Page 71 of X Marks the Stalker
Three more steps to clear my angle to the desk. Gun held steady, I scan the ground for shadows that might betray the intruder’s position.
“Let me just put some music on first. Nothing enhances cranial exploration like a little Mozart. Or would you prefer something more contemporary? You strike me as a TaylorSwift fan. No judgment. I’ve got an entire playlist called ‘Songs to Dismantle Moral Monsters By.’ Mostly indie pop, surprisingly upbeat for the subject matter.”
I’m at the edge of the desk now, gun raised, ready to swing around. One deep breath.
I pivot, sweeping the weapon in a controlled arc toward the source of the sound.
Chapter 18
Oakley
Icrouch behind the desk, knees cramping from holding this position too long. My stomach twists with each wet, sickening sound from across the room. Whatever I expected when I followed Xander here, it wasn’t...this.
I’d told myself I could handle it. I’ve seen crime scenes before. Photographed bodies. Interviewed survivors of unspeakable violence. But witnessing the act itself differs from viewing its aftermath, like sunshine differs from shadows. Fantasy crashes into reality.
Dr. Wendell’s muffled screams vibrate through my bones, primal and desperate. I press my fist against my mouth, fighting the rising bile in my throat.
Yet beneath the nausea, something electric pulses through me. A dark curiosity I’ve never admitted to anyone.
The drilling stops. Silence follows, thick and terrible.
Then Xander’s voice, casual as if commenting on theweather.
I shift, trying to relieve the pressure on my cramping calf muscle. My elbow bumps the desk drawer. The softest sound, barely audible to my own ears.
But enough.
I freeze, holding my breath.
“You know what they never tell you about DIY neurosurgery?” His voice is conversational, almost friendly. “The absolute mess it creates.”
He’s getting closer. I should run. Scream. Do something. But my body refuses all commands. And part of me—a part I’ve hidden for years—wants to watch what comes next.
The safety click of a gun shatters any hope of escaping unnoticed.
When he rounds the corner of the desk, weapon aimed, I’m still frozen in place, camera clutched to my chest like a shield.
His eyes widen behind the mask. He's wearing a full plastic suit over his clothes, surgical gloves covering his hands.
“Oakley?” The gun lowers. “What the hell are you doing here?”
My stomach revolts against my mind’s perverse fascination. I hold up one finger in a desperate “just a second” gesture, lunge for the trash bin beside the desk, and empty everything into it. Convulsions rack my entire body, tears streaming down my face.
The clinical part of my brain notes I’m in shock. The rest of me is too busy being sick to care.
When the spasms finally subside, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, death-gripping the trash bin like it’s the last lifeboat on the Titanic. Humiliation burns hotter thanthe acid in my throat. Nothing says “take me seriously as your murder accomplice” like decorating someone’s wastebasket with your half-digested lunch.
“I knew it,” I manage, voice raw. “I knew you were a killer.” Another wave of nausea threatens an encore performance, but I swallow it down with sheer willpower. “I wanted to show you I could handle it. That I could help with Blackwell.”
I gesture toward the surgical table, focusing on literally anything else. “Well, that audition went spectacularly. From badass potential sidekick to vomiting mess in sixty seconds flat. But I can improve. I promise.”
The eagerness in my voice surprises even me.What am I promising exactly?
Xander stares at me, mask still in place, eyes unreadable. The gun hangs at his side now. His free hand clenches and unclenches, the controlled man struggling with uncontrolled circumstances.
“You followed me.” Not a question. His voice sounds different. Tighter, controlled in a way I haven’t heard before. “You saw everything.”
The words carry undercurrents of disbelief. The master of surveillance followed without noticing. His perfect system, compromised.
