasing breeze, the silvery undersides of their leaves showing against the graying sky.

Around her, people were beginning to exit the park. Picnickers hurriedly packed their baskets and mothers with strollers increased their pace in an effort to seek cover before their little ones were soaked with rain.

Another gust of wind blew the empty latte cup out of her hand and it pinwheeled across the ground along with a swirl of sticks and leaves. With a groan of frustration Simone went after it; she hated seeing litter on the ground and didn’t want to contribute to the problem, not even accidentally. But every time the cup came to a rest another gust of wind would push it further from her grasp.

The park was almost deserted now as the sky went from gray to nearly black. She glanced up and shuddered at the ominous clouds that seemed to be hanging lower than what was natural.

The cup had blown into the woods towards a gazebo that sat just down the nature path. Simone knew by the looks of the sky that she would not make it home before the rains came, so she headed towards the gazebo. Her cup was wedged up against the bottom of the structure.

Simone reached down and picked it up. As she did she heard what sounded like a deep, low laugh and turned suddenly as she stood.

“Hello!” The wind carried the sound of the word away from her. She thought she saw something moving among the trees, but it was so quick she decided it was a play of fading light.

Wrapping her arms around herself she turned to go into the gazebo and then jumped at the feel of something cool brushing her cheek. It felt like a hand and her own flew to the side of her face as she spun around to see who was there.

No one was. Her heart began to pound as she remembered how earlier in her office she could have sworn someone had moved her hair aside to breathe on her neck.

Running to the railing she looked down, walking the perimeter of the structure to see if her assailant had jumped down to crouch against the side. But no one was there.

Simone backed into the gazebo, keeping nervous eyes trained on the woods where she fancied she had seen a shadow.

“I have mace!” she said aloud, reaching into the bag at her side. It was a lie. She didn’t carry mace. She did have her house keys, though, and wrapped her finger around one now just in case she needed to use it as a weapon.

She heard the laughter again. This time there was no mistake. But where was it coming from? The winds had increased and she spun around to face the direction from which it had come. It was definitely male laughter, which meant there was more than one person in the woods since the person she’d glimpsed – if it had indeed been a person – couldn’t have gotten around to the other side so quickly.

Simone’s mind raced with possibilities. She’d made her share of enemies on her two yers on the job, sending several parolees back to jail for violations. They were incarcerated now, but they had relatives. Perhaps she was being stalked.

Her hand went to her purse to pull out her phone. Flipping it open she stared to dial for help, feeling embarrassed even as she did. But no sooner had she hit 9 than the phone died in her hand.

She was being watched. She could feel it. She could feel eyes on her and she started out in the direction from which she sensed the gaze and stared back, trying to look braver than she felt.

“I’m not afraid,” she called.

“Really?”

The voice was mocking, as was the distinct laughter that followed. And familiar. It was Leonadis Sinclair. She was sure of it.

She started to call out that she was contacting the cops, but she knew it would be a lie if she did.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“You.”

The single word chilled her and she pulled out the keys, the sharp point of one jutting out between her finger and thumb.

“Stay back,” she said. “You just stay back. I don’t know what your problem is but you have no right to threaten me. So just back the fuck off or else I’ll make sure your ass goes back to jail TODAY!”

It was an empty threat, she knew. There was no one there. Leonadis Sinclair could kill her without anyone knowing. And – like the last one – no one would ever find her body. Whatever his game was, he was obviously good at it. Good enough to beat the system.

The laughter drifted to her again, but this time it drifted down and she looked up.

“Where the hell are you?” she asked in a voice so low she could barely hear it.

“Anywhere I want to be,” came the answer and she felt another chill. How could he have heard her question when she barely heard it herself.

“Stay the fuck away from me!”

Simone screamed the command and at that moment she heard a noise from the side and saw a short, balding man in a park security guard uniform come running up the path.

“Miss? Miss?” He panted as he rant towards her. “You all right?”

He’d drawn his gun and the sight of it filled Simone with relief. Rushing towards him she turned and pointed to the top of the gazebo.

“There’s a man,” she said, nearly breathless now with panic. He was in the woods but I think now he’s on the roof.

The guard looked at her, confused, and shook his head.

“Miss, there’s no one on the roof.”

But Simone shook her head persistently. “Yes there is,” she said. “I heard him.”

The guard sighed. “I came her from over the hill. From where I was I was looking down on the gazebo here. If there’s been a man up there, I’d have seen him.”

Simone looked up. She wasn’t crazy. The voice had come from above her head.

“Maybe he got down,” she said. “He was in the woods. There may have been more than one.”

The wind had stopped now and the clouds were parting and dispersing in as unnatural a manner as which they had appeared, revealing a sky growing pink with the setting sun.

“There was a lot of wind,” the guard said, holstering his gun. “That can play tricks.”

Simone sighed in exasperation.

“No,” she said firmly. “It was not in my head. I heard voices and someone touched me.”

“Touched you?” Where?”

“Here, on my face. From behind.”

“Where were you standing?” The guard was looking more skeptical by the minute.

“Here. In this gazebo. And I turned but he’d gone away.”

The guard turned now and looked. The surrounding trees were a good hundred feet away and she knew he was thinking the same thing that she was; it would have been impossible for someone to touch her in the gazebo and get out of sight before she saw him.

The guard looked down. “Well I don’t see anyone now,” he said, his tone comforting. He looked at her almost sympathetically.

“I can walk you back to your car if you’re afraid.”

“I’m not afraid.” Simone snapped. “And I don’t live too far from here. I’ll walk.”

Part of her felt foolish; perhaps she should take up the guard’s offer. But she was eager to save face against both the guard and the man who’d been toying with her.

“Sorry I couldn’t be of more help,” the guard said.

“Don’t worry about it,” Simone said. “It’s my problem; not yours. And you can believe first thing tomorrow I’ll handle it.”

“I’m not going to put up with harassment,” she said loudly. “I’m the one in charge, not him.”

From the woods, the watcher smiled and smelled his fingers where the scent of her skin still clung to them even after that briefest of touches.