Page 3 of X Marks the Stalker
The Gallery Killer. Of course, Calloway gets a coolnickname in the press while I’m out here doing twice the work with zero branding. Life is unfair. What would they even call me? The Lurking Stalker? The Camera Guy? The Creepy Tech Support?
She kneels beside the empty computer desk, running her fingers along the edges where the police have removed Rivera’s desktop computer.
“They’ve taken the digital records,” she murmurs to the absent victim, “but I bet you kept backups somewhere. You seem like the paranoid type.” She’s talking to a dead man, analyzing his habits. She’s just like me. Almost.
She searches the room, checking bookshelves, tapping walls for hidden safes, and examining floorboards for loose sections.
She pauses at the exact spot where I’d just removed Calloway’s camera, frowning slightly as she notices the dust pattern.
“Something was here,” she murmurs, touching the clean spot amidst the dusty residue. “Recently removed. Police?” She takes a photo of the empty space, her brow furrowed in concentration. “Or the killer?”
She’s smart.
The woman moves close to my hiding spot, her fingers tracing along the shelves near my sculpture. I can smell her shampoo. Flowery, with a clean bite. The kind of scent that makes you want to lean closer, even if it means explaining why you’re lurking in a blood-soaked gallery.
Her phone rings, making both of us jump.
“Morgan, I can’t talk right now,” she whispers, eyes still scanning the room. “Because I’m at Rivera’s gallery... No, the police tape doesn’t apply to real journalists.”
Ah. A journalist. Of course.A journalist with both boundary issues and incredible cheekbones.
She listens, frowning.
“I know what the official report said, but this is definitely another Gallery Killer scene. The blood spatter and body were arranged like Caravaggio’sDavid and Goliath. An officer let me have a peek. The killer is getting more theatrical with each murder.”
Another pause as she examines a splash of blood on the wall that would have Calloway preening with pride. Artistic temperament—so predictable. Like a toddler wanting you to put his finger painting on the fridge, except the finger painting is made with actual fingers.
“…because the other victims were all connected to the art market. How much more—” She stops abruptly, looking back at the shelf. “It’s an excellent location for a camera. Were you filming yourself?”
She tilts her head. “No, not you. Have to go, Morgan.” She hangs up.
Shit. She’s good.Too good.
I slide my phone out, keeping the movement slow and deliberate behind the sculpture.
I raise my phone just enough to frame her on the screen. Her profile catches the gallery’s dramatic lighting, creating sharp contrasts against her features.
Click.
I lower the phone, making a mental note to run her face through recognition software later. If she’s sniffing around Calloway’s handiwork, I need to know who she is and how much trouble she’s going to cause.
She moves toward the back office, giving me a momentaryopening. I check the photo I took. Clear, detailed, usable. Her eyes stare at something off-camera.
This is why I always insist on surveillance first. Know everything before making a move. No unwanted surprises. I save the image, tucking the phone away as I calculate my next move.
Her gaze sweeps the room. My muscles lock. I melt into the wall, barely breathing as her eyes pass inches from my hiding spot. A droplet of sweat slides cold down my spine.
My thumb grazes the knife in my pocket. It would take three seconds to cross the distance, cover her mouth, and sink the knife into her neck before she could scream. Clean. Efficient.
Except... My stomach knots at the image of those intelligent eyes going blank, her notebook falling from limp fingers. The thought sits wrong.
Usually, I’m all about efficiency in the whole “eliminate witnesses” department, but something about the way she’s piecing together the case makes me want to see what she’ll do next.
Her phone blares again. Her boss, based on her expression of mingled irritation and alarm.
“Morgan, I literally can’t—” She pauses, listening. “A press conference? Now? About The Gallery Killer?”
The universe has a sick sense of humor. Almost as sick as my collection of surveillance footage of people who don’t know they’re about to die.
