Page 57 of X Marks the Stalker
I launch myself at him, fingers clawing for the necklace. “That’s mine!”
Pain explodes across my face as a fist connects with my cheekbone again. The force spins me sideways, and I crash against the parked car, vision blurring. My knees buckle, but I refuse to go down, clinging to the car’s side mirror for balance.
“Don’t even think about going to the police,” the man with my locket says, tucking it into his pocket. “Nothing but trouble for you there.”
“Next time won’t be just a warning.” He presses something cold and metal against my ribs—the unmistakable shape of a gun barrel. “Accidents happen to nosy reporters all the time in this city. Just like they happened to your parents.”
I struggle to breathe, the pain in my ribs competing with the fury and fear coursing through me. The gun presses harder, the threat clear.
The van door slides shut with a metallic slam. Tires squeal against the pavement as they speed away, leaving me alone in the darkness.
I curl into myself on the cold concrete, one arm wrapped around my sore ribs. My jaw throbs. Blood trickles from my split lip, salty and warm against my tongue. But the physical pain barely registers against the crushing hollowness spreading through my chest.
My hand rises to my throat, fingers searching for thefamiliar weight of my mother’s silver locket. My fingertips find only bare skin where the chain should be.
“No,” I whisper, the word scraping raw from my throat. The necklace is gone. The only physical connection I had left to her, the locket she wore every day until the last day of her life.
The concrete bites into my palms as I push myself to a sitting position.
I force myself to stand, leaning against a parked car as my legs threaten to fold. Just twenty more steps to my car.
My messenger bag hangs from my shoulder, the strap twisted. With trembling fingers, I check the contents—my notebook, the flash drive still secure in the inner pocket. At least they didn’t take that.
I reach my car at last, fumbling with keys that won’t stay steady in my grip. The metal scrapes against the lock before sliding home. I collapse into the driver’s seat, pulling the door closed with a thud that reverberates through my aching body.
In the silence of my car, the night’s events crash over me. My fingers grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white, fighting to maintain control. But my throat tightens and my vision blurs as tears well up, hot and insistent.
“No.” I shake my head, blinking. “Don’t fucking cry. Not here. Not now.”
I start the engine, the familiar rumble offering minimal comfort. The dashboard clock glows 2:17 AM. The streets remain empty as I pull out of the parking space, wincing as the seatbelt presses against my bruised ribs.
The drive home passes in a blur. Muscle memory guides me through familiar turns while my mind replays the attackon an endless loop. The locket. The gun. The warning. My mother’s locket.
I fumble with my keys, dropping them twice before fitting the right one into the lock. My hands won’t stop shaking. I twist the key, push the door open, step inside, and then turn to secure every lock and chain. A pathetic barrier between me and men who could break through if they really wanted to.
My messenger bag slides from my shoulder, landing with a soft thump on the hardwood floor. The sound echoes through my silent apartment.
The adrenaline drains from my system, like someone pulled a plug. My limbs turn to concrete. Three steps carry me to the couch before my knees give out.
I sink into the cushions, pain blooming across my ribs, my face, my scraped palms. But it’s the empty space at my neck that hurts most of all.
The absence feels wrong—a phantom limb, a missing tooth, a hole punched through my chest. I’ve worn that locket since my sixteenth birthday. Every day. Through showers and sleep and swimming pools. Through college interviews and first dates and my parents’ funeral.
Gone.
“Mom,” I whisper, my voice breaking on that single syllable.
The tight control I’ve maintained for years—through the trial, the funeral, the endless nights of research—splinters like glass. My chest heaves with the first sob, raw and painful, tearing itself from my throat.
I lay on the couch, knees drawn up to my chest despite the protest from my ribs. Tears stream hot down my face,causing the cut on my lip to sting, dripping onto the cushions beneath me.
The next sob comes harder, and the next, until I’m shaking with them. I press my face into the cushion to muffle the sound, though there’s no one here to hear me break.
The tears don’t stop. They soak into the couch cushion, my sleeves, my hair. My muscles ache from the tension of holding myself together for so long, only to fall apart now, alone in my apartment, with nothing left of her but memories.
“I need you,” I whisper. “Please.”
Chapter 15
