An audaciously twisty psychological thriller in which finding the killer is only one of two mysteries its anti-heroine, Cate Winter, tries to unravel. The other: when pushed to extremes, what is she herself capable of?
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Elisabeth Eaves’ The Outlier, which is out August 6th 2024.
Cate Winter, at 34, is a wildly successful neuroscientist and entrepreneur who has invented a cure for Alzheimer’s that will improve the lives of millions. On the verge of selling her biotech company for an obscene sum, she is also about to become very rich.
But Cate has a secret that keeps her deeply uneasy about everything she is and does: she grew up at the Cleckley Institute, a treatment facility for the rehabilitation of psychopathic children. And, as far as she knows, she is the institute’s only success: all of her peers have become thwarted, maladjusted or even criminal adults.
Then Cate discovers the existence of another ex-patient and outlier who might prove that her success isn’t a fluke. He has not only stayed out of jail, but he’s made a mark in business and science. Though his identity is confidential, she breaks the rules and drops everything to track him down. And when she finds him, living under an assumed name in Baja California, she is immediately obsessed. Like her, he is driven and brilliant, an innovator willing to do what it takes to perfect a new energy technology that will stop global warming. Here, at last, is her mirror, her ultimate collaborator, the possible answer to the enigma of her nature.
But in the wake of a mysterious death, Cate can’t avoid suspecting him. If he is involved, do his ends justify his means? Ruthless herself, she’s about to find out whether there are any moral lines she won’t cross.
Twitchy after a long afternoon of meetings, I opened the closet in my office. I changed out of my workday uniform of jeans, white shirt, and black blazer, stepped into stilettos, and zipped myself into a snug black dress. Grabbing the same blazer and my purse, I took the elevator to the parking garage, where I unplugged my orange roadster. With the Seattle rush hour long over, I pulled up outside the Four Seasons on First Avenue less than ten minutes later. A cold February wind kicked up off of Elliott Bay as I handed my key to the valet.
I headed for the bar and took my usual seat at one end, from which I could see who came and went. It’s a sleek place, all shiny wood and blown-glass lampshades, and it was just the right amount of crowded, full of people in expensive black fabrics. Men and women on quick trips, complication-avoidant but not immune to the seductive effects of a change of scenery. Outside the window, a rainbow of LED lights flashed from the Great Wheel, casting a glow over the dark bay. Jesse, my favourite bartender, was on duty, and as soon as he saw me, he brought me a glass of mineral water with a couple of ice cubes and a twist of lime.
Ignoring the jitter of the phone inside my purse, I sipped my water and watched the patrons while a dozen questions whirlpooled in my mind, surfacing people and events from my early teenage years. Old faces flickered briefly, dredged up by the report I’d read nine hours earlier. Needing to detach myself from the questions that had preoccupied me since then, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. When I opened them, I spotted two prospects right away. A frisson passed through me, calming and exciting at once. One man, I guessed, was in his mid-forties. Dark-haired, a little shaggy, at ease with himself. The other was probably close to my own age, mid-thirties, and subtly out of place. His sandy hair formed a widow’s peak and curled around his ears. He seemed overly alert, already glancing my way. Maybe noticing my long, bicycle-toned legs or the collarbone that had so fixated my ex, Gabriel. Though getting seen, I find, is mostly about behaviour. Being alone with good posture and open to the world, rather than hunched over a device. Meeting another person’s gaze. Sometimes—sitting here or in a bar in some other city, after yet another meeting with investors—I imagined myself as a wizard with a wand, making those around me dance.
I ran my hand through my hair, irritated again that my business partner, Jia, had decreed I not cut it short again until after the sale of our company went through. It was chin-length, an accidental bob. I almost never wore my hair this long, but we’d had a recent spate of publicity, with lots of photos of me involved, and she said there was too much at stake for me to alter my image now.
The shaggy forty-something was the more obvious choice. He was handsome in a five o’clock shadow way, like Gabriel, who’d been gone for more than a year and now lived in Mexico City. The dark-haired fellow looked at ease, and the perfect age: young enough to still be taut under his shirt, old enough to have his own business to mind.
