Page 135 of X Marks the Stalker
I take several deep breaths through my mouth.
One down, one to go.
I shift position and begin work on the left eye, bile climbing my throat. This one detaches more easily, which somehow makes it worse.
“Never again,” I promise myself, securing the second eye in its own bag. “This is a one-time solution to a one-time problem.”
I stand before the biometric safe, Blackwell’s eye between my fingers. My rational mind screams about unspeakable grossness while my practical side chants:Necessary. Necessary.
“This better work,” I mutter, positioning the eye in front of the scanner.
A pinprick of red light sweeps across the detached retina. For a terrible moment, I think it’s failed—then a satisfying mechanical click, followed by a female AI voice.
“Welcome, Mr. Blackwell.”
The heavy door swings open, revealing a walk-in vault. It’s spacious—six feet by three at least—with steel-lined walls and shelving units along one side. The other wall containsfile cabinets. Emergency lighting strips run along the ceiling, casting everything in a bluish glow.
Roughly one hundred cubic feet of space.
Not ideal, but better than being caught red-handed with Blackwell’s corpse.
Cash stacks—euros, yen, dollars—sit neatly bundled. Several velvet bags probably contain gemstones or other portable wealth. But what captures my attention are file folders and external hard drives.
I gather all the documents and hard drives, carrying them out to Blackwell’s desk for the police to find.
Back in the vault, I remove my lightweight backpack and pull out a small toiletry kit and fresh clothes. I seal Blackwell’s eyes in an insulated container and tuck it away.
I strip off my clothing piece by piece. The familiar process of cleaning up after a kill grounds me, returns me to protocol.
Alcohol wipes across every inch of exposed skin, again. Extra attention to fingernails, ears, hairline. Fresh deodorant. Clean socks, underwear, black tactical pants, and a dark navy button-up that could pass for business casual once I’m out. I slip on new shoe covers over clean shoes.
Every item goes into a sealable evidence bag—clothes, wipes, shoe covers, gloves. I squeeze the air out and seal it tight. Second bag, for paranoia’s sake. The double-bagged evidence fits into my pack alongside minimal supplies—water, protein bars, battery pack.
Now comes the worst part. Waiting. Just me, my thoughts, and a container of human eyeballs.
“Somehow, not the worst date I’ve ever had,” I mutter as I pull the vault door closed.
Chapter 32
Oakley
My spoon clinks against the ceramic as I stir my fourth cup of coffee in the upscale restaurant. The server glides past our table, eyeing my still-full plate of untouched eggs Benedict.
Around us, Boston’s business elite discuss mergers and acquisitions over $30 avocado toast. The perfect alibi breakfast.
My knife slips from my fingers, clattering against the plate.
“Perhaps the smoked salmon isn’t to your liking, Ms. Novak?” Darius cuts his steak, his fork and knife never touching the tablecloth. “The chef here trained in Paris.”
I push the plate away. “Have they opened the room yet?”
Darius dabs his mouth with his napkin, eyes scanning the restaurant before answering. “The security manager hasn’t even arrived with the override codes. Thesethings take time.” He takes a sip of water. “We will know when they do.”
The words Xander whispered in my ear earlier echo in my head. “I love you.” Three words said as we parted ways. Three words I didn’t answer because I was not prepared. Now they ricochet inside my skull, demanding acknowledgment.
I twist the silver locket around my neck—the one Xander recovered for me—and another realization hits me with startling clarity. I love him too. The words sit unspoken on my tongue, useless now with him trapped in that room.
My phone screen lights up. Lazlo’s name flashes on the screen. I snatch it up.
