Page 31 of X Marks the Stalker
The words echo in my head as I stare at my precise, clinical kill plan. Methodologically sound. Operationally secure.
But utterly forgettable.
“What would make her notice this one?”
I shake my head, trying to dislodge the thought. “That’s not the point. The point is elimination of the target. Sanitation of the system.”
But my fingers already dance across the keyboard, pulling up Wendell’s patient files again. My eyes fixate onthe brain scans—those beautiful, complex patterns of neural activity destroyed by Wendell’s experiments.
“The brain,” I whisper. “The canvas he used.”
I minimize the simulation and open a new file. What if, instead of a simple elimination, I created something more noteworthy?
I’m not Calloway, staging elaborate artistic tableaus. I’m not Lazlo, seeking adrenaline and danger. My strength has always been my methodical preparation, my invisibility.
But what if, just once, I created something visible? Something that made a statement even after I’ve disappeared?
“Stop it,” I tell myself. “This isn’t about her.”
I try to focus on the operational details, but my mind keeps circling back to the image of Oakley analyzing the scene. What would she see? What would she understand?
And why do I care so desperately what she thinks?
My phone buzzes with an alert from Oakley’s apartment.
Don’t look. Don’t check. Focus on Wendell.
I last exactly forty-seven seconds before reaching for my primary laptop.
Oakley left her apartment, messenger bag stuffed with notepads and what appears to be at least four different types of candy. I replay the footage, noting how she hesitated at the door, glanced at the camera, and smiled before leaving.
That smile replays in my brain for the next twenty minutes. She’ll be gone for at least five hours if her pattern holds. That gives me just enough time to?—
Before I can rationalize myself out of it, I’m already in my kitchen, pulling ingredients from the refrigerator. Theinsane idea that formed when I saw her leave now feels like the most logical course of action in the world.
“So this is what a psychotic break feels like,” I mutter to my laptop. “Fascinating.”
The chicken breasts sizzle in the pan, filling my apartment with garlic and herb scents. I adjust the heat, consulting the recipe on my tablet. I’ve timed this meal preparation with scientific accuracy.
The pasta will finish cooking exactly when the sauce reaches optimal consistency, and the chicken will rest for seven minutes before I slice it.
“This is insane,” I tell the chicken as I flip it. “I’m cooking for a woman who should be nothing more than a surveillance subject.”
The chicken doesn’t respond, but it releases a satisfying hiss as it browns on the second side.
I’ve never cooked for a surveillance subject before. I’ve never cooked for anyone, actually. My own meals are functional at best—protein, vegetables, carbohydrates combined for maximum nutritional efficiency with minimal preparation time. The culinary equivalent of a beige wall.
This is different, though. I’ve researched recipes, selected ingredients based on her preferences in takeout, and calculated the precise reheat time needed to maintain optimal texture.
“This is a strategic decision,” I explain to the pasta as I drain it. It’s definitely not because I lay awake last night wondering what she likes to eat for lunch. That would be pathological.
I arrange the meal in the glass containers I purchased forthis purpose. Microwave-safe. Dishwasher-safe. Leak-proof. The online reviews were extremely thorough.
The food looks good. Not just functional. I take a photo with my phone, stare at it, then delete it.
“This is crazy.”
I turn to the stack of folders on my counter. My curated selection of Blackwell information. I’ve spent hours determining which documents to share. Enough to help her investigation, but not enough to make my next contribution unnecessary. Enough to make her need me again. Because apparently, I’ve developed the emotional sophistication of an attention-starved golden retriever.
