Page 1 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

Xander

I f there’s a worse way to start your day than scraping intestines off your shoes, I’d love to hear it.

I drag my sole across the edge of a marble step, dislodging what used to be a part of Boston’s most notorious art dealer.

The police took Klein’s body, or whatever was left of him, hours ago. But apparently, the chunk of liver now smearing my Converse didn’t make the cut for evidence collection.

A wave of nausea hits me, not from the sight, but from the sheer mess of it all. This wasn't in the plan.

“For God’s sake, Calloway, you borrow my cameras for one simple murder and forget to remove them from an active crime scene? The entire principle of the hemlock society is ‘Your Hunt, Your Mess.’ And right now, your mess is all over my new shoes.”

I crouch beside the stark white chalk outline where Klein had been transformed from a pedophile art dealer to a Jackson Pollock original.

“Thorne's going to have both our asses if this traces back to us. You know how he feels about sloppy work, and I'm not taking the fall because you got 'inspired' during an assignment.”

We exist because the system fails, not to become part of its evidence locker.

“Art requires sacrifice, Xander,” Calloway huffs. “Even Thorne appreciates my methods. That's why he assigned me to this target in the first place.”

The scene is a CSI nightmare. Blood has crusted into the fine Italian marble in arterial sprays that form a perfect golden ratio.

What appears to be a fragment of ear cartilage nestles between floor tiles.

Tissue samples decorate the baseboards like modern art installations. Klein’s essence is everywhere.

I step over a puddle of coagulated bodily fluids that definitely weren’t covered in my surveillance equipment warranty.

“This is why we can’t have nice things. Like freedom and no prisons.”

“Perfection takes focus, Xander,” Calloway huffs. “Do you think Rembrandt cleaned up after himself? I was crafting a masterpiece , not...sanitizing.”

“Yeah? Well, your ‘masterpiece’ left an intestine in the grout,” I snap, sidestepping a squelchy bit of something I’m pretty sure used to be Klein’s pancreas. “Next time, maybe try murdering without treating a marble floor like it’s a goddamn paint palette. Or at least use a drop cloth.”

“Noted.” He sounds amused, the smug bastard .

Smug doesn’t even begin to cover it. Calloway could sip tea while the house burned around him.

“Did you find all the cameras yet?” he asks.

“Working on it,” I mutter, glancing around the room.

“Oh, and while you’re there—” Calloway’s voice turns casual in that way that signals trouble “—could you check if they found Klein’s left eye? It sort of...popped out and rolled under the cupboard. I was going to retrieve it, but then inspiration struck for the intestinal arrangement.”

My stomach lurches. I can handle dismemberment, viscera, brains... Everything goes. But eyes? Something about eyeballs makes my skin crawl. The thought of one rolling around... Gross.

“The police would have taken it,” I say, fighting the urge to vomit. “They’re thorough, unlike some artists I know.”

“Shame.” Calloway sighs. “It had the most fascinating green flecks. I was considering a companion piece.”

“I’m hanging up now,” I say, swallowing bile. “Also, I’m billing you for emotional damages.”

“Emotional damages?” Calloway scoffs. “You’re the most emotionally constipated man alive, Xander. The only thing you’re capable of feeling is mild inconvenience.”

I crouch to retrieve a camera, my fingers brushing over its sleek surface. “For the record, I feel deep inconvenience right now. A soul-crushing inconvenience. The kind that requires therapy, a complete biohazard suit, and a lifetime supply of pizza.”

I straighten up and take in the Nelson Rivera Gallery. The space screams overpriced minimalism. Sharp angles and negative space, with gleaming white walls that rise twenty feet to exposed industrial ductwork painted matte black.

Track lighting casts dramatic shadows that somehow make even mediocre paintings look profound, like they’re worth re-mortgaging your house just to own one.

In the far corner, a small red dot near the air vent catches my eye. Another one of my cameras, its lens now pointed at me. The damn thing is positioned to capture both the murder scene and the main entrance.

Calloway couldn’t spare two minutes to retrieve it, lost in his macabre vision. It’s always like this with him. Brilliant, but utterly impractical. And I’m the one left to clean up the pieces. It’s a dynamic I’ve come to accept from my friend.

“Fortunately for you,” I whisper into my phone, “I planned for your inevitable artistic distraction.” I glance up at the tiny device. “Same exact model as the gallery’s security system. CX-5000. Even used the same mounting hardware.”

The police milling around haven’t given it a second look. Why would they? It matches the dozen other security cameras throughout the space.

