Page 129 of X Marks the Stalker
With us.
The door slides shut, sealing us in with Blackwell. His shoulders slump with relief.
That’s it. We’re locked inside.
Xander launches himself from our hiding spot. Before Blackwell registers our presence, Xander slams into him. They crash to the ground in a tangle of limbs and startled shouts. Blackwell’s phone skids across the floor toward me.
“What the—” Blackwell’s words die as Xander’s fist connects with his temple.
I pull the zip ties from my pocket and dash to where Blackwell lies stunned on the floor, his expensive suit rumpled beneath Xander’s weight.
“Get his arms,” Xander pants.
Blackwell thrashes as comprehension dawns. “Who the hell are you people? Do you have any idea who I am?”
“I’ll take ‘Things People Say Before They Die’ for $500, Alex,” Xander mutters, flipping Blackwell onto his stomach and pinning his arms behind his back.
I kneel beside them, cinching the thick plastic ties around Blackwell’s wrists with a satisfying zip-click.
“The chair,” I say, nodding toward the ergonomic office chair bolted beside the main console.
Together, we haul Blackwell’s struggling form across the room. His Italian leather shoes scrape against the floor.
“You can’t do this,” Blackwell gasps, blood trickling from his temple. “There are cameras everywhere. Security will?—”
“Security is a bit preoccupied,” I say, helping Xander position Blackwell in the chair.
We secure his torso with more zip ties, pulling them tight enough to make him wince. I bind his ankles to the chair legs while Xander circles behind, checking our handiwork.
“I have money,” Blackwell says, dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Whatever they’re paying you, I’ll triple it.”
I step back to survey our work. Richard Blackwell—media mogul, real estate tycoon, murderer—secured to his own panic room chair. His hair sticks to his forehead, his eyes darting between us.
“Do you know who I am?” he screams.
“Do you know who I am?” I ask back, pulling up my mask.
Blackwell’s confident sneer doesn’t waver.
“No? Then let me tell you.” I step closer, invading his space until his expensive cologne and fear-sweat fill my nostrils. “I’m Oakley Novak. Daughter of Detective Sean Novak and Dr. Katherine Novak.”
Recognition flickers across his face—a microsecond tell before his mask returns.
“My father was investigating your organization. He found evidence linking you to human trafficking, money laundering, and three murders.” I lean in until our faces nearly touch. “You couldn’t let him continue, could you?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Blackwell says, but his voice betrays him with a slight tremor.
“You framed him for corruption. You fabricated evidence that he murdered my mother and then killedhimself.” My voice stays steady. “A sixteen-year-old girl came home to find her parents’ bodies and a narrative that destroyed not just their lives, but their legacy.”
Blackwell’s eyes dart to the door, then to the security monitors.
“No one’s coming,” I say. “Just like no one came when Martin Reeves called for help. Or when those three girls disappeared from your Bayside property development.”
“You’re insane,” Blackwell stammers, attempting outrage that sounds like naked fear.
“I’ve spent twelve years tracking every move you make. I know about the offshore accounts. The judges you’ve paid off. The witnesses who have mysteriously changed their testimony or disappeared.”
Xander steps forward, knife gleaming in his hand. Without a word, he presses the blade to Blackwell’s chest, dragging it across the expensive fabric of his shirt. The material splits, revealing pale flesh. Blood wells up in a perfect line as Xander carves a deliberate “X” into Blackwell’s skin.
