Page 9 of X Marks the Stalker
I shake my head, trying to dislodge the image. Focus, Oakley.
I pull out my phone and tap the number into a search engine. Nothing comes up.
“Sweet and sour,” I mutter, mimicking his words. “Not unlike you.”
Who talks like that? Pretentious security consultants who moonlight as serial killers, that’s who.
Or a socially awkward tech guy who reads too many spy novels and thinks mystery is his personality.
My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number.
Anonymous
Drive safe, Oakley Novak.
I stop dead beside my car, my heart hammering as I scan the empty street. No sign of him anywhere.
I never gave him my phone number.
Chapter 3
Xander
Her lock is disappointingly easy to pick. Seven seconds with a tension wrench and rake—not even a challenge. I make a mental note to upgrade it later. For her safety, of course. Like a responsible neighbor might water your plants while you’re away. Except with deadbolts. And without permission.
I slip inside Oakley Novak’s apartment like a ghost, my footsteps silent on the hardwood floor. It smells of takeout Thai food and something floral thatwraps around my brain stem and tugs. Not perfume. Shampoo maybe.
The apartment sits empty, just as my surveillance confirmed. She left forty-three minutes ago, heading towardThe Boston Beaconbuilding with her messenger bag slung across her body and determination in her stride. Based on her typical workday, she’ll be gone for at least six more hours.
Plenty of time to get acquainted with her private world.
“Let’s see what secrets you’rekeeping, Miss Novak,” I whisper, though there’s no need. The words hang in the silent apartment, my only audience the abandoned coffee mug on her counter, lipstick smudged on its rim.
The apartment is smaller than I expected. Industrial-style loft with exposed brick and pipes. A crime journalist's salary doesn’t stretch far in Boston.
The space divides into chaotic quadrants. Work zone, sleep zone, kitchen zone, and what appears to be a collapse from exhaustion zone, consisting of a worn leather couch facing a modest TV.
I start with her investigation board. It’s...impressive.
The board dominates her living room wall—a masterpiece of obsession. Red thread connects crime scene photos, notes in messy handwriting, and newspaper clippings. Everything labeled and categorized.
I lean closer, studying her work on The Gallery Killer. My lips twitch into an involuntary smile. She’s good.
“Well, well, well,” I murmur, tapping my finger against a photo of Calloway’s most recent tableau. “How did you get this?”
The police never released this photo to the press. The one showing the precise positioning of the severed head. Most journalists only had access to the sanitized versions. But here it is, in high-resolution glory on her board.
My eyes dart to her handwritten notes beside the photo.
Blood spatter inconsistent with the blow. Likely staged.
Other details jump out at me. The specific composition of the second victim. The exact time window established forthe first murder. The trace evidence of specialty art fixative found at all three scenes.
“You’ve been busy, haven’t you?” I whisper,my chest tightening with something between admiration and alarm.
She’s relentless, like a dog with a bone. I can’t decide if that makes her brave or stupid.Or both. Probably both. Definitely both.
I’m about to turn away when a second board catches my eye. This one smaller, tucked in the corner like an afterthought. Or a secret.