But the younger guy was sidling in my direction. His suit was cheaper than many of the others in this bar, but he wore it well. I could turn, rifle through my purse, make him go away with a simple movement. I could hold out for the other prospect, or someone else entirely. But I needed something easy after today, after my discovery up at the university in the morning and an afternoon of legalese. Jia was no doubt at her lakefront home sipping a cold glass of white wine, and I deserved my relaxation no less. I tucked my stupid blond bob behind my ears and smiled.
“Which conference were you at?”
“I’m meeting a friend,” I said.
He cocked his head like a dog detecting a sudden noise. Hearing my voice for the first time, deciding if he liked its low timbre.
“A girlfriend,” I clarified.
“Can I get you another one of those?”
“That would be lovely.”
He signalled to Jesse, who set another mineral water down in front of me with a wink. He ordered a fresh whiskey for himself.
“I’m Nate.”
“Cate.”
“Cate and Nate. That’ll give us plenty to talk about.”
“Should cover at least five minutes.”
“Then we can move on to where we’re from, favourite flavour of ice cream, and phobias.” He had a crooked smile and a trace of an accent.
“Where are you from?”
Originally Melbourne, he said, but now he lived in the Bay Area.
“What brings you to Seattle, Nate?”
“Terribly boring things.” He waved his hand vaguely around the room.
“Work?”
“Yes.”
His reticence intrigued me. Men always wanted to talk about their work.
“What about you?”
“I live here.”
“Meeting a friend. Right.”
He looked at me and looked around. I looked back at him, willing him to challenge me.
“What do you do for work?”
I thought of making something up. Crane operator. Mortician. “Can I just say ‘terribly boring things’?”
“Already used that line.”
“I work in biotech.”
“Very exciting.”
“Sometimes.”
“How did you get into the field?”
“I studied neuroscience.”
“You must be very clever.”
You don’t know the half of it, I thought. I didn’t need or want to talk about work; I had people with whom I conversed about work all day, who had vastly more interesting things to say about it than Nate possibly could. And Jia’s cautionary voice inside my head told me to stay away from the subject.
He sat on the barstool facing me now, and I noticed the way his thighs strained against the fabric of his trousers. I imagined putting my hand on his knee. That would be premature, but it was titillating to think about. I uncrossed and recrossed my legs, forcing him to glance down.
“If your work is so boring, what else do you like to do?”
He said he played soccer. Though I find team sports beyond tedious, I encouraged him to talk about the subject for a few minutes. Weekly practice, good way to meet people, story about a missed goal.
“Must be how you stay in such good shape,” I said, almost making myself laugh.
Nate blushed: sudden pink flare-ups in both cheeks. He was not experienced at picking people up in bars, so why was he talking to me?
I liked not knowing. It was like funnelling mystery elements into a beaker. Any kind of pop or fizz might result.
“We haven’t covered phobias yet,” he said.
“You go first.”
“Terrified of sharp objects.”
“Sounds like common sense.”
“I get spooked just seeing a chef’s knife on the counter. Like it can fly up and get me.”
I wondered if this was true, unsure why someone would reveal such a vulnerability to a complete stranger.
“What about you?”
“Closed-in spaces. I’m claustrophobic.” I jiggled the ice in my glass.
“Do you know why?”
The best fabrications are rooted in truth. “I had some bad experiences with closets.”
He looked concerned, and I wanted to keep the mood light, so I said, “I went looking for Narnia and ended up trapped in a bunch of coats.” This led to a discussion of children’s literature, which made me think of Grandma Ida, who always made sure I was well supplied with books, sending me packages at the institute every month.
“You’re not really meeting a friend, are you?” Nate eventually asked, and I silently cheered his boldness.
“No,” I said, head down, false sheepishness. “I just wanted an excuse for an out.”
“And the fact that you’re telling me this is . . . promising?”
“Sure.” I smiled up at him sideways.
Hesitation hung in the air, like he suddenly didn’t know who he was.
“Nate, why don’t you tell me about your hotel room.”
“My hotel room?”
I imagined sweat beads flying off his head in surprise.
