Page 58 of X Marks the Stalker
Xander
Ahigh-pitched alert jerks me from sleep, cutting through layers of unconsciousness.
My phone buzzes against the nightstand, emitting the distinct pattern I’ve assigned to Oakley’s apartment sensors. Sleep, the rational part of my brain argues. Ninety-seven percent of nocturnal alerts are false positives.
I grab the phone anyway.
My fingers fumble across the screen, clumsy with sleep. The feed loads, four angles of Oakley’s apartment filling my screen.
The overhead view captures her staggering through her front door. She drops her bag, locking the door behind her. Just Oakley. No masked intruders or shady characters. Crisis averted.
Wait. Something’s wrong.
I switch to the kitchen angle for a better view.I zoom in. Clothing disheveled, right sleeve torn at the shoulder seam, dust marks on the knees consistent with falling.
My throat tightens. Something happened to her.
I switch to the living room camera as she collapses onto her couch. Her face turns toward the light, revealing a darkening bruise along her left cheekbone, split lip, and the unmistakable purple swelling of a black eye.
“Fuck.”
My fingers grip the phone until the case creaks. Blood rushes to my head, pounding in my ears as heat spreads across my chest. A primal instinct surges through me. Protect her, shield her, destroy whatever caused this. My muscles coil, ready to strike at threats that aren’t even in the room.
She touches her neck, again and again. Searching for something missing.
My spine straightens, muscles seizing one by one until I sit statue-still. On screen, Oakley folds inward. Her shoulders shake, each tremor rippling through her frame as sobs tear from her throat—raw, wounded sounds that slice through my speakers and into my chest.
“Oakley...” The whisper escapes my lips.
Who fucking touched her?
I’m up, keys in hand, before the thought completes.
The door slams behind me as I take the stairs two at a time, my brain locked on a single directive.
Get to her. Now.
The underground parking garage echoes with my footsteps. I unlock my car from thirty feet away, sliding inside and starting the engine in one fluid motion. The tires squeal against concrete as I speed up the ramp.
Boston’s streets blur past my windows. I run a red light.Then another. I cut across three lanes of traffic. I take corners too fast, the G-force pressing me against the driver’s side door.
None of this is me. I calculate. I plan. I don’t react.
But I can’t stop seeing her face, the tears tracking through the dust on her cheeks.She never cries.
I pull up outside her building and kill the headlights. My breathing still hasn’t normalized, my heart banging against my ribs.
Through the windshield, I scan the exterior of Oakley’s apartment building. Fourth floor, west side, lights still on. I spot a path through the landscaping that offers cover from the street lamps.
I reach into my glove compartment and pull out my black face mask—the same one I wore on the roof. I slip it on. The fabric presses against my cheekbones, narrowing my field of vision to tunnel-like focus. My breath warms the material with each exhale.
“This is stupid,” I mutter to myself, the material of the mask catching my breath. Breaking pattern. Acting on impulse. Everything I’ve spent years training myself never to do.
I exit the car, easing the door shut. The night air hits me, cold enough to sting my exposed skin. I stick to the shadows, moving toward her building.
A couple emerges from the front entrance, laughing. I duck into the ornamental bushes lining the walkway, flattening myself against the ground. Their footsteps pass within feet of me, but they’re too absorbed in each other to notice the man hiding in the landscaping.
I track their laughter until it fades into the night. Myheartbeat slows to a steady rhythm—the familiar calm that settles over me during surveillance operations.
