Page 92 of X Marks the Stalker
“That’s Zara. My best friend.” I watch as she picks up a framed photo of us from college, its glass now cracked. “Shit. She has a key. She must have gotten worried when I didn’t answer her texts.”
On screen, Zara pulls out her phone, her movements becoming more frantic as she surveys the destruction. I know who she’s calling.
“She’s trying to reach me,” I say, my chest tightening with guilt.
Xander nods. “Your phone is at the bottom of that dumpster six blocks from here.”
Zara holds the phone to her ear, then pulls it back to look at the screen with confusion. She tries again, her free hand running through her braids in a gesture I know means she’s worried. After a third attempt, she takes pictures of the apartment with her phone.
“She thinks I’ve been kidnapped or—” I can’t finish the thought. “If she doesn’t hear from me soon, she’ll go to the police.”
Zara is now moving more purposefully through my apartment, touching things as little as possible, clearly preserving what she sees as a crime scene.
“I need to call her,” I say, turning to Xander. “If I don’t, she’ll file a missing person’s report, and we’ll have the police looking for me too.”
Chapter 22
Xander
Ihand Oakley the burner phone. The stark white walls of the safe house press in around us, sterile and unyielding.
“It’s clean,” I say. “Untraceable. Use it to call Zara.”
Oakley takes a deep breath, steeling herself. The number beeps as she dials, and I notice how she holds the phone a few inches from her ear as if preparing for an explosion.
“Zara? It’s me,” she says.
The tinny sound of panicked shouting bleeds through the speaker. I can’t make out the exact words, but the pitch and cadence tell me everything I need to know. Oakley winces, pulling the phone farther from her ear.
“I know, I know. Just—Zara, please—” Oakley attempts, but the stream of words from the other end bulldozes right over her.
I smile and kneel between Oakley’s legs, sliding my fingers up her thighs and pulling her sweatpants down.
She jumps undermy touch, trying so hard to maintain composure with Zara that I can’t help wanting to dismantle that control piece by piece.
“Z–Zara, slow down,” Oakley manages, her free hand gripping the edge of the armchair.
I trace patterns up her inner thigh, just shy of where her legs meet. Her sharp intake of breath feels like a victory. I glance up, catching her eyes as I slide my hand higher.
“I’m fine, I swear,” Oakley continues, her voice hitching as my fingers brush against her center through the thin cotton. Her legs tense and part wider—an invitation I’m all too happy to accept.
Through the phone, Zara’s voice rises to a pitch that even I can hear now. “Your apartment looks like a crime scene! The door was kicked in. Everything’s torn apart—your research, your dad’s files—everything! I’m calling the police right now!”
Oakley’s eyes flash with panic that has nothing to do with my wandering hands. “No!” she blurts, then softens her tone. “Please, Zara. No police. They won’t help.”
More questioning comes through the speaker. I catch something about numbers and phones.
“I switched phones,” Oakley says, trying to keep her voice steady despite my continued attention. “You can reach me at this number from now on.”
Another burst of rapid-fire questions that I can't decipher, but Oakley's growing tension tells me Zara isn't satisfied with the explanation.
I increase the pressure of my fingers, making small circles that pull a gasp from her lips. She covers the phone, shooting me a look that’s half warning, half plea.
“What was that?” Zara demands through the phone.
“Nothing,” Oakley says, her thighs quivering under my ministrations. “I just—I dropped something.”
I lean closer, my breath ghosting across her skin as I pull the fabric aside. The look on her face is everything—desperate to maintain control while fighting the urge to surrender.
