Page 137 of X Marks the Stalker
I lean forward. “And Xander?”
Lazlo doesn’t respond immediately. I hear muffled voices through his comm, the crackle of police radios.
“No mention of Xander,” Lazlo says. “They keep talking about the evidence. Something about files all over the desk. One officer just threw up.”
“I need more details,” Darius murmurs, sliding his empty espresso cup aside. “Specifics.”
“Hold on.” Lazlo’s breath quickens. “Captain’s calling for additional units. They mention the nails, the strings. He’s saying it’s ‘some sick murder board brought to life.’”
I touch my locket, remembering how we planned it all—the evidence nailed to living flesh, the red strings connecting Blackwell to his crimes. My crimes now, too.
“Still no mention of anyone else,” Lazlo says. “Just Blackwell and the evidence.”
Relief floods through me, my muscles unclenching one by one. I sink back into my chair, exhaling.
“Wait—they’re talking about something else now. Weird.”
Darius raises an eyebrow, somehow conveying intense interest through minimal movement. “Define weird.”
“The captain’s saying something about the victim’s eyes being removed,” Lazlo says, his voice dropping. “I can’t hear exactly what—oh shit, I need to move. Someone’s coming this way.”
The comm goes silent. I pick up my cold coffee, the liquid tastes bitter and wrong, but I force it down anyway.
When Lazlo’s voice returns, it’s even more hushed. “Had to duck into a maintenance closet. Some rookie almost spotted me.”
“The eyes,” Darius prompts.
“Right. So they’re saying Blackwell’s eyes are missing.” Lazlo makes a sound between a cough and a laugh. “Holy shit, Novak. I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“What?” I blink in confusion.
“You took out his eyes? That’s next level.” Lazlo sounds impressed.
“We didn’t take out his eyes,” I insist, shooting a worried glance at Darius. “Xander must have done it after I left.”
“No way,” Lazlo counters. “Xander doesn’t like dealing with eyes. He thinks they’re all squishy and gross and keep looking at you.”
“He has an eye phobia?” A surprised laugh bubbles out of me. “Seriously?” The man who planned a neurosurgeon’s death is squeamish about eyeballs?
Lazlo continues. “Captain’s theory is that whoever killed Blackwell took his eyes to access the safe.”
“He’s in the vault,” Darius and I say in unison.
“That explains why they didn’t find him, and the no reception,” I whisper, relief washing over me before new worry floods in. “But how big is this vault? How much air does he have in there?”
Darius sets down his espresso cup. “Blackwell’s vault would be cutting-edge. Designed for surviving disasters.”
“But not designed for hiding a wanted man,” I press, my fingers twisting my locket chain tighter. “Oxygen-wise, I mean. Are we talking hours? Days?”
“Hard to say without the specs.” Darius checks his watch. “Depending on the size...”
My mind races through terrible scenarios. “What if it’s tiny? What if it’s just a glorified safe deposit box?” I remember the confined space of the ventilation shaft, theway my breath echoed in the metal tunnel. “I can’t believe I left him in there.”
“Your departure was essential to maintaining the timeline,” Darius reminds me, his voice lowered as the barista passes our table. “And it appears Mr. Rhodes improvised quite effectively.”
“But how long can he last in there?” My coffee cup trembles in my hand, cold liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
“They’re bringing in a safe specialist. Talking about drilling the vault if necessary.”
