Page 33 of X Marks the Stalker
The apartment welcomes me with her scent. Coffee, something sweet and flowery that I can’t identify but recognize. The morning light filters through half-drawn blinds, casting long shadows across her living space.
I can almost picture her here, blue eyes narrowed in focus as she pores over her notes, oblivious to the chaos around her.
I move through her apartment with the confidence of someone who’s studied the layout for weeks. Three steps to avoid the creaky floorboard, a slight turn to dodge the edge of her coffee table.
Her leather jacket hangs on a hook by the door. I can’tresist running my fingers along the worn collar, imagining it against her skin. The leather is butter-soft, shaped to her shoulders from years of wear.
“This is weird,” I tell myself, but I don’t stop touching it.
I set down the first of several bags on her kitchen counter, then return to retrieve the rest from the hallway. Eight trips total.
I start with the food, arranging the containers of homemade pasta and chicken in her refrigerator. Garlic bread wrapped in foil. A small container of tiramisu that I may have spent three hours perfecting. But that’s just the beginning.
The second bag contains what might be my most presumptuous purchase. Clothes. Not just any clothes—I’d hacked her laptop to check her browsing history, noting the items she’d bookmarked but never bought.
The silk blouse in emerald green that she’d stared at for twenty minutes last Tuesday. The cashmere sweater in cream that she’d added to her cart three times before deleting it. The dress—God, the dress—in midnight black that would hug every curve I’ve memorized through weeks of observation.
I hang them in her closet, smoothing imaginary wrinkles. Fuck, I want her to wear this while I watch.
There were other things I wanted to buy. Lacy things. But apparently, I still have one functioning boundary left. Who knew?
The third bag holds security upgrades because old habits die hard. A proper deadbolt. Window locks. Motion sensors. Basic survival necessities disguised as home improvement.
The fourth bag is kitchen essentials. Real knives, decentpans, spices that aren’t older than my surveillance equipment. A coffee maker that won’t sound like it’s summoning demons every morning.
The fifth bag contains upgraded emergency snacks. Organic gummy bears. Dark chocolate that doesn’t taste like sadness. Protein bars that might actually contain protein.
“You’re welcome,” I murmur.
I close the refrigerator and turn back to her living room, eyeing the mess of papers on her desk. The disorder physically pains me. Research notes stacked haphazardly. Pens scattered without organizational principle. Post-its applied with no discernible system.
“How do you find anything?” I ask her ghost, moving toward the desk.
I place the folder on Blackwell in the center of her desk.
“One stalker, making a social call,” I say as I arrange the folder at a perfect ninety-degree angle to her keyboard.
A corner of fancy paper peeks out from beneath a stack of newspaper clippings. My fingers tug it free, revealing an embossed invitation.
The Livingston Gallery invites you to our annual Masquerade & Art Auction
Benefiting Children’s Hospital of Boston
Saturday, February 17th, 8:00 PM
Black Tie & Mask Required
Beneath the printed text, a handwritten note:“Oakley – I need your eyes on this crowd. – Morgan”
A masquerade. Where everyone hides in plain sight. Where watching is expected. Where I could see her, not through a lens or screen, but with my own eyes.
“This is perfect,” I whisper, returning the invitation as I found it. “See you there, Oakley Novak.”
Chapter 9
Oakley
Iscan the Livingston Gallery through the eyeholes of my silver mask, hunting for a killer among Boston’s elite. He’s here—I’m certain.
