Page 61 of X Marks the Stalker
I hold her wrist steady with one hand, my thumb resting against her pulse point. With the other, I dab the cottonagainst her palm, my touch light as a whisper. She flinches but doesn’t pull away.
I clean each abrasion, removing tiny fragments of debris. My fingers brush against her skin between strokes, a silent apology for the pain. When both palms are clean, I apply antibiotic ointment, spreading it in the gentlest circles.
The bandages come next. I unroll the gauze across her right palm, wrapping it just tight enough to protect without restricting movement. I secure it with medical tape, smoothing the adhesive with my thumb. I repeat the process with her left hand, working in silence, broken only by her occasional sharp intake of breath.
Her bandaged hands rest in mine, small and vulnerable. Something shifts in my chest, a tectonic movement of emotion I can’t control. I lift her right hand and press my lips to her fingertips, just above the edge of the bandage.
I lower her hand. “Better?”
She nods, her eyes wide.
“Who did this to you?” My voice emerges sounding alien. Quiet, deadly.
Oakley looks up, surprise flickering across her face at my tone. “Blackwell’s men. Three of them. They were waiting by my car after work.”
I move to the kitchen, filling a plastic bag with ice, wrapping it in a clean dish towel. Back on the couch, I gently press it against the swelling around her eye.
“Keep this here. Ten minutes on, ten minutes off.” The clinical instructions help me maintain some semblance of control.
She winces at the cold but holds the ice pack in place. “They said it was a warning to stop asking questions about Blackwell. That next time they wouldn’t be so gentle.”
My hand stills on her arm.
“They mentioned Martin. Said his ‘accident’ should have been message enough.” Her voice cracks. “They knew about the calls I made today. The people I contacted were from your flash drive.”
I rise, pacing the small space between her couch and the coffee table. Three steps one way, three steps back. Deliberate movement to redirect the energy building in my body.
“What else?”
Her hand drifts to her neck, fingers tracing the empty space where something should be. “They took my mother’s locket. It was all I had left of her.”
I stop pacing.
“Your mother’s locket?”
Oakley nods, fresh tears welling. “I’ve worn it every day since she died. It had her picture inside. Her and my dad.”
The room falls silent except for the ticking of a clock somewhere and the soft sound of her breathing.
They could have just beaten her. They could have threatened her. But they took the locket—a deliberate act of cruelty designed to wound beyond physical pain.
My fingernails carve half-moons into my palms. The pressure in my chest builds, a dark, unfamiliar rage that feels nothing like my usual calculated planning.
“Describe them to me.” My voice emerges unnaturally calm, at odds with the chaos churning beneath my skin. “Everything you remember. Height, weight, distinguishing features, voices, scents, anything unusual about their clothes or hands.”
My phone is already in my palm, thumb hovering over an app that will access every surveillance camera within a mile radius of her office.
“Tell me where it happened. What time. Which direction they came from. What vehicle they used.”
She tells me everything. The black van that blocked her escape route. How they grabbed her, threatened her, warned her to stop investigating. The gun pressed against her ribs. The deliberate cruelty when they tore her mother’s locket from her neck.
My jaw tightens. They were watching her. Tracking her movements. Planning this.
“They won’t touch you again,” I say. They won’t. Not if I have anything to do with it.
Oakley looks up, her face still tear-streaked, blue eyes shining.
“Your mask is slipping,” she says, voice hoarse.
