Page 18 of X Marks the Stalker
My fingers trace the other connections now severed by his death. Officials Blackwell had in his pocket. Documentation of payoffs. Evidence that could have brought down Blackwell’s empire.
All gone.
I slam my palm against the wall and send pain shooting up my arm.
I rip Martin’s photo from the wall and stare at his Xed-out face. For a moment, I see him again. The shadow behind the motel curtain crumpling to the floor.
One call to report a murder. That’s what a good citizen would do. What a journalist with integrity would do.
But I know better. If Blackwell has moles in law enforcement—and he does—they’d know I was the caller. They’d trace me to the scene. They’d discover my connection to Martin. They’d realize what information I was after.
And then another X would appear on my investigation board. My own.
I open my laptop instead, hands still trembling. There must be another way. Another source. Another angle of attack.
Hours blur together. I try his social media accounts, hoping for messages I might recover. Nothing.
My fingers ache from typing. My eyes burn from staring at the screen. The sun rises, casting long shadows across my floor, but I barely notice.
Blackwell’s web is vast, but there’s always a thread to pull. Always. I’ll find it. A man that powerful leaves tracks, no matter how carefully he tries to erase them. And when I do, he’ll regret the day he crossed my family.
My stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten since... I can’t remember. I fish a protein bar from my jacket pocket, unwrap it, and bite down without tasting it.
My eyelids grow heavy. The words on my screen blur and double.
I’m getting nowhere.
With a frustrated growl, I slam my laptop closed. My body aches as I drag myself to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. The mirror shows a stranger. Hair wild, eyes hollow, skin pale beneath smudged makeup.
I stumble to my bedroom, too exhausted to undress. I fall onto the mattress, springs protesting beneath me.
The ceiling stares back at me, blank and unforgiving. Like the motel room ceiling Martin stared at as he died, waiting for me to arrive.
“I should feel worse about watching someone die,” I whisper to the empty room. “But all I feel is...rage.”
Chapter 5
Xander
Oakley’s apartment door clicks shut behind her. Fifty-seven minutes since she witnessed her source get murdered. Not that I timed it.
Okay, I did. Sue me. Chronological precision is my love language.
I pull up the camera feeds on my phone, sinking lower in the driver’s seat of my car. The temperature dropped another five degrees since sunset, but I barely notice, transfixed by the video streams filling my screen.
The living room feed shows her most clearly—the wide-angle lens I installed behind her bookshelf capturing her entire shabby-chic aesthetic in 4K resolution.
She vomited when she saw the killing. One of her sources, I believe. It’s an expected reaction. What I didn’t expect was how quickly she’d transition to...whatever this is now.
She moves with purpose, heading straightfor her investigation board. Her fingers rearrange photos and red strings like she’s debugging complex code. She never even takes off her jacket. The brown leather one with at least seven concealed snack pockets.
I counted. Twice. This woman carries more emergency food than most people pack for a week-long camping trip.
She reaches for a black marker and draws an X over a photo.
I smile despite myself. Just like I mark mine. Though my system involves less yarn and more encrypted spreadsheets.
I’ve observed trauma responses in forty-seven surveillance subjects, and hers is...different. Fascinating, actually. Not that I’m keeping count. That would be weird. Except I am keeping count because data organization soothes my anxiety like normal people use bath bombs.
