Page 81 of X Marks the Stalker
“Please don’t be dismembering someone in the bathtub,” I mutter, swinging my legs over the bed’s edge. “I’m not ready for that level of relationship commitment.”
Cool air pebbles my skin beneath his oversized t-shirt. The soft cotton falls to mid-thigh, leaving my legs exposed. His shirt carries his scent—clean laundry infused with something spicy and distinctly him. He has excellent taste in detergent.
The hardwood chills my bare feet as I pad toward the door. Unlike my apartment—a chaotic collection of research papers and coffee mugs—Xander’s space contains nothing without purpose. No clutter, no excess, just carefully selected furniture with clean, deliberate lines.
“Serial killers really are the ultimate minimalists,” I whisper to myself. “Marie Kondo has nothing on him.”
I peer down the hallway, which stretches dark except for a faint blue glow pulsing from somewhere deeper in the apartment. My toes curl against the cold floor.
“Xander?” I call. “If you’re doing anything stereotypically serial killery right now, I’d appreciate a heads-up. Is this a ‘hide under the bed’ situation or more of a ‘pretend I saw nothing’ scenario?”
No response. Great.
I creep down the hallway, aware I’m behaving like the idiotic woman in every horror movie who investigates the strange noise instead of running. But curiosity has always been my fatal flaw. It’s what made me a journalist. It’s what will get me killed someday.
Today? No, I don’t think so. Not by him, anyway.
Through the gap in the door, I see Xander seated at a desk surrounded by monitors—six screens, each displayingdifferent camera feeds. His shoulders form a tense line under his thin t-shirt, attention locked on the central screen. Not dismembering anyone. Just being creepy in a different, more surveillance-oriented way.
I push the door wider. “What’s going on?”
He doesn’t startle—of course not. He probably has cameras on his bed, too.
“Someone’s at your apartment,” he says without turning, voice clinical and precise, stripped of the intimacy we’d shared hours before.
“What?” I cross to the desk. His words slice through my lingering sleepiness like a scalpel.
He gestures at the central monitor. “Four men. Professional. They’ve breached your building.”
The screen reveals my apartment hallway from an angle I’ve never seen—one of his cameras. The timestamp confirms its live footage. Four men in tactical dark clothing approach my door with coordinated precision, moving like a single organism with multiple limbs.
“Who are they?” I ask, already knowing the answer in my gut.
“Blackwell’s people,” Xander replies, fingers dancing across keys that cycle through different camera views. “Has to be.”
My chest constricts as one produces an electronic device, pressing it against my door lock. Within seconds, they infiltrate my home.
“They’re in my apartment,” I whisper, indignation blazing through my veins as they violate my space with mechanical efficiency. “They’re touching my things.”
One man beelines for my desk, another for my laptop.The third begins tearing through my bedroom while the fourth guards the door.
“That bastard is raiding my research,” I hiss as the desk searcher pulls out folders, photographing contents.
Xander watches in dangerous silence, a new tension radiating from him—the coiled readiness I recognize from the clinic. The predator is preparing to strike.
The man pulls out a thick red folder. My heart stutters.
“Xander.” My fingers dig into his arm before conscious thought.
“What?” His eyes remain fixed on the screen.
“We’ve got a problem.” My voice sounds distant, detached.
“I know. They’re after you.”
“No, that file—it contains everything I’ve gathered about you. All my research on you.”
Now he looks at me, expression shifting from concentration to something razor-edged. “Define ‘everything.’”
