Page 23 of X Marks the Stalker
“There’s no one,” I insist, though Oakley’s face flashes in my mind with annoying persistence. “I’m just interested in the technical aspects of the Wendell case.”
“The technical aspects,” Darius repeats, momentarily distracted from his fantasy football disaster. “Right. Because you’ve never surveilled a hospital before.”
“Not this hospital,” I say. “Every hospital has unique...hospital things.”
Ambrose leans on his cane, looking disappointed. “In my black ops days, we had a term for this kind of situation. We called it ‘getting emotionally compromised,’ which is why I never formed attachments during my seventeen classified missions in territories I’m not at liberty to name.”
Thorne clears his throat, the sound cutting through the banter like a knife. The room falls silent.
“As entertaining as this is,” he says, each word precise and measured, “we have business to attend to. Xander currently has no active target, so unless anyone has a specific objection to him taking on Dr. Wendell, I see no reason to prolong this discussion.”
His eyes scan the room, the slight tilt of his head daring anyone to challenge him.
“Any objections?” he asks, his tone suggesting that objecting would be unwise.
Lazlo opens his mouth, then thinks better of it and shrugs. “Fine by me. I’ve got three other potential targets, anyway. Plus, I’m developing concerning symptoms of carpal tunnel syndrome, so I should probably pace myself.”
Calloway nods, though his skeptical gaze lingers on me for a beat too long. “Fine. Just don’t drag this out for months. It removes all artistic impact when kills are delayed unnecessarily. It’s like leaving the audience at intermission for three hours.”
“Then it’s settled,” Thorne says with finality. “Xander will take Dr. Wendell. Now, regarding our primary business?—”
My phone vibrates in my pocket. Once, twice, three times in rapid succession.
Not a text message. A security alert.
I keep my expression neutral as I reach for it, angling the screen away from the others. The alert flashes on my lock screen, and my pulse jumps.
Camera Three Tampering.
My stomach drops. Camera three is nestled between two books on criminal psychology in Oakley’s living room. The perfect angle to capture her investigation board. The most critical camera in the apartment.
I pull up the feeds, and my throat constricts.
Oakley stands in her living room, holding the tiny camera between her thumb and forefinger. Her eyes are wide, lips parted in surprise. She turns it over, examining it from all angles, the soft glow of her desk lamp highlightingthe tensing of her jaw. She knows exactly what she’s looking at.
She stares directly into the lens, and it feels like she’s looking straight at me.
“Found you,” she mouths.
Chapter 7
Oakley
Black. Small. Innocuous. The device sits in my palm like a tiny beetle, no larger than a button on a dress shirt.
My hands tremble as I stare at the camera I’ve found wedged between my crime books. I only spotted it because I knocked my coffee mug, splashing liquid that caught the lens—a glint where nothing should be.
“Fuck.”
A camera. In my apartment. My sanctuary.
My heart hammers against my ribs. I slide two steps toward my kitchen counter, where my pepper spray waits beside a bag of caramel popcorn.
A soft creak echoes from the hallway outside.
I freeze mid-breath. That wasn’t the building settling. That was a footstep. The gentle pressure of weight on old wood.
My gaze darts to the windows. Locked? Thebathroom door stands half-open, the shower curtain drawn. Someone could hide in there. Or behind the sofa. Inside the coat closet. Everywhere.
