Page 38 of X Marks the Stalker

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“The Harrington. Thursday. 9 PM. Be there. Private enough that we won’t be interrupted. Public enough that you’ll feel safe.” He stands, adjusting his mask.

“Who are you?” I whisper.

He leans in closer, his lips grazing my ear. “I’m your secret admirer.” He pulls back, wincing. “That sounded much less juvenile in my head. I had several options prepared and somehow selected the worst one. I’d like to request a do-over, but I suspect the moment has passed.”

His self-deprecation lingers between us as he turns away from the table with fluid grace that makes the movement seem choreographed. Then he walks away, disappearing into the crowd.

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I sit frozen for several heartbeats, my skin still tingling where his fingers touched me. The ghost of that touch remains between my thighs, a phantom pressure that refuses to fade. My underwear sticks to me, wet with evidence of my arousal.

This man knows things about me no one should know. He’s been in my space, touched my things, watched me in my most private moments.

And I just let him touch me in public.

I should be terrified. Instead, a strange mixture of adrenaline and arousal courses through my veins. I’ve spent my career hunting stories, chasing leads, following the bread crumbs of evidence. Now I’m the one being hunted, observed, studied. And some broken part of me craves more.

I take a steadying breath and stand, smoothing my dresswith shaking hands. I scan the crowd, searching for any sign of him, but he’s vanished.

My fingers brush against my purse, gracing the outline of the flash drive inside. Evidence that could finally bring down Blackwell. Evidence that could lead to justice for my parents.

“You won’t be a secret for long,” I whisper to the empty space beside me. “I’ll find you.”

Chapter 10

Oakley

Islam my apartment door behind me, kick off my heels, and peel away my silver mask. I quickly change into something more comfortable, then hurry to my laptop.

The geometric tattoo I glimpsed on my masked companion’s wrist burns into my memory like a brand, taunting me with its familiarity.

“I know you,” I whisper to my empty apartment, fingers already pulling my laptop open. “Not just from tonight.”

My external hard drive connects with a satisfying click. Hundreds of images captured outside the Beacon Hill Gentlemen’s Association flood my screen. Powerful men in bespoke suits, Italian leather shoes, and expressions that scream my net worth has nine zeros.

One of these men planted cameras in my apartment. The same man who slid his fingers between my thighs at a crowded charity gala while discussing evidence that could solve my parents’murder.

Scrolling through images, I hunt for that telltale ink. My breathing quickens with each photo. Security guard. Valet. Member. Staff. Who are you?

My fingers freeze over an image of a tall man with his back to me, entering the club during a thunderstorm. Something about his posture—the precise angle of his shoulders, the measured cadence of his stride captured in my burst-mode shots. I zoom in, searching for any glimpse of his wrist, but his hands remain tucked into his pockets.