Page 24 of X Marks the Stalker
“Hello?” I call out, my voice steadier than my pulse. “I’m armed.”
Nothing but silence answers. That particular kind of silence that screams someone is trying very hard not to make a sound. Or it’s just me, being paranoid. Both options are viable.
I tiptoe to my apartment door. The peephole reveals nothing but an empty hallway.
I crack the door open just enough to peek through. The hallway light flickers, casting trembling shadows along the baseboards.
Empty.
“Hello?” I call again, my voice bouncing off the walls.
No response.
I step out, scanning each direction. Nothing moves. No footsteps retreat down the stairwell. Just the hum of the building’s ancient heating system and Mrs. Patel’s muffled television through her door.
I retreat inside and double-check the deadbolt. My hands shake as I lean against the door.
“You’re losing it, Oakley.”
I stare at the tiny black device. Maybe Martin’s death has me jumping at shadows. But the camera is real, solid, its glass eye reflecting the overhead light.
I stagger backward until my legs hit the edge of my couch, and I collapse, still staring at the device.
Violation crashes over me, stealing my breath. Someone has been watching me. For how long? Days? Weeks? While Islept? While I changed clothes? While I talked to my parents’ photograph?
My gaze darts around the room, hunting for more unwelcome eyes. Are there more? How many? Who placed them?
I spring up and race to the kitchen, grab a ziplock bag and drop the camera inside. Evidence. Then I pull out my phone to document everything with shaking hands.
“Focus, Oakley,” I mutter, reaching into my jacket pocket for the emergency gummy bears I keep for crises. This definitely qualifies.
I pop three into my mouth, chewing as I force myself to think like a journalist instead of a victim. I’ve been investigating The Gallery Killer. I’ve been digging into Blackwell. Martin was just murdered. This isn’t random.
The realization hits me. Someone chose me. Specifically me. They broke in when I wasn’t home. They knew what I was working on. What I might know.
My apartment now feels like a cage rather than a home. I tiptoe through my space, eyes scanning every shelf, light fixture, vent, and outlet. I check behind picture frames, under furniture, inside lampshades.
The smoke detector in my bedroom comes apart in my hands, revealing the camera tucked inside like a tick burrowed under the skin. My second discovery in an hour. I step back, scanning my bedroom with fresh eyes.
The walls close in as I imagine every moment captured. Me changing clothes, sleeping, crying over Mom and Dad’s photo.
My chest tightens. Breaths come short and shallow.
“Stale crackers,” I mutter, pacing now. “Empty wrappers and stale crackers!”
I glare at the camera in the ziplock bag. “Hey, asshole,” I say, leaning closer to it. “Tell me how many there are. Two? Five? A dozen? You wired my whole place like some kind of sick reality show?”
I sweep through my bathroom, checking behind the mirror, under the sink, around the shower stall. Nothing yet, but my skin crawls, imagining eyes watching me there.
“Did you watch me shower?” My voice rises, indignation burning my cheeks. “Jerk off to me changing clothes? Did you watch me having sex, you pervert?”
I pause, realizing what I’ve just said, and let out a harsh laugh.
“Ah, I’m not having sex. I knew there was an upside to my nonexistent love life.”
I catch my reflection in the hallway mirror—wild-eyed, hair disheveled from running my hands through it, talking to inanimate objects.
“And now I’m talking to myself. Journalism school didn’t prepare me for this.” I groan, pressing my palms against my eyes.
