Page 44 of X Marks the Stalker
Heat floods my cheeks. The bathroom feels ten degrees warmer.
It’s him. No doubt about it. The tattoo remains hidden beneath crisp shirtsleeves, but those eyes—God, those eyes—they’re unmistakable.
Xander Rhodes stares back from the screen with the quiet intensity of a predator at rest. Not quite smiling, yet somehow radiating absolute command of his surroundings. His mouth—that perfect mouth with its full bottom lip—holds the ghost of a smirk, as if he knows exactly who’s looking at his photo and why.
My fingertips brush the screen before I realize what I’m doing.
He’s beautiful in that untouchable way—like expensive art behind velvet ropes, the kind that makes your fingers itch to feel the texture despite the alarms it would trigger.
“Found you,” I whisper, leaning closer to the screen, studying every detail of his face.
I’ll see him at The Harrington. I’ll look into those gray-green eyes, shake his hand, and listen to that voice without a phone between us.
But he won’t know that I know who he is.
I emerge from the bathroom and sink into my desk chair, skin still tingling from our phone encounter. With trembling fingers, I spread Xander’s gift across my workspace—financial records, property deeds, surveillance photos—the skeleton key to Richard Blackwell’s empire laid bare. My stalker delivered what he promised, and more.
“You’re watching me study your little present, aren’t you?” I say, glancing toward the camera tucked into my bookshelf.
The red light blinks once, almost like a wink.
Let him think his identity remains a mystery.
The knowledge simmers inside me. A delicious secret. Xander Rhodes. Security consultant, camera enthusiast, phone sex partner. The man who knows my daily routines, who’s seen me naked, crying, working, sleeping. The stranger who now feels strangely intimate.
I flip through bank statements showing suspicious transfersbetween Blackwell Media subsidiaries and offshore accounts. The smoking gun Martin died trying to deliver.
“These account numbers,” I murmur, touching the page with reverent fingertips. “Did you hack into his system to get these?”
My phone buzzes with his response.
Anonymous
Some questions are better left unanswered. For both our sakes.
“Fair enough. Plausible deniability works for me.”
Tracing the money reveals properties purchased through shell companies—vacation homes for judges who ruled in Blackwell’s favor, condos gifted to police commissioners after suspicious case dismissals. The pattern emerges with devastating clarity.
“How long have you been investigating Blackwell?” I ask the empty room, knowing he’s listening.
Anonymous
Longer than you might think.
I lean back in my chair. Is Blackwell his target, too? Is that why our paths crossed? The coincidence seems too perfect.
I dig deeper into the stack, finding blueprints for Blackwell’s office building with security systems marked. The level of detail is astonishing.
“You’re not just some security consultant with boundary issues, are you?” I whisper.
My phone buzzes.
Anonymous
I told you I have hobbies. Some people collect stamps. Some people golf.
I laugh out loud, tension breaking. “Spying on journalists and stealing corporate secrets? Those are some interesting hobbies. And something tells me there are more secrets under that mask of yours.”
