Page 29 of X Marks the Stalker
She’s still staring into the camera.
“I’m not even mad,” she continues, circling her living room like a prosecutor who already has DNA evidence, seventeen witnesses, and a signed confession. “I mean, I should be. Privacy invasion, stalking, general creepiness—the whole psycho stalker gift basket. But here’s the thing...”
She leans in close, her breath fogging the lens. “I’m actually flattered.”
My temperature spikes so high that I consider the possibility that Lazlo has infected me with one of his imaginary tropical diseases.
Note to self: create a chart later to analyze emotional responses to being caught. Column A: Professional Mortification. Column B: Inappropriate Arousal. Column C: Why These Should Never Intersect. Column D: Therapy Options.
“The question isn’t who you are,” she continues. “I mean, that’s a question. But the more interesting one is, why me? What did I do to earn this level of attention?”
She’s turned my own game against me, and God help me, I’m intellectually aroused in ways that would make Freud throw his hands up and say, “Even I can’t help this guy.”
“Usually I’m watching people who have no idea they’re being observed,” I whisper to my dust particles. “Like studying specimens under glass.”
On screen, Oakley paces, her movements precise. “I’ve been investigating a few cases. Is it the Gallery Killer case? The Beacon Hill stakeouts, the member files I’ve collected—is that what caught your attention?”
Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper that sends a shiver down my spine. “For what it’s worth, I think you might be him. The Gallery Killer. These cameras fit his style. Meticulous, expensive.”
“She’s profiling me.” My fingers tap the desk in a nervous rhythm. I force myself to stop. “The subject is profiling the observer. That’s...statistically unprecedented.”
Oakley removes the camera from the smoke detector, holding it up to her face. The angle disorients me, too intimate.
“Here’s my theory,” she says. “You’re not working for Blackwell. His guys would have just killed me. You’re not police—they lack both the budget and imagination for this setup. So you’re something else entirely. The Gallery Killer.”
I should activate the kill switch. Tell Thorne. This is precisely the scenario the protocols were designed for.
Instead, I lean closer to the monitor, nearly pressing my nose against her pixelated face.
“Fine, don’t answer,” she says with a half-smile. “I’ll figure it out on my own. I always do.”
She returns the camera to its housing, but not before whispering, “Until then, I hope you’re enjoying the show.”
I realize I’ve been holding my breath.
I stare at the screen, frozen. This defies every behavioral algorithm I’ve ever compiled. No one—not a single subject in my extensive surveillance career—has ever discovered a camera and simply...put it back.
“What are you doing, Oakley?” I breathe, aware I’ve been clutching my desk so tightly my knuckles have turned white.
This isn’t just unprecedented. It’s impossible. It’s the statistical equivalent of every molecule in my coffee cup spontaneously rearranging into a rare orchid.
On screen, Oakley returns to her murder board, but her body language has changed—more theatrical, more aware. She’s performing now, for me.
I press my fingers to the screen, tracing the outline of her silhouette. “I am so remarkably, spectacularly fucked. And not in the fun way that normal humans with functional social skills occasionally experience.”
She glances back at the camera and winks.
Correction. I am absolutely fucked in every way, including several that haven’t been invented yet.
I snap my laptop shut, breathing like I’ve just outrun a pack of wolves.
“Unprofessional,” I mutter, pacing my apartment. “Unprofessional, inappropriate, and frankly concerning from a psychological perspective.”
My body betrays me with an unmistakable hardening that makes my jeans uncomfortable. Blood rushes south with such intensity I feel lightheaded. I grab a bottle of water from the fridge, press it against my forehead, and consider dunking my entire head in ice.
“Down, boy,” I mutter to my rebellious anatomy. “This is neither the time nor the appropriate surveillance protocol.”
Focus, Rhodes. You have an actual target. A legitimate operation. A purpose that doesn’t involve becoming obsessed with a woman who just caught you spying on her and, instead of calling the police like a normal person, has turned it into some sort of deranged courtship ritual.
