Page 62 of X Marks the Stalker
Her fingers reach up, brushing against my temple as she adjusts the elastic band.
Her hand drops, her bottom lip trembles, and fresh tears spill over already wet lashes.
I freeze. This wasn’t in any contingency plan. Physical injuries have protocols. Ice for swelling, pressure for bleeding, elevation for sprains. Emotional collapse has no corresponding manual.
“I—” My voice catches. I have nothing to say that fits this situation. No template to follow. “Should I call someone? A friend? That dog-groomer you mentioned with all the colorful braids?”
She shakes her head, hair sticking to her damp cheeks. “Don’t leave me,” she manages between sobs. “Please.”
I lift my arm, expecting her to flinch away. Instead, she leans into me, her body curving against mine, seeking comfort like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Her head finds the hollow between my shoulder and chest.
My arm hovers before settling around her shoulders, my hand resting against her upper arm with the gentlest pressure. Her warmth seeps through my clothing, her heart rate elevated but slowing.
“I’ve never been good at this,” I admit, the confession slipping out before I can analyze its wisdom.
Her soft laugh vibrates against my shoulder, unexpected and startlingly pleasant.
“You’re very good at this.”
Her breathing steadies against me, the violent sobs quieting to occasional hiccups. I maintain my position, arm still curved around her shoulders, uncertain if I should move or speak.
“I want them to pay.”
She looks up at me, eyes still swollen but now burning with something beyond tears. “I want Blackwell to pay.”
Her jaw tightens, shoulders squaring, fingers curling into loose fists. She drags a hand across her face, wiping at the tears like she’s trying to erase them.
“Not just exposed in some newspaper article that his lawyers can bury,” she continues, each word sharper than the last. “I want him destroyed. I want him to lose everything—his reputation, his empire, his life.” Her voice drops even lower. “I want him to know why it’s happening. That it’s for what he did to my parents.”
She rises from the couch, unsteady but determined, pacing the same path I did earlier. “I’ve spent years trying tobuild a case against him through legal channels. I’ve played it straight. I’ve worked within the system. Look where that got me.”
She gestures to her bruised face, her torn clothing, the empty space at her throat where the locket should be.
“They murdered my parents. Framed my father. Took the only thing I had left of them.” Each statement emerges like a bullet. “The police won’t help. The courts won’t help. The papers won’t help.”
She stops pacing in front of me, eyes locked on mine through the ridiculous eye holes of my makeshift mask.
“I don’t want justice anymore. Justice is too clean for what they’ve done. I want vengeance.”
“Oakley.” I keep my voice calm. “This isn’t a world you want to enter.”
She objects, but I raise my hand, silencing her with the gesture.
“The line you’re considering crossing—it can’t be uncrossed. The things you’re asking for require methods that change you. Permanently.”
Her eyes narrow. “You think I can’t handle it.”
“I think you shouldn’t have to.”
She holds my gaze, unflinching. “I’m not asking permission. I’m asking for help.”
I stand, closing the distance between us, stopping close enough that she has to tilt her head up to maintain eye contact.
“They hurt you to send a message to stay away.” I reach up, brushing a strand of hair from her face, careful to avoid the bruised areas. “If you continue, they won’t stop at warnings.”
“I’m not stopping.”
The silence between us grows dense with possibility and danger. It’s clear she’s not going to back down.
