Page 59 of X Marks the Stalker
Once they’re gone, I extract myself from the bushes, brushing leaf fragments from my clothes.
I slip into her building through the side entrance, the one with the broken security camera I noticed three weeks ago during my initial perimeter assessment. The main lobby poses too much risk of being seen.
Elevators equal cameras. Too much exposure. I take the stairs instead, counting each flight, to the fourth floor.
“You’ve lost control of the situation,” I mutter to myself, adjusting the elastic around my neck. “Protocol exists for a reason.”
At apartment 4F, I hesitate. I’ve been inside her apartment seven times since installing the first cameras. Each time through the rear window with the faulty lock, or the bathroom skylight, or the fire escape. Never through the front door like a normal person.
Now I stand before her door like any other visitor, hand raised to knock. The normality of it feels more transgressive than any of my previous entries.
Soft knuckles against the wood, then silence. I wait thirty seconds, listening for movement inside.
Nothing.
I reach into my pocket for the copy of her key I made during my first surveillance installation. I slide it into the lock, metal scraping against metal as I turn it. The door opens an inch, then stops—the security chain blocks my path.
Through the narrow gap, I glimpse her living room, hearher muffled crying. The chain won’t stop me. I pull a thin metal tool from my jacket pocket, slide it through the opening, and work at the chain’s mounting bracket. Three seconds of pressure on the right spot, and the screws give. The chain goes slack, letting me push the door just wide enough to squeeze through.
I slip inside, easing the door shut behind me. I stand frozen in the entryway, not sure how to let her know I’m here without scaring her half to death.
I clear my throat, the sound too loud in the quiet apartment. “Oakley.”
A startled yelp echoes from the living room. Something flies at me—a book, judging by the weight and trajectory—and smacks against my shoulder.
“Oof.” I stagger back a step, more from surprise than pain.
“Stay back!” Her voice trembles between fear and fury. “I swear I’ll—” She freezes mid-threat, confusion replacing terror as she squints through swollen eyes.
“Oakley, it’s me.” I hold my hands up, palms outward, staying just inside the doorway. “Your stalker?”
That didn’t sound weird at all.
Something sharp jabs into my ass cheek. I jerk forward, hand flying to the stinging sensation.
“What the—” Another jab, opposite side. I twist around, trying to see what’s happening.
“What’s wrong?” Oakley’s voice shifts to concern.
“I don’t know!” I slap my backside, feeling something small move beneath my fingers. “Something bit my ass!”
Another pinch, sharper this time. I yelp, leaping like I’ve been tased.
“Let me see.” She approaches, her bruised face now etched with curiosity rather than fear.
“No, it’s—” The words die as something crawls inside my pants. “Fuck!”
My hands fumble with my belt buckle, dignity becoming a secondary concern to whatever’s attacking me. I hop, yanking down my pants while twisting to reach behind me.
“Hold still,” Oakley commands, moving closer.
“I can’t hold still! Something is treating my butt cheek like an all-you-can-eat buffet!” My voice scales octaves I didn’t know existed. I wrestle my way out of my underwear, hopping on one foot while trying to maintain some semblance of balance.
Oakley circles behind me, unfazed, her analytical gaze fixed on my posterior.
“I can’t see anything. Stop moving.”
I contort my neck, trying to see over my shoulder. The expression on Oakley’s face sends a fresh wave of panic through me.
