Page 55 of X Marks the Stalker
“Shit,” I mutter, saving my work and shutting down the computer. Morgan will kill me if I fall asleep at my desk again. Last time she found me drooling on a police report, she threatened to install a cot in the supply closet and charge me rent.
I gather my notes into my messenger bag, triple-checking that the flash drive Xander left for me sits securely in the inner pocket. The weight of what it contains—evidence that could bring down Blackwell—makes it feel heavier than its tiny sizesuggests.
My muscles protest as I stand, stiff from hours hunched over my keyboard.
The elevator doors open to the deserted lobby, my footsteps echoing off the marble as I cross to the exit. Outside, the streets stretch empty in both directions. No cars, no pedestrians. Just pools of yellow light from street lamps and the distant hum of traffic.
I take a deep breath of the night air and set off toward the parking garage, adjusting my bag against my hip. The sound of my boots on concrete seems loud in the quiet. A car horn blares somewhere in the distance, making me flinch.
Boston at night transforms into a different city—sharper edges, deeper shadows, secrets whispered in alleyways instead of boardrooms. The walk to the parking garage has never seemed so long before.
Something prickles at the back of my neck. That unmistakable sensation of eyes tracking my movement.
I glance over my shoulder. Nothing. Just an empty sidewalk stretching back to the Beacon’s glass doors.
“You’re jumping at shadows, Oakley. Get it together,” I mutter, tightening my grip on the strap of my messenger bag.The flash drive with all that damning Blackwell evidence burns against my hip like a tiny nuclear reactor.
I pick up my pace, the parking garage now visible at the end of the block. Just a few more minutes and I’ll be safely locked in my car.
The prickling sensation intensifies. I check over my shoulder again, scanning the storefronts, the alleyway entrances, the parked cars. Nothing moves in the shadows.
But something feels wrong. Off.
I fish the pepper spray out of my bag’s side pocket, uncapping it with my thumb. The small canister nestles against my palm. Useless against a bullet, but better than nothing.
The cool metal warms against my skin as I clutch it tighter, finger hovering near the trigger. My journalism professor called this “prudent paranoia,” the healthy suspicion that keeps reporters alive when they dig too deep. Given what I now know about Blackwell, prudent paranoia seems like the bare minimum.
I quicken my pace, eyes scanning my surroundings.The shadows between streetlights stretch like hungry mouths, each doorway and alley a potential ambush point.I hold the spray low against my leg, trying not to broadcast that I’m armed but keeping it ready.
A plastic bag tumbles across the sidewalk ahead, making me jump. My grip tightens on the pepper spray, heart hammering against my ribs.
“Just garbage,” I whisper, forcing my breathing to slow. “Just garbage, Oakley.”
But my fingers remain wrapped around the canister, unwilling to return it to my bag. The weight of it grounds me somehow, a tiny talisman of protection against whatever might be lurking in the darkness.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Footsteps? Behind me?
I freeze, listening. The sound stops.
Just my imagination. Or an echo of my own footsteps bouncing off the surrounding buildings.
I start walking again, faster now. The footsteps resume, matching my pace.
My heart slams against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. I stop. The footsteps continue for half a beat before halting.
Not an echo then.
“Hello?” I call out, my voice sounding thin and reedy in the empty street. “Is someone there? Xander, if it’s you, it’s not funny.”
No response. Just the distant rumble of a truck on the highway and the faint hum of the city that never quite goes silent.
I turn and continue toward the parking garage, now moving at a near-jog. Just thirty more yards. Twenty. Ten.
I round the corner to the garage entrance and stop dead. A black panel van sits parked next to my Honda. The van’s windows are tinted dark, impossible to see inside.
My stomach drops.
