Page 10 of X Marks the Stalker
Richard Blackwell stares back at me from the center of this board. Distinguished silver hair, cold eyes, presidential smile. The man who funds half of Boston’s politicians and owns the other half.
Photos of his mansion, his schedule, his known associates. Arrows connecting him to suspicious deaths, to missing persons, to sealed court cases.
I step closer, pulse quickening. Why is she investigating Blackwell? There’s no obvious connection to the Gallery Killer case. This is something else.
I scan her notes. Phrases jump out.Father’s case... Possible connection... Corrupt police captain...
My fingers hover over the edge of a photograph tucked beneath others. An image of a younger Blackwell shaking hands with a police officer in front of the town hall.
I snap photos of her entire investigation board with my phone.
Her desk is a controlled disaster zone. Notebooks filled with precise handwriting. Police scanner. Three empty coffee cups. A drawer filled with—I open it—nothing butcandy bars, organized by... Emotional emergency type? The labels make me pause.
“‘Breaking Point Butterfingers’... ‘Deadline Disaster Snickers’... ‘Murderer Escapes Justice KitKats’?” I read, a smile tugging at my lips. Who is this woman?
I move to her kitchen. The fridge, when opened, reveals a culinary nightmare. Energy drinks. Half-eaten containers of Chinese, Thai, and Indian takeout. A concerning number of string cheese packages. Condiments with questionable expiration dates.
Not a vegetable in sight.
“How are you still alive?” I mutter. My refrigerator contains portioned meal-prep containers, organized by macronutrient ratios and expiration dates.
Bathroom next. Standard toiletries. Prescription bottles—sleeping pills and antacids. Considering her diet, not surprising. Her shower contains expensive shampoo but bargain body wash. Priorities.
Finally, her bedroom. I pause at the threshold, aware I’m crossing a different kind of line. Surveillance is one thing. Clinical, detached. This feels more...intimate.
Her bed lies unmade, sheets tangled like she fights battles in her sleep. I approach slowly, my heart rate increasing. Without giving myself time to reconsider, I lean down and inhale deeply where her head rests on the pillow.
Roses and peonies.
For a moment—just a moment—I imagine her there. Dark hair spilled across the pillow. My cock twitches. I straighten, disturbed by my reaction.
I’m here to assess a threat, not...whatever this is.Get ittogether. You’re a professional, not a teenager with boundary issues and an overactive imagination.
The cameras need optimal placement.
I pull three wireless pinhole cameras from my jacket pocket. Each is smaller than a thumbtack, better than anything commercially available, with enhanced low-light capability and motion activation to conserve battery.
“Let’s get acquainted properly, Oakley Novak,” I whisper, rolling her name around in my mouth like expensive whiskey.
The first camera needs to capture her investigation board. I locate an ideal spot on the bookshelf opposite the wall, between two hardback true crime books. I align it, then test the angle on my phone. Perfect view of both boards.
“What connections will you make next?” I wonder aloud. Her methodology fascinates me. The way she’s tracking The Gallery Killer shows intuition bordering on uncanny. If she keeps going at this rate...
I shake off the thought and move to position the second camera. The living room needs wider coverage. I need to see every visitor, every conversation. I locate a smoke detector on the ceiling, pop it open, and nestle the camera inside. Its field of vision encompasses the entire main living area, including the front door.
Now for the most intrusive placement. I stand in her bedroom doorway again, shifting uncomfortably. I monitor targets, not threats who haven’t done anything wrong yet.
“This is necessary,” I tell myself, stepping toward her nightstand. “It’s protection.”
For her. Definitely for her. If Thorne discovers herinvestigation... I’m just creating an early warning system. Like a smoke detector, but for a homicidal members’ club.
I place the third camera above her closet, angling it to capture the entire bed and doorway.
I take one last look at her bedroom, trying to ignore how the scent of her perfume still lingers in my nostrils. Something about this woman has gotten under my skin in a way that makes me deeply uncomfortable. I’m crossing lines I’ve established for myself.
I check each feed one last time on my phone. All three cameras are transmitting. Job completed.
“I am vengeance. I am the night. I am...really fucking hungry.”
