Page 26 of X Marks the Stalker
I glance at my evidence board, careful not to stare at it too long. The blurry photos I’ve taken of various club members. None of him, though.
This danger should terrify me. Instead, it electrifies me, pumping dark adrenaline through my veins. The hunter and hunted, roles blurring with each heartbeat.
I exhale slowly. If my hunch is right, he can’t know I suspect him. That’s my edge.
I grab my phone, scrolling while my mind races. If it is him—that security guy with those penetrating eyes—I’m still breathing. Still here. That means something. Right?
I don’t think he wants to hurt me. I think he’s curious. Just like I am.
This dangerous game of cat and mouse, where I’m not sure which role I’m playing.
“Jesus Christ, Oakley!” I slam my palm against the table. “He could be watching you right now, deciding which Renaissance painting would frame your corpse!”
I shake my head, trying to clear it. This is insane. I am insane.
I place the camera back on the table.
“You know what’s weird?” I say, sitting again. “I should be terrified right now. But I’m not.” I lean in closer to the camera. “I’m kind of...flattered? Is that messed up? Probably ranks somewhere between ‘concerning’ and ‘needs therapy immediately.’”
A strange sense of power flows through me. Someone is watching me because they think I matter. Because my investigation matters.
“You must think I’m good at what I do,” I continue, warming to this bizarre one-sided conversation. “You must be worried about what I might find. Or impressed. Maybe both?”
I unwrap another piece of chocolate, this time savoring it as I stare down the camera lens.
“Well, I hope you’re enjoying the show,” I say, a smile playing at the corners of my mouth. “Because I’m just getting started.”
My phone buzzes on the table, vibrating next to the camera. I pick it up, Zara’s grinning face lighting up my screen alongside her name in bold letters. I inhale deeply before swiping to answer.
“Hey, you,” I say, injecting cheer into my voice while my eyes never leave the camera lens as I speak.
“Oakley! Please tell me you’re not hunched over your laptop right now.” Zara’s voice fills my ear, warm and familiar.
“Me? Never.” I force a laugh, wondering if the camera picks up audio too. Probably does. “Just...taking a break.”
“A break? You? Did aliens replace you with a pod person?” She laughs. “I’m calling because Marco and I aregrabbing dinner at that new Thai place on Boylston. The one with those mango sticky rice donuts you won’t shut up about.”
My stomach growls at the mention of food.
“And,” Zara continues, her voice taking on that tone that means trouble, “Marco’s bringing his friend. The architect I told you about? The one who just moved here from Chicago?”
I move away from the camera. “Let me guess. Tall, handsome, and single?”
“Six-foot-two, dimples, and yes, gloriously unattached. His cologne smells like mortgage approval and emotional stability.”
I wonder what my mysterious watcher thinks of this conversation. Are they amused by my friend’s matchmaking attempts? Are they taking notes on my friends? Is Zara at risk?
“I can’t tonight, Z.” I sigh, making it sound regretful rather than afraid. “I’ve got this deadline for the council piece, and I’m still working sources on theGallery Killerstory.”
I add an extra emphasis on “Gallery Killer,” watching the camera lens closely for any reaction. Of course, there isn’t one.It’s a camera, you idiot.
“Seriously? You’re passing up mango sticky rice donuts and a hot architect for work? Again?” Zara’s disappointment travels through the phone.
“I know, I know. I’m the worst. Satan’s calling to take notes on my friendship skills.” I twist a strand of hair around my finger, putting on a show of casual regret. “Rain check?”
“Fine, but you need a life outside of murder and corruption, Oakley. I’m worried about you.”
If only she knew about the cameras. About Martin. About the fact that I’m putting on a performance for someone who broke into my apartment.