“Maybe I misunderstood—”
But he spoke before I could continue. “It’s at the Ace.”
Not of the managerial classes, then.
“Isn’t that a glorified youth hostel?”
“Emphasis on the ‘glorified.’ I have my own bathroom and everything.”
* * * *
Outside in the Four Seasons driveway, I hugged my blazer around me against the salty breeze while we waited for my car.
“You’re okay to drive?”
“I don’t drink.”
He fell awkwardly into the low bucket seat on the passenger side.
“This is stymieing my plan to put the moves on you in the back of a taxi.”
“I guess you’ll need a plan B.”
* * * *
We stepped into his dark-walled room at the Ace and I closed the door behind me. He stopped, turned, looked at me. That hesitance, like he wasn’t sure what he was doing. A little fear. I like trying to read people’s emotions. Sometimes it’s as close as I come to feeling those emotions myself.
“I’d offer you a drink, but since you don’t drink . . .”
“We’re not really here for a drink, are we?”
I leaned against the door. He stood before me with a look of bewildered indecision on his face, so I met his eyes and took his hand. I slowly brought it between my thighs, and higher, until it touched the damp fabric of my underwear. As I studied him, something finally flipped. Blank desire dropped heavy over his pupils and erased whatever inhibitions he’d been wrestling with. Now he was all in, a partner in this adventure, as capable of leading as being led. He plunged his forefinger into me, and I felt the relief of intense sensation.
* * * *
I dozed, as I tend to after orgasms. I awoke and looked at Nate, who was asleep now. So enthusiastic in the end, so just what I needed. I hadn’t thought about the past, or the sale of my company, for hours.
But now that I was conscious, these subjects crept back into my brain. A used condom leaked onto the carpet, while another had made it to the rim of the garbage can. The bedside clock told me it was midnight, and I knew I’d have to face more contract discussions tomorrow. I found my clothes and purse, with my phone still tucked inside, and took them with me to the bathroom. I had multiple voicemails and texts from Jia, the most recent sent after eleven p.m. I sat down on the toilet seat to read them.
Where are you?
Please confirm you’re at home.
Call me back.
PLEASE READ: Artigen leaked that they will offer.
Numerous journalists seeking comment. DO NOT
COMMENT. New LA Times tech reporter Nate Pryor is in
town. Do not talk to him.
The anger surged up in me so completely, so physically, it was almost erotic. Speeding heart, coursing adrenaline, blurred vision. Who was he to try to derail me? I flung open the bathroom door with an image in my mind’s eye of slapping him hard awake. Instead, I gripped the door frame. I couldn’t give in to this. I took deep, slow breaths until my heart slowed down.
I found the trousers of his cheap suit on the floor, and in them, his wallet with his California driver’s licence. Nathaniel Pryor.
I made myself return to the bathroom and closed the door. I started counting to ten, but decided at five that I was fine. I called Jia.
“I slept with him.”
“Who?”
“Nate Pryor.”
“When?”
“Just now.”
Jia was silent, then, “Where are you?”
I told her and hung up.
I got dressed. I finger-combed my hair, once more cursing its excessive length, and put on my shoes and watch. I pulled a chair up beside the bed and sat down. I felt ticklish, like I had a wave inside me I couldn’t quite catch. I nudged him in the neck with the tip of my heel.
“Nate.”
He startled awake, feeling the sharp point against his throat without me even having to move. This moment delighted me. How much damage could I actually do, I wondered, with the heel of my shoe? Didn’t they have metal inside them, these yet-again-fashionable stilettos?
Nate looked alarmed.
“You forgot to tell me something.”
Eyes on me, he pulled gingerly away. “I’m sorry, what?”
“You didn’t give me all the facts.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t like that—” He stared at my heel like it was a tarantula.
“I asked you what you did. And you asked me what I did, as if you didn’t know.”
“Ah.”
“You’re here under false pretenses.”
He pulled the sheet more tightly around his naked body. “I was going to. But things—this—” He gestured around the room.
“You lied because you wanted to trick me into giving you information.”
