Page 47 of X Marks the Stalker
“Oh! I didn’t realize IT was here today.”
“Just routine maintenance. All done now.”
My heart hammers so loudly I’m certain they can hear it through the bathroom door. I press my ear against the cool surface, straining to catch every word.
“Well, I’ll let Dr. Wendell know you were here, Mr...?”
“Johnson. And no need to mention it. He knows I’m here.”
I roll my eyes. Johnson? Really? The man who hacked offshore accounts couldn’t come up with a better alias?
The bathroom door pushes against my face, sending me stumbling backward. A nurse in blue scrubs gives me a startled look as she enters.
“Sorry,” I mutter, rubbing my forehead where the door hit. “I was just...checking the door for...squeaks.”
She glances at the chocolate protein bar smashed in my hand, then at my press badge, then back to my face.
“It’s a new technique,” I say with complete seriousness.
The nurse edges past me toward the stalls, giving me the universal face of “please don’t murder me in this bathroom.”
I peek out the door. The hallway is clear. Xander must have left.
I sprint toward the elevator, jabbing the down button as if that might make it arrive faster. The doors slide open, and I nearly collapse with relief when I find it empty.
In the lobby, I spot Xander’s broad shoulders disappearing through the revolving doors.
I follow him out of the medical building, ducking behind a Mercedes, when he stops to check his phone.
The crisp February air stings my cheeks, but I barely notice. My mind races with questions about what I just witnessed. Surveillance equipment in a neurosurgeon’s office. Unauthorized computer access. The same techniques he used on me.
Xander’s Audi heads toward Somerville, and I follow. Security consultant. Club member. Apartment invader. And now... What? Industrial espionage against medical professionals?
I glance at my chocolate-smeared fingers on the steering wheel and realize I’m still clutching the mangled remains of my protein bar. I toss it onto the passenger seat, where it lands on my collection of surveillance equipment with a sad thump.
“Well,” I mutter to myself, “at least I’m not the only one being stalked by Boston’s most eligible creeper.”
The Audi takes a sharp right turn, and I follow at a safe distance, wondering where this bizarre day will lead next. Twenty minutes later, I have my answer as Xander pulls into a sprawling parking lot.
He parks outside Harbor Hardware, a massive warehouse-style store with enough distance between aisles that I can follow without being spotted. I grab a basket to blend in and trail him from a distance. He moves with purpose, consulting a list on his phone.
In the organization section, he selects heavy-duty plastic sheeting. The kind used for painting or construction. Notone roll, but three large ones. My journalist brain calculates the square footage. Enough to cover a room. Or wrap something large.
Like a body.
I swallow hard, ducking behind a display of power tools when he glances in my direction. He adds thick rope to his cart—the sturdy kind used for boating, not the decorative type. Twenty feet of it, at least.
When he heads to checkout, I abandon my empty basket and hurry to my car, heart pounding. I watch through my windshield as he loads the supplies into his trunk.
My phone buzzes.
Zara
All good?
Still breathing.
Xander pulls out of the parking lot, and I follow at a careful distance. He drives to the opposite side of town, parking outside Beacon Building Supply. Smart. Different stores mean no one remembers the guy who bought all the murder supplies at once.
