Page 36 of X Marks the Stalker
“In my defense, I thought it was thematically appropriate.” His fingers tap against his glass—another tell. “Though I suppose hiding surveillance equipment among books about catching killers does border on meta-commentary.”
“Why are you watching me?” I ask.
“I had an interest in your investigation.” He pauses, then adds, “Your color-coding could use some work.”
I blink. “My what?”
“Your investigation board. Red for suspects, blue for victims. But yellow for...locations? Green for timelines? It lacks internal consistency.”
I stare at him, speechless. Of all the ways to critique someone’s investigative skills...
“You broke into my apartment, installed cameras, and your takeaway is that my color-coding sucks?”
“I’m detail-oriented.” He shrugs, then winces. “That’s not helping my case, is it?”
His hands adjust his cufflinks again—long fingers moving with deliberate precision. No paint under his nails, no calluses from holding brushes, no staining along the edges ofhis fingers. His movements speak of calculation, not artistic flourish.
I imagine those fingers sliding across my skin and swallow hard. I’ve lost my mind. My libido and self-preservation instinct are clearly no longer on speaking terms.
“Those aren’t the hands of an artist,” I say. “You know surveillance, not canvas.”
“Perhaps I appreciate art without creating it.”
I look into his eyes. “No,” I say. “You’re not him. You’re not The Gallery Killer. You know nothing about art.”
The corner of his mouth lifts in what might be appreciation. “Quite observant. Though I’m familiar with other forms of composition.” He gestures at the placement of security cameras around the room. “There’s an art to seeing without being seen.”
He adjusts his position, causing his sleeve to ride up just enough. Black ink peeks out from beneath expensive fabric—the edge of what appears to be a geometric tattoo. Something about the pattern tickles my memory.
That tattoo. I’ve seen it before.
But where?
I need to see more of that tattoo to confirm my suspicions.
I shift in my seat, extending my leg until it presses against his. The contact is unmistakably intentional. My eyes never leave his as I maintain the pressure, crossing professional boundaries without a word.
His pupils dilate behind his mask. He doesn’t pull away from the contact.
He leans toward me, the air between us heavy withunspoken tension. His mask shifts slightly with the movement, revealing a fraction more of his jawline.
“Did you enjoy my gift? The folder, not the chicken—though I put effort into both.”
“The Blackwell financial records were illuminating,” I reply, keeping my voice steady. “Though I have questions about how you accessed offshore accounts, even my best sources couldn’t crack.”
His hand disappears beneath the tablecloth. The whisper of his fingers brushes my knee, just below the hem of my dress. Electricity crackles up my thigh. Something small and metallic in his palm presses against my skin.
“I know what Richard Blackwell did to your parents,” he says, his voice dropping lower. “Sean Novak wasn’t dirty. Katherine wasn’t having an affair. The evidence was planted after Blackwell’s men staged the scene.”
The air rushes from my lungs. These details—these exact details—match the theories I’ve constructed over years of investigation. Theories I’ve never shared with anyone.
“How could you possibly?—”
“The same way I know Martin Reeves was shot three times. The same way I know the men who killed him removed a flash drive from his left sock. The same way I know they used a .22 caliber with a homemade suppressor.”
My mind races. These details weren’t released to the press. Weren’t in any report I could access. I’m moving into dangerous territory, yet I lean closer rather than pulling away.
His fingers slide higher, skimming along my thigh. My skin burns under his touch. A sensible part of my brainscreams, “This is insane.” I’m letting a stranger who broke into my apartment touch me in the middle of a crowded art gallery. But the heat of his fingers against my bare skin silences that voice. Fear and arousal twist together until I can’t separate them.
