Page 45 of X Marks the Stalker
Anonymous
You seem to enjoy the results of my hobbies well enough. And my other skills.
“Can’t argue with that,” I admit, shuffling through more documents.
For the next hour, I lose myself in the work, organizing evidence, taking notes, speaking thoughts aloud, knowing Xander listens. The awareness of his observation no longer feels intrusive. It’s become almost collaborative, as though we’re working the case together despite being in different locations.
I’ll see him Thursday at The Harrington and decide then whether to play my card or keep this secret a little longer.
For now, I savor this rare advantage. The stalker who doesn’t realize he’s being stalked in return. The man who thinks he knows everything about me, unaware I’ve uncovered his most basic secret: his name.
Chapter 11
Oakley
The crosshairs of my telephoto lens find their target, settling on Xander Rhodes as he emerges from Sentinel Security Solutions. No mask. No voice disguised through a phone. Just flesh and blood.
And holy crackers, whatflesh.
Six-foot-one of lethal grace wrapped in a bespoke suit that hugs his shoulders in a way that makes my mouth go dry. He moves with the precision of someone who knows how much space he occupies in the world. Someone accustomed to not being seen unless he wants to be.
But I see you now, Xander.
The camera shutter whispers as I document his movements from my vantage point across the street. Those gray-green eyes that have been watching me through hidden cameras. The same lips that whispered filthy commands while I came apart on my bed.
“The hunter becomes the hunted,”I murmur, reviewing the images on my digital display. Perfect. Crystal clear. Damning.
My phone vibrates. Zara’s hourly check-in. My lifeline, in case this little surveillance operation goes sideways. I’d asked her to ping me regularly, making up some vague story about following a lead on a case. She thinks I’m interviewing a nervous source. If I don’t respond within five minutes, she sends my location to the police.
I never told her what I’m actually doing—trailing a man who broke into my apartment and installed cameras. Never mentioned the lollipop incident or the gallery encounter. Never explained that I’m meeting him tomorrow night at The Harrington.
I’ve kept her outside this twisted world I’ve stumbled into.
I huff, shoving my phone back in my pocket after sending a quick “All good” reply. Who am I kidding? I didn’t tell Zara because she’d handcuff me to a radiator before letting me follow a stalker and potential killer across Boston. Not that following a man who knows every detail of my life is one of my better ideas.
But here I am.
Arousal and adrenaline. The classic combo of poor decisions.
Xander’s black Audi pulls away from the curb, and I slide into traffic three cars behind him.
I grip the steering wheel tighter as his car takes a left onto Commonwealth Avenue.
“This is insane,” I mutter to myself, retrieving a bag of sour gummy worms from my center console. The sugar hitsmy bloodstream as I chew, thinking through my justifications.
But I just need to know who I’m meeting on Thursday night.
The winding streets force me to hang back. His black Audi is distinctive enough that I can afford to keep two or three cars between us without losing him.
“Come on, Rhodes, where are you taking me?” I murmur, adjusting my rearview mirror.
Is there a line between investigative journalism and obsession? Because I’m pretty sure I crossed it somewhere between letting him keep the cameras in place and getting myself off while he watches.
I follow Xander to a modern medical building in Cambridge, all gleaming glass and self-important architecture.
“What the hell?” I mutter, circling for a spot.
My brain spirals with possibilities. Medical issue? Terminal diagnosis? My stomach knots as I park and yank my press badge from the glove compartment.
