Page 114 of X Marks the Stalker
“I was thinking pasta.” He stands, stretching in a way that makes his shirt ride up, revealing a strip of skin I suddenly want to taste.
“Pasta works too.” I drag my eyes away from his abdomen. “Though it seems so normal.”
“Would you prefer I serve you blood soup in a skull?”
“Only if it comes with garlic bread.”
I’m halfwaythrough my cereal when Xander freezes, phone in hand.
“What?” I ask, milk dribbling down my chin.
“They’re coming. Now.” He shoves his phone in his pocket. “All of them.”
“What? Who? The Hemlock Society? I thought they weren’t coming until?—”
“Plans change. We have twenty minutes.”
I stare at my Star Wars pajama pants and Xander’s oversized t-shirt. “I need to change.”
“Forget clothes. The murder board.”
I look at the wall where we’ve meticulously arranged our Blackwell evidence—photographs, documents, and my precious cat sticky notes forming an intricate web of information.
“Right. Priorities.”
I spring into action, abandoning my half-eaten cereal on the kitchen counter. My mind races through everything we’ve compiled about Blackwell.
“What’s the protocol here?” I ask, already pulling downphotographs. “Do we hide everything or just organize it better?”
“Thorne will want to see our work,” Xander says, grabbing a stack of folders. “But we need it to be coherent to convince him. Right now it looks like?—”
“The work of a deranged stalker?” I offer.
“I was going to say ‘enthusiastic journalist,’ but yours works too.”
I snort and start rearranging the timeline. “Can you get me those financial records we found yesterday? The offshore accounts?”
Xander hands me a thick manila folder.
“Do you think they’ll actually help us?”
“They’ll help us if it helps them.” He pauses. “And if they believe you can be trusted.”
I nod, understanding the subtext. No matter what temporary approval Thorne gave me, I’m still an outsider. A liability.
“Fifteen minutes,” Xander warns.
I grab my cat sticky notes—color-coded by significance—and begin repositioning them. Green for confirmed connections, yellow for suspected, red for financial ties, purple for violence. The pattern emerges more clearly as I work, showing how Blackwell’s legitimate businesses feed into his criminal enterprises.
“Can you pass me the tape?” I ask, stretching to reach the top of the board.
Xander hands me the roll, his fingers brushing mine. Even now, with killers on their way to evaluate us, that tiny contact sends electricity throughme.
“How do you think they’ll judge me?” I can’t help asking.
“They’ll judge your work,” he answers. “Calloway appreciates thoroughness. Thorne respects courage.” He pauses. “And nothing impresses Lazlo more than good snacks.”
I laugh despite myself. “Then I’m set.”
