Page 142 of X Marks the Stalker
I watch, transfixed, as the old man struggles to his feet, spry for someone who seemed so frail moments ago. He straightens his jacket with a small, quick movement.
The guard doesn’t get up. He lies motionless on the marble floor, his phone skittering away across the polished surface.
The old man turns to me as if he knows I’m peeking through the door. “Are you coming?”
I open the door, blinking at him in confusion. “What? Who are you?”
The old man smiles, his entire demeanor shifting. “It’s Thorne.”
My mouth falls open. The stooped shoulders, the liver spots, even the wispy white hair... “Thorne? How did you do it? You look?—”
“No time now. Need to save Xander, remember?”
I step into the hallway, glancing at the security cameras mounted in the corners. “What about the cameras?”
“Disabled.”
Thorne doesn’t break stride as he steps over the officer’s body.
I follow him down the corridor toward Blackwell’s apartment, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Is he dead?”
“No. He’ll be out for a few hours and will have a nasty headache.”
I stare at the harmless-looking pen in my palm, processing what Thorne just said.
“So, the pen you gave me? It isn’t poison?”
Thorne doesn’t even slow down as he steps over the unconscious officer. “Sleeping drug.”
“Fuck.” Heat creeps up my neck. “And I didn’t use it because I didn’t want to kill him.”
My grand moral stand was unnecessary. I could have just jabbed the poor guy and moved on, no theatrical death throes required. No existential crisis about whether I could take an innocent life.
Thorne slides a key card from his pocket, waving it over the electronic lock. The door clicks open.
“It’s better this way,” he says, glancing back at the unconscious officer. “You don’t have a costume. If he saw you, we would have had to kill him.”
I swallow hard, looking from the sleeping guard to Thorne’s wrinkled disguise. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“No. Just factual.” Thorne pushes the door open, gesturing me forward. “Time is running out.”
The panic room door stands open, revealing the small chamber beyond. Yellow evidence markers dot the floor, each numbered and photographed by crime scene techs.
My stomach lurches at the memory of what Xander and I did here just hours ago. The evidence nailed to Blackwell’s chest. The red threads connecting his crimes. The final nail to his heart.
But there’s no time for memories or regrets. I need to save Xander.
“Xander?” I call, my voice echoing in the empty room.
No answer.
I rush past Thorne, ducking under the crime scene tape and heading straight for the gleaming steel vault at the back wall. The door remains shut, its biometric scanner glowing faintly red.
“Xander?” I press my palms against the cool metal. “Can you hear me?”
Nothing but silence greets me. I press my ear to the door, straining to hear any sound from within—breathing, movement, anything.
“He must be in there,” I say, turning to Thorne. “But why didn’t he come out when the police and forensics team left?”
