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Page 10 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

Oakley

B lack. Small. Innocuous. The device sits in my palm like a tiny beetle, no larger than a button on a dress shirt.

My hands tremble as I stare at the camera I’ve found wedged between my crime books. I only spotted it because I knocked my coffee mug, splashing liquid that caught the lens—a glint where nothing should be.

“Fuck.”

A camera. In my apartment. My sanctuary.

My heart hammers against my ribs. I slide two steps toward my kitchen counter, where my pepper spray waits beside a bag of caramel popcorn.

A soft creak echoes from the hallway outside.

I freeze mid-breath. That wasn’t the building settling. That was a footstep. The gentle pressure of weight on old wood.

My gaze darts to the windows. Locked? The bathroom door stands half-open, the shower curtain drawn. Someone could hide in there. Or behind the sofa. Inside the coat closet. Everywhere.

“Hello?” I call out, my voice steadier than my pulse. “I’m armed.”

Nothing but silence answers. That particular kind of silence that screams someone is trying very hard not to make a sound. Or it’s just me, being paranoid. Both options are viable.

I tiptoe to my apartment door. The peephole reveals nothing but an empty hallway.

I crack the door open just enough to peek through. The hallway light flickers, casting trembling shadows along the baseboards.

Empty.

“Hello?” I call again, my voice bouncing off the walls.

No response.

I step out, scanning each direction. Nothing moves. No footsteps retreat down the stairwell. Just the hum of the building’s ancient heating system and Mrs. Patel’s muffled television through her door.

I retreat inside and double-check the deadbolt. My hands shake as I lean against the door.

“You’re losing it, Oakley.”

I stare at the tiny black device. Maybe Martin’s death has me jumping at shadows. But the camera is real, solid, its glass eye reflecting the overhead light.

I stagger backward until my legs hit the edge of my couch, and I collapse, still staring at the device.

Violation crashes over me, stealing my breath. Someone has been watching me. For how long? Days? Weeks? While I slept? While I changed clothes? While I talked to my parents’ photograph?

My gaze darts around the room, hunting for more unwelcome eyes. Are there more? How many? Who placed them?

I spring up and race to the kitchen, grab a ziplock bag and drop the camera inside. Evidence. Then I pull out my phone to document everything with shaking hands.

“Focus, Oakley,” I mutter, reaching into my jacket pocket for the emergency gummy bears I keep for crises. This definitely qualifies.

I pop three into my mouth, chewing as I force myself to think like a journalist instead of a victim. I’ve been investigating The Gallery Killer. I’ve been digging into Blackwell. Martin was just murdered. This isn’t random.

The realization hits me. Someone chose me. Specifically me. They broke in when I wasn’t home. They knew what I was working on. What I might know.

My apartment now feels like a cage rather than a home. I tiptoe through my space, eyes scanning every shelf, light fixture, vent, and outlet. I check behind picture frames, under furniture, inside lampshades.

The smoke detector in my bedroom comes apart in my hands, revealing the camera tucked inside like a tick burrowed under the skin. My second discovery in an hour. I step back, scanning my bedroom with fresh eyes.

The walls close in as I imagine every moment captured. Me changing clothes, sleeping, crying over Mom and Dad’s photo.

My chest tightens. Breaths come short and shallow.

“Stale crackers,” I mutter, pacing now. “Empty wrappers and stale crackers! ”

I glare at the camera in the ziplock bag. “Hey, asshole,” I say, leaning closer to it. “Tell me how many there are. Two? Five? A dozen? You wired my whole place like some kind of sick reality show?”

I sweep through my bathroom, checking behind the mirror, under the sink, around the shower stall. Nothing yet, but my skin crawls, imagining eyes watching me there.

“Did you watch me shower?” My voice rises, indignation burning my cheeks. “Jerk off to me changing clothes? Did you watch me having sex, you pervert?”

I pause, realizing what I’ve just said, and let out a harsh laugh.

“Ah, I’m not having sex. I knew there was an upside to my nonexistent love life.”

I catch my reflection in the hallway mirror—wild-eyed, hair disheveled from running my hands through it, talking to inanimate objects.

“And now I’m talking to myself. Journalism school didn’t prepare me for this.” I groan, pressing my palms against my eyes.

My heart continues to race, but not entirely from fear anymore. A strange, electric current runs through my veins.

Someone thinks I’m worth watching. Someone considers me a threat.

I’ve been hunting a story, and now someone’s hunting me back.

