Page 72 of X Marks the Stalker
I nod, not trusting myself to speak again. My stomach heaves, but there’s nothing left to expel.
“And you came here voluntarily?” The disbelief in his voice would almost be comical in another context. “To what? Observe? Participate? Report me?”
“I needed to see,” I say, setting the bin aside and wiping my mouth again. “I needed to see what it really meant.”
He pulls up his mask.
I swallow hard as he reveals himself to me. Sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw with just a hint of stubble, and lips that shouldn’t look so sensual on someone who just drilled into a man’s skull.
“Oh,” slips out of my mouth before I can stop it.
He’s as beautiful as I remember. In a raw, intense way that makes my already unsteady stomach flip for different reasons. There’s blood spattered across his neck, a crimson constellation against pale skin, and I hate myself for still finding him attractive.
The same sick fascination that draws me to crime scenes has morphed into something else, something I refuse to name.
His eyes narrow, confusion flickering across his features.
Xander hands me a water bottle from a nearby cart, along with a small tin of mints. I rinse and spit into the trash bin, then gratefully pop a mint into my mouth. The cool peppermint helps settle my stomach and masks the lingering taste of bile.
“Thank you,” I manage, wiping my mouth again with a clean tissue he offers.
He nods, then reaches into a supply drawer and pulls out a plastic protective suit similar to his own.
“Put this on over your clothes,” he says simply. “And these.” He hands me a pair of surgical gloves.
I slip into the gear with shaking hands, the plastic crinkling with each movement. The gloves feel strange, creating a barrier between me and the world that somehow makes what we're about to do feel both more real and more distant.
“You’re not what I expected,” I whisper, forcing myselfto stand on shaky legs. “I mean, I knew who you were from the photos, but seeing you like this...”
His expression shifts. The man who tortured someone to death seems suddenly lost, vulnerable in his exposure. One hand rises to touch his face, as if he’s forgotten the mask is gone. The last barrier between us gone.
“You’re supposed to be afraid,” he says, voice low and dangerous. “You watched me. You should be running. Screaming.”
I take a step closer instead, pulled by some gravitational force my brain can’t overrule.
“Should and are occupy different zip codes in my mind right now.” My voice emerges unfamiliar, husky.
This is wrong. I’m wrong for wanting to touch him, for wondering if his mouth tastes like danger. For the dark fascination that’s always flickered to life when researching killers, and the one now standing before me with a pulse.
“What’s happening?” he asks, bafflement replacing the cold calculation in his eyes. His gaze searches my face, clearly hunting for the fear and disgust that should be there.
“Excellent question with zero helpful answers,” I admit, taking another unsteady step toward him. The gun still hangs at his side, forgotten. “But I think we both went past normal a long time ago.”
“So now you know.” His voice is flat. “What are you going to do about it?”
The question carries the weight of lives. His. Mine. The future victims or beneficiaries of his justice.
I look past him to the surgical table where Dr. Wendell lies, eyes fixed open in a grotesque parody of awareness. Theexposed brain matter glistens under the surgical lights. I should be screaming. Running. Calling the police.
Instead, something dark unfurls in my chest. This man hurt people. Killed them. Used his position of trust to experiment on the vulnerable. And now he’s experiencing what he inflicted on others.
“I get it,” I whisper, surprising myself with the certainty in my voice. “The people he killed. There was no justice for them. He deserves this.”
Something shifts in Xander’s expression.
“That doesn’t answer my question.” He moves closer, studying me like a puzzle with missing pieces. “What are you going to do now, Oakley?”
I force myself to look directly at Dr. Wendell. At what Xander has done to him. The nausea returns, but alongside it rises something else—a grim satisfaction that catches me off guard. This man is experiencing the terror he inflicted on others. There’s a certain balance to it that appeals to something primal inside me.
