Page 51 of X Marks the Stalker
I laugh again, but the sound rings hollow. It’s the laugh of a man who’s just realized he’s standing on thin ice while wearing lead boots.
“That’s an interesting theory, Ms. Novak. I’m a private investigator. I track people. I gather information.” I gesture to the folder on Blackwell. “That’s what I do. That, and apparently now having existential crises on rooftops with beautiful journalists who think I’m a murderer.”
She doesn’t blink. “You track people who deserve punishment. And then they disappear.”
The night air turns to concrete in my lungs. I can’t breathe. She’s not asking questions—she’s making statements with absolute certainty. I’ve never felt more exposed, and I’m wearing a fucking mask.
“Most people,” I manage, “would be running in the opposite direction if they believed what you’re saying.”
“I’m not most people.” She steps closer still, invading the calibrated personal space I maintain between myself and the rest of humanity. “And neither are you.”
“What do you want?”
Her eyes never leave mine, searching for something behind my mask. “I want Richard Blackwell to answer for what he did to my parents. I want the justice the system won’t give me.”
The pieces click together with sickening clarity. Oh. Oh no. This isn’t an accusation. It’s a job interview.
“I want your help,” she says. “He’s protected. Untouchable through normal channels. I’ve spent ten years trying to get enough evidence to bring him down.” Her voice catches. “He killed my source. He’ll kill anyone who gets close.”
“So your solution is to find someone to murder him for you?”
“My solution is to recognize when my methods aren’t working. To find someone with a unique skill set.” She takes a breath, then reaches out, her fingers brushing against my forearm. The touch sends electricity through my skin. “Someone I trust.”
I should recognize this for the trap it could be. Instead, something unfamiliar uncurls in my chest. Something thatmakes me want to slay dragons for her, which is ridiculous because I’m not a knight. I’m the dragon.
“You’re asking me to kill Richard Blackwell?” I state the unspoken request plainly.
“I’m asking you to help me get justice,” she corrects, though we both know it’s just semantics. “The kind of justice the system will never provide.” Her fingers trail up my arm, burning paths across my skin. “And I’m asking you because...something happens when I’m with you. Something I can’t explain. And your eyes tell me you know exactly what I mean.”
“You’re drawn to a man you believe is a killer?” I ask. “That doesn’t strike you as concerning?”
“It should,” she admits, her eyes never leaving mine. “But you don’t scare me. You should, but you don’t.” She steps closer. “I’ve never felt safer than when I’m with you, which makes absolutely no sense.”
I study her face, looking for signs of manipulation or deception, but find only raw determination tinged with vulnerability. It’s the same expression I’ve seen through my surveillance cameras when she works late into the night, chasing leads that always end in dead ends.
“Is this just about Blackwell?” I ask, needing to know. “Are you only here, only interested, because you want me to kill for you?”
She shakes her head, a strand of hair falling across her face. My fingers twitch with the need to brush it away. “No. I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t part of it, but...” Her gaze drops to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “I’ve never met anyone like you. Never been drawn to someone the way I amto you. It terrifies me and thrills me at the same time. You make me remember I’m alive.”
The Hemlock Society exists because we maintain distance, never form connections, never allow personal entanglements beyond our club. We select our own targets, we never take outside jobs, we never become killers for hire. And here I am, already breaking those rules, already too invested in a woman who’s either going to be my downfall or my salvation.
“You understand what you’re asking?” I need to be certain.
“Yes.” No hesitation.
“What makes you think I’d consider this?” I ask, needing to hear her say it.
“Blackwell is exactly the kind of person you already target,” she says, pressing her advantage. “I’m just pointing you toward him sooner rather than later.”
I watch her face as she lays out her proposal. This woman, who knows too much and fears too little, stands before me, asking me to kill for her with the same directness she’d use to order coffee. The tactical part of my brain is screaming “trap.”
“No,” I say, my voice firm despite the unexpected desire to say yes. “You’ve got the wrong person, Ms. Novak. I’m a surveillance expert, not a killer.”
Her expression shifts, disappointment washing across her features before she can mask it. The sight tugs at something in me, something I’ve spent years ensuring doesn’t exist.
“Too bad,” she says after a moment, a slight slump in hershoulders betraying how much she’d pinned on this request. “I thought you might understand.”
“Goodbye, Oakley.” I walk toward the edge of the rooftop, away from the elevator access and sheltered garden area. The wind picks up as I approach the perimeter, thirty-two stories of nothing but air between us and the pavement below. I expect her to leave.
