Page 21 of X Marks the Stalker
But right now, none of that matters. What matters is that Richard Blackwell will destroy her for digging into his past. And for reasons I can’t entirely explain, I can’t let that happen.
I start my car. This isn’t just observation anymore. Oakley Novak needs a guardian angel, even if she’d consider me the devil.
Chapter 6
Xander
I’m seven minutes late to a meeting of serial killers, and that’s not even the worst part of my evening.
The worst part is that I can’t stop thinking about a woman who’s investigating the one target that will get her killed. A woman whose nightly routine has become a reflex to me after a week of constant surveillance.
Right now, she’s probably settling in to watchCriminal Minds.I force my hand down, gripping the edge of the mahogany table as I slide into my seat.
Four pairs of eyes turn to me. Thorne’s right eyebrow arches, a subtle gesture that somehow communicates profound disappointment more effectively than a shouted reprimand.
“Sorry about the time,” I say. “Turns out temporal precision is overrated anyway, right? Einstein proved time is relative, which technically means I’m both late and early, depending on yourframe of reference.”
Silence. The joke falls flat, hanging awkwardly in the air between us like a dad joke at a funeral.
I focus on the wood grain of the table. Brazilian rosewood, harvested from old-growth forests long before such things were regulated. The swirls form an almost face-like pattern in front of me. I trace the lines with my eyes, following each curve and whorl rather than meeting anyone’s gaze.
“You’re late again,” Calloway says, eyebrows raised. He looks me over like I’m one of his art installations that’s slightly off center. “Twice in one month. Are you feeling okay?”
“Our resident stalker had places to be,” Darius adds, loosening his tie with a half-smile. “Hot date with a security camera?”
My mind races through potential explanations, none of them involving Oakley Novak or the Blackwell file I discovered in her apartment. The Hemlock Society voted last year against Blackwell as a target. Too connected, too dangerous, too public.
But they didn’t see what Blackwell did to Martin. They don’t know what he did to Oakley’s parents.
“I got caught up reviewing some footage,” I say, which isn’t technically a lie.
“Let me guess,” Calloway smirks, “you found a new model of fiber-optic camera and lost track of time.”
“That was one time,” I mutter. “And those cameras were revolutionary.”
Lazlo leans forward. “I’ve seen this before,” he says, eyes wide with mock concern. “Classic case of SOS. Surveillance Obsession Syndrome. Symptoms include temporal disorientation,social awkwardness—well, more than usual in your case—and an unhealthy fixation on watching other people’s lives instead of having one of your own.” He snaps his fingers. “Wait, that’s just your personality. Never mind.”
The others chuckle, tension broken. I force a smile, though my mind keeps drifting back to Oakley’s apartment. To the way she’d organized her investigation board. To the evidence that might get her killed.
“I’m fine,” I say, straightening the cuffs of my shirt. “Just got caught up watching a potential situation develop.”
“Fascinating,” Calloway says, not sounding fascinated at all. “Can we move on to actual business now that our resident voyeur has graced us with his presence? Or do we need to hear more about your nonexistent love life?”
Thorne consults his leather-bound agenda. “Ambrose will join us shortly to present his candidate. In the meantime, updates on current operations?”
Darius clears his throat. “The DA’s office is treating Hargrove’s death as suicide, case closed. The evidence I planted about his embezzlement provided sufficient motive.”
“Excellent,” Thorne says with the barest hint of a smile. “Lazlo?”
“The good doctor continues his little side business prescribing opioids to college kids,” Lazlo says, fidgeting with a pen. “I’ve documented three exchanges this week alone. He meets my criteria.”
“Any complications?”
“Just my developing aortic aneurysm,” Lazlo says, pressing a hand to his chest. “Although it might just be heartburn from that Thai place near the hospital. Either way, I’ll probably be dead by next week’s meeting.”
“We’ll send flowers,” Calloway says. “Something artistic and deeply symbolic of your short, paranoid life.”
All eyes turn to me, expectant. I realize I’ve been tracing the same whorl in the wood for the past minute.
