Page 124 of X Marks the Stalker
“I said I shouldn’t have to do it alone,” I snap. “Not that I can’t.”
A snort of laughter draws my attention to Calloway, who’s watching this exchange with the delight of someone who just found front-row tickets to their favorite show.
“This is fascinating,” he says, glancing between Xander and me. “Please, continue. I haven’t been this entertained since Thorne discovered someone replaced his hemlock tea with chamomile.”
Xander ignores him. “Oakley, I’m not questioning your ability. I’m saying it would be irresponsible to send anyone—even me—in there alone.”
“So, what’s your solution?” Thorne asks.
Xander steps closer to the display, fingers manipulating the schematics. “I’ll go in with her.”
“How?” Darius asks. “You can’t fit through that space.”
I stare at Xander, waiting for his explanation. He’s transformed in these moments—all that awkward charm fading into something sharp and dangerous, like watching a butterfly reverse into a predatory wasp.
“I can’t fit through the vent,” Xander admits, his eyes meeting mine. “But once Oakley’s inside, she can control the access panel.”
“The internal door controls,” I say, understanding dawning. “From inside the panic room, I could override the security and let you in.”
Xander nods. “Exactly. The panic room is designed to keep people out, but the occupant can open the door.”
I trace my finger along the narrow vent passage. The thought of shimmying through that tight space makes my chest tighten, but I push the feeling down. “So I crawl in, disable the security, and open the door for you.”
“Getting in is one thing,” Lazlo points out, “but how do you get out after? Once Blackwell enters, you’ll be trapped.”
I look at Xander. “Any ideas?”
Xander’s eyes gleam with that calculated intensity I’ve come to recognize—the look of a man who’s already calculated every risk and accepted them all.
“I’ll have to hide inside until everything clears,” he says, as if he’s suggesting we take a different route to avoid traffic rather than proposing a potential death sentence.
“That’s crazy.” The words burst from me. “They’ll search the panic room. And we don’t even have a visual on what’s inside. You could be walking into a box with nowhere to hide.”
“That’s why I’ll be the only one joining you.” His voice drops. “I’ll be the only one at risk.”
The room falls silent as everyone considers this obvious flaw in the plan. My heart pounds against my ribs, not from the fear of crawling through that vent, but from the image of Xander trapped in Blackwell’s panic room with nowhere to go. Cornered. Discovered. Executed.
Thorne picks up a tablet and swipes through several screens. “While we have the schematics of the ventilationsystem and outer dimensions, we lack interior details. No cameras inside that we know of.”
“So we’d be going in blind,” I say, crossing my arms. “That’s not a plan. That’s suicide.”
My knees burnagainst the metal as I crawl through the ventilation shaft, inch by excruciating inch. The LED headlamp strapped to my forehead illuminates the narrow metal corridor stretching ahead like a claustrophobic’s nightmare crossed with a tin can fever dream.
My triceps shake with effort. Who knew crawling could be this brutal? Years of sitting at a desk pursuing stories did nothing to prepare me for this physical reality. Every movement forward requires muscles I didn’t know existed, now screaming in protest.
The gloves stick to my sweating hands, squeaking against the metal with each movement. My breathing comes in short, shallow gasps—all the deep yoga breaths in the world wouldn’t help in this suffocating metal tube.
My hair itches beneath the tight black beanie, wisps trying to escape around my neck. I’d tucked every strand under the hat while Xander watched, his hands steady as he adjusted it, making sure nothing could fall out and leave DNA evidence behind. The memory of his fingers brushing against my neck sends an inconvenient ripple of heat through me.
“Focus,” I mutter, the word echoing down the metal tunnel. The hat feels too tight now, squeezing my skull with every heartbeat. But I’d rather have the discomfort than riskleaving a single hair behind to connect me to whatever happens in Blackwell’s panic room.
I force myself forward another painful foot. My shoulders scrape the sides of the duct with every movement. Another wave of claustrophobia hits, and I imagine the duct collapsing, crushing me inside. I’d die here, entombed in the walls of Blackwell’s penthouse—the world’s worst poetic justice.
“Talk to me, Oakley,” Xander’s voice crackles through my earpiece. “What do you see?”
“Dust. Cobwebs. More dust. Pretty sure I just made friends with a spider who’s planning to follow me on Instagram.”
“Focus.”
