Page 76 of X Marks the Stalker
“The Watchman?”
I consider this, rolling it around in my head. “Not bad. Simple. Has layers.”
I guide my car into the familiar darkness of my garage, the engine’s rumble fading to silence as I press the button to lower the door behind us. The mechanical whir echoes in the enclosed space.
“Home sweet home,” I murmur, keys jingling as I remove them from the ignition.
“This is where you live?” Oakley asks, peering through the windshield at the concrete walls.
I nod, suddenly self-conscious. My fingers drum against the steering wheel one last time before falling still.
“Come on,” I say, unbuckling my seatbelt with a metallic click. “Let’s go inside.”
She nods, following me through the hidden door that connects to my apartment.
My place surprises her—I see it in the slight widening of her eyes, the parting of her lips.
People expect killers to live in dungeons or weird boxes. Instead, she finds sleek mid-century furniture, original art, and floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the harbor. The city lights shimmer on the water like scattered stars.
“This is...not what I expected,” she says, running her fingertips along the back of a leather sofa.
“What were you expecting? A basement with plastic sheets and a collection of severed heads?” I flick on a lamp, casting warm light across the polished hardwood floors.
A small laugh escapes her. “Maybe not that extreme, butdefinitely not...” She gestures to an arranged bookshelf, “First editions of Vonnegut.”
“Wait here,” I say, moving toward the hallway. Her gaze follows, as if afraid I’ll vanish.
I retrieve the small velvet pouch from the safe in my room.
When I return, Oakley sits where I left her, eyes fixed on me. I extend the pouch. “This belongs to you.”
She opens it, breath catching. The locket spills into her palm, its familiar oval pattern catching the light. Her fingers trace its contours, trembling.
“You got it back.” Her voice wavers, eyes glistening with tears that threaten to spill. She clutches it to her chest, knuckles whitening. “This was the last thing she gave me... The day before—” Her voice breaks. “This is the best thing anyone has ever done for me.”
“They won’t hurt you again.” I meet her gaze. I don’t elaborate on the details. Some things are better left unsaid, even between people like us.
She crosses the space between us, arms encircling my waist with surprising strength. Her face presses against my chest, tears breaking free, soaking through my shirt. For a moment, I stand frozen, unused to comfort rather than control. Then, my arms fold around her, one hand cradling the back of her head, holding her against the steady rhythm of my heartbeat.
She pulls back, examining the locket. “The chain is different.”
“Had to replace it. The original was broken.” I reach for the necklace. “I tried to find the most similar one. Turn around.”
She turns, lifting her hair. I step closer, bringing the chain around her neck. The clasp requires precision, my fingers brushing her skin as I secure it. The locket falls into place, my hands lingering on her shoulders.
“Let’s get you cleaned up.” I lead her toward the master bathroom. “Shower’s through here.”
“Right.” Her fingers trail along my arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
The bathroom gleams with black tile and glass, large enough for four. I turn the water on, steam filling the room while I open a cabinet.
“Here.” I hand her a fresh towel. “I’ll find clean clothes for after.”
She takes the towel but doesn’t move to undress. Instead, her eyes burn into mine, igniting my pulse.
“Join me?” she asks. “For efficiency.”
The high from Wendell still courses through us both—power, fear, control. I recognize that look because I’ve seen it in the mirror. The need for something human after witnessing something monstrous.
