Page 32 of X Marks the Stalker
“Tactical information dissemination,” I murmur, sliding the documents into a manila folder.
I move to my desk and pull out a notepad. The previous six pages lie crumpled nearby, a graveyard of rejected notes to Oakley. I’ve analyzed each version with the same attention to detail I use for surveillance operations.
Version one read like a medical examiner’s report.
Version two sounded like we’d known each other for a while (we have, technically, but the relationship has been rather one-sided until now).
Version three accidentally implied bodily harm.
Version four reeked of desperation.
Version five contained so many cryptic references she’d need a decoder ring.
Version six... Well, even I don’t know what I was thinking with version six.
I tear out a fresh page and write.
Oakley—
Found something you might find interesting. More where this came from if you’re willing to talk.
Food is homemade. No poison, I promise. That would be counterproductive at this juncture.
—Your Stalker.
P.S. I always looked away during wardrobe changes. Mostly. Sometimes. Okay, rarely, but I felt bad about it!
I stare at the note. Strike “at this juncture.”Too formal.
Rewrite. Stare again.
“This is pathetic. You’re leaving a note for a journalist whose apartment you bugged. Not writing a sonnet.”
I fold the note and slip it into the folder. Pack everything into a nondescript messenger bag.
I head to the bathroom, catching my reflection as I wash my hands. I look normal. Functional.
But something feels wrong.
I open my medicine cabinet and find the comb, run it through my hair, which reverts to its usual disheveled state. Splash water on my face. Consider, for one insane moment, the cologne I received as a gift three years ago and never opened.
“What are you doing?” I ask my reflection. “She won’t even see you.”
But I still straighten my shirt. Check my teeth for food particles. Adjust the collar of my jacket.
“This is how serial killers get caught,” I inform my reflection. “They deviate from established protocols because of...things.”
I say the last word like it’s contaminated.
I grab the messenger bag and head for the door, then stop. Return to the kitchen. Pull out a container of cookies I stress-baked at 3 AM while overthinking the font choice for my note.
Add them to the bag.
“Tactical dessert deployment,” I mutter. “Completely logical.”
I easethe lock pick out of Oakley’s apartment door, listening for the satisfying click that signals success. My heart rate remains steady. Breaking and entering hardly registers as stressful after you’ve done it a few hundred times.
“Honey, I’m home,” I whisper.