“I’m sorry, but I didn’t mean to do this. I’ve never done this. I have a girlfriend.”
“How did you find me?”
“Find you?”
“You didn’t just accidentally run across me.”
His brow perspired.
“Nate. How did you find me?”
“I heard a rumour.”
“A rumour?”
“Just that—that you liked the Four Seasons. That you held meetings there.”
The anger that coursed through me was directed at myself this time. I did frequent the Four Seasons, but I didn’t hold meetings there. Jia had warned me a dozen times that I wasn’t some anonymous person. Today, feeling unsettled, I should have just gone home, or at least somewhere else. Some dive bar where no one would stalk me.
I’d made a mistake. Still. What did Nate think he was doing? How could he think he was justified?
“You planned this,” I said.
“God, no. I just wanted to meet you and then—”
He backed off the bed, dragging the sheet with him and wrapping it around himself as he stood. I stared at his half-covered body to try to disconcert him further.
“This is bad for me too,” he said.
“So this is bad for me? How exactly—are you planning to blackmail me?”
His face, neck, and shoulders turned pink with offence. “I don’t do that kind of thing.”
“My lawyer will be happy to hear that.”
“Your lawyer?”
“She’ll be here in a few minutes.”
“No, no, no, no, no. This is crazy.”
His eyes sought out mine, trying to make a connection. While we were fucking, we’d locked gazes, and the fear I saw in his—of vulnerability, of exposure—had sent me right over the edge.
He wanted connection? I would give him connection.
There was a knock at the door. I walked over to Nate. With me in my heels and him in his bare feet, we were the same height. I looked into his eyes, let him have what he was seeking. I lifted my hand to his face, slowly so that he wouldn’t startle. I cupped my thumb under his chin in the spot where, a moment ago, I’d rested the tip of my heel, and pressed it into his jugular vein. He inhaled sharply.
“You’re lucky I didn’t hurt you,” I said.
I went to the door. Jia wore her glasses, a sign that she’d rushed here from home. Her long black hair was in a loose bun, her face washed of makeup. She’d already looked tired this afternoon at work, with purple shadows under her eyes. The sale negotiations were getting to her.
Jia had with her a hulking man I recognized as one of our security staff.
“Are you all right, Dr. Winter?”
“Yes, thank you, Felix.”
“This is my hotel room,” Nate called out.
Felix turned to the journalist. “Sir, I suggest you put your clothes on.”
Jia took me aside. I studied her face: angry. But her voice was calm. “Anything else I need to know?”
There was so much Jia needed to know. But all I said was “He has a girlfriend.”
“That could be useful.” She glanced over at Nate, who was trying to get into his clothes without dropping his sheet. To me she said, “Go home and pull yourself together.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, because I actually was.
I left Nate in Jia and Felix’s care and drove the short distance to my apartment.
* * * *
Normally, if I’m not consumed with research, I’m a champion sleeper. But tonight, I was bothered by the day’s tumults and the evening’s mistakes, so I drew a bath. My apartment is on the twenty-fifth floor and my floor-to-ceiling bathroom window faces west. On clear days, this gives me a view all the way to the Olympic Peninsula, but at this time of night, in this weather, I couldn’t even see a star. I turned the light to its dimmest setting.
As I slipped into warm water in the near-dark, I reflected on what had just happened. From Jia’s point of view, the worst thing I’d done was risk negative public attention. Yet Jia was missing critical information, things I should have told her a long time ago but never had. I kept thinking about how much I’d wanted to shove the pointed heel of my shoe into the journalist’s neck. I hadn’t felt such a violent urge in maybe a decade. That brief yet compelling thrill. I thought I’d channelled those desires into outdoor sports and one-night stands. And now the temptation had revisited me right when I had the most to lose.
If you considered just my accomplishments, you’d judge me a good person. Someone who’s made a positive difference. All my therapists, doctors, and teachers helped make me this way. But none could ever tell me what to do with those exciting deviant moments that violate the rules. The urge to destroy even what I myself have built. Tonight, I’d played with that edge.
Excerpted from The Outlier © Elisabeth Eaves 2024 with permission of Random House Canada
