X Unmasks the Stalker

Xander

H er 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 toward The Boston Beacon building 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.