My lips curve into a smile that surprises even me. This isn’t just a violation—it’s validation. Confirmation I’m onto something big enough to warrant surveillance.

I take the camera from the ziplock bag, tiny and black with an almost imperceptible lens, and place it on my kitchen table, running my fingertip around its edge. The quality of the manufacturing—precise, expensive, professional.

“You’re not from Best Buy, are you?” I murmur, studying it from different angles. “Someone dropped serious cash to watch me eat ramen in my pajamas.”

I pull a chair out and sit, leaning forward on my elbows. The rage still simmers beneath my skin, but curiosity burns hotter.

“So,” I say to the camera, grabbing a packet of peanut butter cups from my sweatshirt pocket, “you picked me. Why?”

I unwrap the chocolate, the familiar smell grounding me as my mind races through possibilities.

I tally up my ongoing projects in my head, the type of stuff I chase for The Boston Beacon to pay the bills. The pieces that wake me in the middle of the night.

“Let’s see. I’m wrapping up the exposé on that city councilman skimming from the park restoration fund. Small potatoes, really. About fifteen thousand missing, and honestly, the story’s barely worth the digital ink.”

I take another bite of chocolate, talking through it.

“There’s the profile on the South End homeless shelter losing its funding. Important but not exactly breaking news.”

I lick my fingers.

“The three-part series on potholes and infrastructure neglect in lower-income neighborhoods. The detective retiring after forty years. Oh, and that fluff piece about the hundred-year-old factory that was robbed clean.”

I pop the last piece of chocolate into my mouth.

“Shit.” I drop the uneaten chocolate, my stomach clenching. Had someone overheard me talking to Martin? Is that how they found him? Because of me?

My hands shake again as I replay our last phone conversation. Had I mentioned meeting him? Where I’d be? Had someone followed me to the motel?

But then...if Blackwell’s people knew about my investigation, if they’d seen me watching him, I’d be lying next to Martin right now with bullet holes in my chest. They wouldn’t bother with cameras.

I take a deep breath. “Not Blackwell,” I whisper, picking up the chocolate again and taking a bite to steady myself. “If it were Blackwell, I’d be auditioning for a role as a corpse.”

So what else am I working on that would warrant this level of intrusion?

“The Gallery Killer.” I stand up so abruptly that my chair scrapes against the floor. “Is that it? Are you watching me because I’m getting close?”

I circle the table, blood racing through my veins. “Is this how you choose? Turn your victims into unwitting performers before they become your canvas?”

My mind snaps to the Beacon Hill Gentlemen’s Association. To that security guy who caught me sneaking in. Heat crawls up my neck, the dangerous kind that has nothing to do with fear.

A suspicion blooms, sudden and electric. I keep my expression neutral, aware of the camera’s unwavering eye. Better not to show my cards. Not yet.

I busy myself with the chocolate wrapper, keeping my face turned away as flashes of memory hit me.

His hands, long-fingered and precise as they guided me off the property.

How he’d leaned close, his breath warming my ear as he warned me not to come back.

The subtle scent of him, expensive and clean, with something darker underneath.

My cheeks flame. My pulse thunders. I press my thighs together, trying to silence the hum racing through my body.

What kind of journalist gets aroused by the idea she might be surveilled by the very man she’s investigating? The kind who needs serious therapy, that’s who.

And yet.

There was something in the way he looked at me. Not just suspicion or irritation at the trespasser. Something else. Curiosity, maybe.

I glance at my evidence board, careful not to stare at it too long. The blurry photos I’ve taken of various club members. None of him, though.

This danger should terrify me. Instead, it electrifies me, pumping dark adrenaline through my veins. The hunter and hunted, roles blurring with each heartbeat.

I exhale slowly. If my hunch is right, he can’t know I suspect him. That’s my edge.

I grab my phone, scrolling while my mind races. If it is him—that security guy with those penetrating eyes—I’m still breathing. Still here. That means something. Right?

I don’t think he wants to hurt me. I think he’s curious. Just like I am.

This dangerous game of cat and mouse, where I’m not sure which role I’m playing.

“Jesus Christ, Oakley!” I slam my palm against the table. “He could be watching you right now, deciding which Renaissance painting would frame your corpse!”

I shake my head, trying to clear it. This is insane. I am insane .

I place the camera back on the table.

“You know what’s weird?” I say, sitting again. “I should be terrified right now. But I’m not.” I lean in closer to the camera. “I’m kind of...flattered? Is that messed up? Probably ranks somewhere between ‘concerning’ and ‘needs therapy immediately.’”

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