“You mean you?—”

“Anticipated your complete disregard for operational security?” I finish for Calloway. “Yes. It’s called contingency planning, not that you’d know anything about that.” I keep my voice low. “The Rivera Gallery upgraded its system last month. I made sure our additions blended right in.”

I stare at a hideous painting of either a sunset or a pizza dropped on asphalt. Two hundred thousand dollars, according to the tiny placard. I’m in the wrong profession. Well, the wrong legal profession.

“They’ll pull the footage eventually, but by the time they realize the angles don’t add up with the other cameras, we’ll be long clear. ”

Calloway makes a sound somewhere between a scoff and admiration. “Not paranoid at all, are you?”

“I prefer the term ‘methodically prepared.’ But sure, insult the guy saving your ass.” I pause by a sculpture that looks like someone welded kitchen utensils to a mannequin. “Remind me again why I still help you?”

“Because I’m the only one who remembers your birthday?”

I pick up the second camera tucked into a bookshelf, its lens aimed at the now-empty death tableau. “Found camera two.”

I reach for a third camera tucked behind a hideous modern art sculpture when a soft click freezes me in place.

The gallery’s front door. Fuck.

My pulse spikes as footsteps echo through the entrance hall.

“Someone’s here,” I whisper, ending the call and diving behind a massive sculpture ironically titled Hidden Witness just as the door opens.

“Hello?” A woman’s voice, uncertain but determined. “Is someone in here?”

Shit. The cleaning service wasn’t scheduled until tomorrow. I checked. I always check.

I press myself against the wall, calculating escape routes. The back exit is just twenty feet away, but I’d have to cross the main gallery floor to reach it.

I peer around the edge of the sculpture, just enough to catch a glimpse of her.

Time stutters.

That dark ponytail pulls tight, exposing the vulnerable curve of her neck. A few stray strands cling, drawing my eye. Her face isn’t just pretty; it’s striking. Sharp lines and soft curves that stop my thoughts cold.

She moves with the kind of focus that makes you forget there’s blood crusting the floor. No flinching. No hesitation.

Well, fuck me sideways with a murder weapon. This is an unexpected plot twist. And I hate unexpected plot twists.

She’s not with the police, not officially, anyway. Definitely not supposed to be here.

She ducks under the crime scene tape and moves through the space, photographing everything with the confidence of someone who’s broken into a dozen crime scenes before breakfast.

I watch as she examines the blood spatter patterns, her expression clinical rather than horrified. Latex gloves snap against her wrists as she pulls them on before crouching to examine the crusted blood. She pulls out her phone, tapping the record button.

“Rivera Gallery scene,” she murmurs into the device. “Blood pattern consistent with previous Gallery Killer murders. Arterial spray. Intentional, not coincidental. Same signature as the others, victim connected to the art world...”

She photographs the chalk outline, taking meticulous shots of the void patterns where evidence has been collected.

Most people see the blood and recoil. She sees the patterns. She sees the story. She sees it... like I do.

“Based on previous scenes, the body was likely positioned to mirror a painting’s composition. Need to get crime scene photos to confirm and check autopsy report for any extracted organs, but I’m sure it’s him. Everything matches The Gallery Killer.”

The Gallery Killer. Of course, Calloway gets a cool nickname in the press while I’m out here doing twice the work with zero branding. Life is unfair. What would they even call me? The Lurking Stalker? The Camera Guy? The Creepy Tech Support?

She kneels beside the empty computer desk, running her fingers along the edges where the police have removed Rivera’s desktop computer.

“They’ve taken the digital records,” she murmurs to the absent victim, “but I bet you kept backups somewhere. You seem like the paranoid type.” She’s talking to a dead man, analyzing his habits. She’s just like me. Almost.

She searches the room, checking bookshelves, tapping walls for hidden safes, and examining floorboards for loose sections.

She pauses at the exact spot where I’d just removed Calloway’s camera, frowning slightly as she notices the dust pattern.

“Something was here,” she murmurs, touching the clean spot amidst the dusty residue. “Recently removed. Police?” She takes a photo of the empty space, her brow furrowed in concentration. “Or the killer?”

She’s smart.

The woman moves close to my hiding spot, her fingers tracing along the shelves near my sculpture. I can smell her shampoo. Flowery, with a clean bite. The kind of scent that makes you want to lean closer, even if it means explaining why you’re lurking in a blood-soaked gallery.

Her phone rings, making both of us jump.