Page 15 of X Marks the Stalker
But this is different.
My pulse quickens as I see it’s from Oakley’s apartment. Specifically, her email surveillance program. The alert shows a message just arrived in her inbox with a subject line that makes my blood run cold.
“Shit,” I whisper, staring at the preview.
Chapter 4
Oakley
The key sticks at the three-quarter turn, same spot it always does.
I ram my shoulder against the door while balancing my laptop bag, camera case, and the industrial-sized coffee that’s keeping my brain cells from staging a mass suicide after four nights of surveillance. The apartment greets me with darkness and silence.
I flip the light switch with my elbow.
Something’s wrong.
My eyes sweep the room. Laundry explosion in the corner, crime scene photos plastered across the wall, dishes breeding new life forms in the sink. Everything looks normal, but the air feels...violated. The hairs on my neck rise.
“Hello?” I call out, then want to punch myself.Right, because murderers always announce themselves.Just your friendly neighborhood gallery killer. Don’t mind me, I’m just rearranging yoursock drawer.
I set my equipment down and reach into my jacket’s hidden inner pocket for the pepper spray I keep there. Right next to the emergency Twizzlers.
My laptop bag drops near the coffee table. I squint at it. The coffee table that’s...aligned with the couch? Yesterday morning, I knocked it crooked, rushing to an interview, and unless gravity decided to develop OCD...
My phone buzzes against my hip, and my soul nearly exits my body.
I fumble through my pockets. The screen glows with a new email notification.
“They found me. Taking off. Don’t contact me. Sorry. Martin.”
“Fuck,” I mutter, jabbing at his number.
It rings four times. I’m about to hang up when the line connects.
“I told you not to call.” His voice sounds thin, stretched like plastic wrap about to tear. Nothing like the confident man who’s been feeding me information on the Blackwell case for months.
“Martin, what’s going on? Who found you?”
“I don’t know, but someone’s been following me. A white van. And someone broke in.”
I scan my apartment again. “How do you know it was connected?”
“Nothing taken, but stuff moved. Then today, my supervisor called me in. Said there was an internal investigation about unauthorized access to some files. They know, Oakley. I need to disappear.”
My mind races. Martin has been crucial to my investigation into Blackwell.
“Where are you now?”
“Cheap motel off Route One. Got a bus ticket to New York for tonight.”
“Don’t leave. I need twenty minutes. What room are you in?”
“No way. I’ve helped enough.”
I pace across my apartment, kicking aside a trail mix wrapper. “Martin, listen to me. Help me take him down. He won’t stop chasing you if I don’t.”
Silence stretches between us, thin as spider silk.
