Page 100 of X Marks the Stalker
He runs his hands through his hair. “This is why I plan. This is exactly why I plan. Do you know how many variables we now have to account for? Security cameras? Witnesses? Time of death in a public place? Vehicle descriptions?”
“Xander.”
He stops, blinking at me like he’s surprised I’m still here.
“I just killed someone,” I say, my voice shaking. “With a fish.”
His expression softens for a fraction of a second before his analytical brain kicks back in. “Yes. Yes, you did. You okay?”
I nod.
He takes a deep breath. “Alright. This is...manageable. Not ideal, but manageable.”
“What do we do?” I ask.
I stare at the man sprawled across the bathroom floor as my brain struggles to process what just happened. The urge to vomit—or laugh—bubbles up, but I swallow it down.
“We need to get him out of here,” Xander says, pacing the small space between the sink and the door. His usually methodical movements have turned jerky and tense.
“Breathe,” I tell him, surprised by how steady my voice sounds. “Just breathe.”
He stops pacing and looks at me like I’ve suggested we take a leisurely swim in the toilet water still gushing across the floor. “Breathe? There’s a dead body, Oakley.”
“I’m aware. I’m the one who killed him with a fish.”
“Right. With a fish. In a gas station bathroom.” His voice rises. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen. I plan things. I research. I create contingencies and backup contingencies and?—”
I grab his shoulders. “Xander. Look at me.”
His gray-green eyes lock onto mine.
“We’ve got this,” I say. “No cameras, no witnesses except the clerk, and he barely looked up from his phone. We’ll get the body out, clean up, and be gone before anyone knows what happened.”
He takes a deep breath. “Okay. We need a plan.”
“Here’s the plan. You grab his arms, I’ll take his legs, and we’ll drag him out the back door to the car.”
Xander looks appalled. “That’s not a plan! That’s a sentence with action verbs!”
Despite everything, a laugh bubbles up. “Welcome to improv murder, babe. Sometimes you gotta wing it.”
We stare at each other for a beat before Xander sighs. “Fine. Put on these gloves.” He pulls a second pair from his pocket and hands them to me.
“You just happen to be carrying two pairs of disposable gloves?”
“I also have three backup pairs in the car,” he says without a hint of irony. “Plus, a full forensic cleanup kit in the trunk. I’m not an amateur.”
I slide the gloves on. “Of course you do.”
Xander grabs the robber’s arms while I take his legs. The body is heavier than I expected, and the first attempt to lift him results in us nearly dropping him back into the growing puddle.
“On three,” I suggest. “One, two?—”
“This is ridiculous,” Xander mutters. “I should have brought my folding transport sheet. It’s in the emergency kit under the?—”
“Three!” I interrupt, hoisting up my end.
We maneuver through the door, the dead weight swinging between us like some macabre pendulum. The back of the gas station is deserted, a gravel lot littered with cigarette butts and empty beer cans stretching into the darkness.
