Page 73 of X Marks the Stalker
“I want to see this through,” I say, the words surprising me as they leave my mouth.
“Why?” Xander asks, genuine confusion in his voice. “This isn’t a journalist’s investigation. This isn’t something you can write about or expose.”
“Because this is what I’m asking you to do to Blackwell,” I say, the truth of it settling into my bones. “If I can’t handle seeing it, I have no right to ask for it.”
He studies me for a long moment, then nods. “There’s a difference between watching and taking part, Oakley.”
“I know.” I take a deep breath, steadying myself. “ButI’m already part of this. The moment I asked you to help me with Blackwell, I became involved.”
“What did you have in mind? For Wendell, I mean.”
The question catches me off guard. I look at the surgical table, at the instruments laid out with such precision. My mind works despite itself. Ideas I shouldn’t have flow easily.
“He falsified records, right?” I ask, pieces clicking together in my head. “Used his medical authority to help cover things up?”
Xander nods once.
I stare at the medical instruments gleaming under the harsh lights. My pulse quickens.
“He used his tongue to lie,” I say, my voice trembling but resolute. “To manipulate and cover up what he did. Maybe... Maybe he should lose it.”
Xander tilts his head, observing me. “Go on.”
I swallow hard, throat tight with nausea and adrenaline. “If he can’t speak, he can’t lie anymore. He should taste the consequences of his own deception.”
“He’d suffocate on his own lying tongue,” Xander completes my thought, his clinical tone at odds with the horror of what I’ve suggested. “Poetic.”
I nod, a distant part of me screaming about what I’m becoming. But the louder part, the part still raw from Blackwell’s men and losing my mother’s locket, whispers that this is justice.
My eyes drift to a scalpel on the tray, its edge catching the light. “I want to do it.”
I force myself to approach the table, fighting the instinct to run.
“You’ll need to remove the gag,” I say. “And I’ll cut.”
“You understand what you’re about to do?” Xander asks, studying me. “Once you cross this line...”
“I crossed it when I followed you here,” I say. “I crossed it when I asked you to kill Blackwell.”
The reality of what I’m becoming should terrify me more than it does. Instead, I feel a strange relief, like stepping out of a costume I’ve worn my entire life.
The system failed my parents. Failed me. Failed Wendell’s victims.
“You’re adapting faster than I expected,” he says, removing the strap from Wendell’s mouth. The doctor gasps, drawing ragged breaths.
“I’m a quick study.” I hold up the knife. “And I want Blackwell to pay as much as you want Wendell to.”
I catch Xander watching me, his eyes calculating but also curious, as if seeing me for the first time. Whatever he sees makes him smile.
I grip the scalpel, trying to steady my hand. The weight of it feels wrong, too light for what I’m about to do. Wendell’s eyes bulge as I position the blade against his tongue.
Wendell thrashes against the restraints, his screams growing more frantic as the scalpel nears his mouth.
The first cut is shallow. The scalpel slices through the pink flesh, bringing forth a bright line of crimson. Wendell screams—a high-pitched, animal sound.
I press deeper, determined to follow through, but my muscles betray me. The blade jerks, making a jagged cut rather than the precise incision I intended. Blood wells up, flowing over Wendell’s lips and down his chin. His screams turn gurgling.
My hand shakes, the scalpel wavering. The clinical detachment I’d imagined having evaporates in an instant. This isn’t like writing about violence or photographing its aftermath.
