Page 104 of X Marks the Stalker
It’s the genuine kindness in his voice that almost cracks me. I’m lying to this man, manipulating his sympathy to cover up a murder.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “I’m sorry. I just need a minute.”
“Take all the time you need.” He glances at Xander. “She good with water? I’ve got some in the cruiser if it’ll help.”
Xander nods. “That would be great, thank you.”
As the officer walks back to his car, I lock eyes with Xander.
“What the fuck?” he whispers.
“I panicked!” I whisper-shout back.
“That much was obvious.”
“It’s working, isn’t it?”
The officer returns with a water bottle and crouches beside my window. His expression has softened from suspicious to sympathetic, which just churns the guilt deeper in my stomach.
“Here you go, ma’am.” He passes me the water.
I take a long swig, buying time. “Thank you.”
“You said you’re heading up to a cabin?” he asks.
Xander steps in. “Yes, sir. To my family’s place in the Berkshires. Thought some time away from the city might help with her anxiety.”
“Well, that’s thoughtful.” The officer straightens up. “There’s a garage in Millfield, about ten miles up. They open at seven.” The officer steps back from the car. “I’ll let you two continue on your way. Just be careful out here at night. Had some reports of unusual activity.”
“Unusual activity?” I repeat, my voice cracking.
“Nothing to worry about. Probably just kids.” He taps the roof of our car. “You take care of yourself. And get that taillight fixed tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir,” Xander says. “Thank you for your understanding.”
We wait until the police car disappears from our rearview mirror before either of us speaks.
“Danny DeVito birthmark?” Xander asks, pulling back onto the road.
“It was the first thing that came to mind,” I admit.
“On my leftbuttock.”
“I panicked! I needed something specific enough to sound convincing. Better than telling him there’s a dead body in the trunk that I killed with a decorative fish,” I point out.
“Fair,” he concedes. “Though I’m curious about how you picture me with a Danny DeVito birthmark.”
“I was worried about the trunk, not your hypothetical butt art,” I say, slumping back. “Would you have preferred I tell him about your actual hobbies? Stalking and murder?”
“Point taken,” he says, a hint of amusement creeping into his voice. “Though for the record, I don’t cry in movies.”
“That was the one detail that bothered you?” I laugh, feeling almost giddy with relief. “How about the emotional trauma from your childhood hamster’s death?”
“Mr. Whiskers would have wanted me to move on,” he says.
My heartbeat won’t slow down, hammering against my ribs. Every nerve ending sparks and crackles. My skin prickles everywhere—too sensitive, like I’ve been rubbed raw and exposed to the air. I squirm in my seat, crossing and uncrossing my legs. Like someone hooked jumper cables to my spine.
“I feel weird,” I say, staring straight ahead at the dark road.
