Page 125 of X Marks the Stalker
“I am focusing. I’m focusing on not panicking in this metal coffin. You try crawling through a glorified air duct with arms that feel like overcooked spaghetti and see how focused you stay.” I push forward, counting breaths to steady my racing heart.
The vent narrows, and I slide forward until—wait. I’m not sliding anymore. My shoulders wedge against the metal sides like I’m the cork in a wine bottle. Panic claws at my throat.
“Um, Xander?” I wriggle, trying to force myself through. My jacket bunches up around my armpits. “I think I’m stuck.”
“You’re not stuck,” his voice comes through my earpiece, infuriatingly calm.
I push harder, the metal pressing into my sides. “My professional assessment, as the one currently in this hellhole, says otherwise.”
“Take a deep breath and exhale fully before you push forward.”
I try his suggestion, sucking in what little air I can and then emptying my lungs.
“Why didn’t anyone measure this damn thing properly? I swear it’s getting narrower.” I strain against the sides again, my arms trembling with fatigue. “This is what I get for hoarding candy in every pocket. I should’ve gone with the sugar-free options. I swear on every Snickers in my apartment, if I make it out of here alive, I’m never eating candy again.”
Xander’s soft laugh tickles my ear. “That might be the least believable thing you’ve ever said.”
“I’m serious!” I push again. A slight give. “Sure, it’ll be hard to say goodbye to peanut butter cups, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.”
“The withdrawal symptoms alone would be alarming. I’ve seen you eat your way through an entire bag of gummy bears during a single stakeout.”
“Not helping, Rhodes.” I twist my shoulders at a different angle and slide forward another inch. “Shouldn’t you be saying encouraging things? Like ‘you’re doing great’ or ‘just a little farther’?”
“You’re doing great,” he says, and I hear the smile in his voice. “Just a little farther.”
“Smartass.”
“I watched you demolish two king-sized Kit Kats for breakfast. Your commitment to candy is the most stable relationship in your life.”
I snort despite myself. “Second most stable now.”
His voice softens. “Thank you, babe.”
With a final push and what feels like losing a layer of skin from my shoulders, I break free of the tight spot and slide forward. “I’m through. But I stand by what I said. No more candy.”
“I’m setting a timer. Let’s see how long that lasts.”
“Any updates on your end?” I ask, desperate to change the subject as I continue my awkward crawl.
“Security’s holding steady. No movement on the cameras.”
“So what do people talk about while crawling through ventilation systems to murder corrupt billionaires?” I ask, forcing lightness into my voice. “Weather? Sports? Reality TV?”
“I usually go with a murder-themed playlist. ‘Psycho Killer’ is solid vent-crawling music.”
“The Talking Heads’ version or the cover?”
“Please. There is only one version worth acknowledging.”
I smile despite everything. “Did you just make a joke?”
“Thought it might help with the claustrophobia.”
“Who says I’m claustrophobic?”
“Your elevated breathing pattern and the way you’ve been muttering ‘don’t think about being buried alive’ for the past five minutes.”
“I haven’t been—” I pause, realizing he’s right. “Okay, fine. Keep talking.”
