Page 17 of X Marks the Stalker
I sit frozen, knuckles white around my camera, the taste of copper filling my mouth where I’ve bitten the inside of my cheek.
Martin is dead. Because of me. Because I pushed him to help me.
My hand fumbles for the door handle. I spill out onto theasphalt, knees hitting hard. The contents of my stomach splatter across the pavement.
I heave until nothing remains but bile and gasping breaths.
Martin waited for me. I asked him to wait.
Twenty minutes, I said. If I’d driven faster. If I’d left immediately. If I hadn’t made him talk to me again.
The realization crashes down. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, the acid taste lingering on my tongue. My eyes burn with tears I refuse to let fall. Not here.
A man who simply helped me access records that should have been public, anyway. A clerk who wanted to do the right thing.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
The men could return. They could check the parking lot.
I drag myself back into the driver’s seat, hands trembling so badly that I drop my keys twice before starting the engine. The Honda coughs to life.
I ease out without headlights, heart thundering in my ears. Once I reach the main road, I flip them on and force myself to drive at the speed limit. No attention. No suspicion.
The folder Martin had. The laptop. Everything documenting Blackwell’s connections to the corrupt officials who framed my father. Who framed others. Everything linking him to my mother’s death. Gone.
Two years of investigation. Hundreds of hours pursuing leads, connecting dots, building a case that would finally expose the truth. My one chance at justice for my parents.
I need to make sure no one follows me home.
I pull over three blocks from my apartment, unable to see through the tears that break free. My fist pounds the steering wheel once, twice, again, until my hand throbs with pain that doesn’t begin to match the hollow ache in my chest.
I sit immobile, watching occasional cars pass, their headlights sweeping across my windshield. The digital clock on my dashboard changes numbers. Ten minutes. Twenty. Thirty.
No one followed me. No one saw me.
I straighten, wiping streaks of mascara from under my eyes. The moment of weakness passes, leaving cold clarity in its wake.
Martin is dead. My evidence is gone.
But I’m still here.
I leave my car at the curb instead of bothering with the garage. It’s almost midnight. Boston sleeps, unaware that evidence of Blackwell’s crimes has just been obliterated along with Martin’s life.
The walk to my apartment feels equal to wading through cement. My limbs move by rote. One foot in front of another. My key finds the lock. My hand twists the knob.
I slip inside and stand in the darkness. The emptiness of my apartment mocks me.
Call the police? Report what I saw?
A bitter laugh escapes my lips. Police. Guardians of justice.Right, and Santa Claus runs a summer camp for unicorns.
My father wore that uniform. Believed in that badge. And when he found evidence of Blackwell’s corruption, his own brothers helped destroy him. Planted evidence. Falsifiedreports. Created a narrative where my detective father took bribes.
I flip on the light and face my investigation wall. Two years of work. Red strings connecting photos, documents, testimonies. Martin’s photo sits near the center.
I cross the room and reach for a thick black marker. With slow, deliberate strokes, I draw an X across his face.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper at the photo. “I’m so sorry.”
