Page 147 of X Marks the Stalker
I pull up another article, this one featuring a photo of my father in his detective uniform beside my mother in her lab coat—the same photo I kept on my investigation board for years. “Look at this. ‘Decorated Detective Framed by Media Mogul: The True Story of Sean and Katherine Novak.’”
“Your father’s old partner gave an interview,” Thorne says, sliding his phone toward me. “Says he always had doubts about the official story.”
On screen, Captain Miller, now gray-haired and retired, stands on the steps of police headquarters. “Sean Novak was the most honest cop I ever knew,” the caption reads. “I never believed he would hurt his wife or himself.”
I blink back tears. “Twelve years. Twelve years I’ve been trying to get anyone to listen.”
“They’re listening now,” Xander says, his thumb brushing across my knuckles.
Darius adjusts his glasses. “Blackwell Media Group’s stock dropped sixty-three percent this morning. The board has called an emergency meeting. Several major shareholders have already jumped ship.”
“They’re even revisiting Martin Reeves’ murder. Policeare investigating whether Blackwell’s security team was involved.”
“One death opens the door to justice for many,” Thorne observes, refilling my glass.
I set down my phone and look around at these men—killers who have become my allies, my collaborators. Perhaps even my friends. The red-tinged light makes them look almost otherworldly, like figures in a painting depicting both heaven and hell.
“My whole adult life has been about this moment,” I say. “Proving that my father didn’t kill my mother. Proving that Blackwell was behind it all. Showing the world who he really was.”
“Mission accomplished,” Calloway says, raising his glass. “Your performance piece is complete, and the critics are raving.”
“And quite stylishly,” Lazlo adds. “The murder board was a nice touch. Very thematic. Though I still maintain we could have gone with something more exotic. I have a collection of rare venoms that?—”
“Next time, Lazlo,” Darius says.
I pick up my glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light. “For the first time in ten years, I feel...” I pause, searching for the right word.
“Vindicated?” Darius suggests.
“Avenged?” offers Calloway. “Artistically satisfied?”
I shake my head. “Content.”
The word hangs strange on my tongue, foreign after so many years of rage and purpose. But it’s true. The hollow space that’s carved itself inside me has...shifted. Not gone,but transformed. Where white-hot fury once boiled, something cooler now flows through the chambers of my heart.
My gaze drifts to Xander, his thumb still tracing circles on my skin. The emptiness that drove me for so long now pulses with something new, something that doesn’t demand constant feeding but offers sustenance instead.
“To content,” Xander says, raising his glass to mine. His eyes crinkle at the corners—the first genuine smile I’ve seen from him since the vault.
Six crystal tumblers clink against mine, the sound bright and clear in the underground chamber. I meet each pair of eyes—cold blue, amber, gray-green, deep brown, steel gray—and feel something I haven’t experienced in years.
Peace.
Thorne studies me for a long moment, then sets his tumbler down with a soft click against the table. “Which brings us to the matter at hand.”
The room falls silent except for the soft hum of the ventilation system.
“You’ve accomplished what you set out to do,” Thorne continues. “Blackwell is dead. Your parents are avenged. Your mission is complete.”
I swallow hard. He’s right. The singular focus that’s driven me since I was sixteen has been fulfilled. There’s a hollow space inside me where that purpose used to live.
“Xander tells us you’ve demonstrated certain...aptitudes,” Lazlo says, leaning forward. “The gas station guy. Your contributions with Wendell. Not to mention your quick thinking during the extraction.”
“I didn’t plan those,” I say. “The gas station was self-defense. And Wendell...” I trail off, remembering the sound of metal against bone.
“That’s the point,” Xander says. “You didn’t plan them, but you performed them. Like you were born for it.”
“What Xander is trying to say,” Thorne interjects, “is that you’ve proven yourself capable. But capability isn’t the only consideration.”
