Page 98 of X Marks the Stalker
“Official report says my dad shot my mom, then himself.Murder-suicide.” My voice sounds flat even to my own ears. “I was sixteen.”
“You didn’t believe it.”
“My father could barely kill spiders.” I shake my head. “And he loved her. The way they looked at each other even after twenty years of marriage... You don’t fake that.”
A strange flutter moves through my chest as I catch Xander’s eyes. Sometimes, when he doesn’t think I’m looking, he watches me with that same expression, like I’m the answer to a question he’s been asking his whole life. Like my dad looked at my mom.
It’s crazy how fast this thing between us has developed. A month ago, I was hunting down a story. Now I’m running away with the subject of that story, and somehow I’m not terrified by it.
Maybe I’ve always been a little crazy. Maybe that’s why I became a crime reporter, why I kept digging into Blackwell when everyone told me to stop. The seeds of this were planted the night my parents died, waiting for the right person to come along and help them bloom into something dangerous and beautiful.
Xander nods. “What happened to you after?”
“My aunt Caroline became my guardian. She tried, but she had her own kids, her own life in Springfield. I was just extra. Another mouth to feed, another person to find space for.” I press my fingernails into my palm. “I stayed until I was eighteen, then got a scholarship to BU.”
“No other family?”
“Grandparents were gone. Dad had a brother in Seattle who sent birthday checks but never visited.” I shrug. “I got used to being on my own.”
“What about holidays?” Something in his tone shifts.
“First couple of years, I’d go to friends’ houses, but it’s awkward being the charity case at someone else’s family dinner.” I stare at the trees outside. “Last few years, I’ve worked through most holidays. Double pay, plus my editors feel less guilty about assigning the murder reporter to holiday shifts.”
I don’t add that I still buy myself a present each Christmas, wrap it, and place it under my sad little artificial tree—a tradition that started my first year alone. Some habits are too pathetic to share, even with someone who’s seen me vomit at a murder scene.
“Do you miss them?” Xander asks.
I touch my mother’s locket, now hanging around my neck again. “Every day. But it’s been twelve years. The missing becomes part of you after a while.”
His eyes stay on the road, but I see his throat work as he swallows. “What would they think? About this?” He gestures between us. “About what we’re doing?”
I consider this longer than I should. “My dad believed in the system until it betrayed him. My mom kept looking for justice after everyone else gave up.” I take a deep breath. “I think they’d understand that sometimes the system fails, and when it does, someone has to step outside of it.”
“We need gas,” Xander says, slowing the car as we approach a lonely service station glowing like a neon island in the darkness. “Unless you want to push this car the last ten miles.”
I peer at the small convenience store attached to the gas pumps. “Perfect. I need to pee so badly, I’m considering your empty coffee cup as an option.”
He gives me a scandalized glance that makes me laugh.
“What? I’ve been holding it for like forty minutes.”
“You could have said something.” He pulls up to the pump.
“And interrupt your serial killer origin story? I have manners.”
The station looks like something from a horror movie—flickering fluorescent lights, a bored attendant visible through grimy windows, and no other cars in sight. Still, any bathroom is better than no bathroom right now.
“I’ll get the gas,” Xander says. “Try not to get murdered in there.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” I step out into the chilly mountain air. “God, it’s freezing.”
“Five minutes,” Xander says, eyeing the dilapidated gas station suspiciously as he fills the tank. “Any longer and I’m assuming you’ve fallen in.”
“Your faith in me is touching,” I call back, my breath fogging in the chill.
I push through the glass door, setting off a jangling bell that makes the bored attendant glance up from his phone.
“Bathroom?” I ask, my bladder screaming in protest at even this one-word delay.
