Page 11 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)
A strange sense of power flows through me. Someone is watching me because they think I matter. Because my investigation matters.
“You must think I’m good at what I do,” I continue, warming to this bizarre one-sided conversation. “You must be worried about what I might find. Or impressed. Maybe both?”
I unwrap another piece of chocolate, this time savoring it as I stare down the camera lens.
“Well, I hope you’re enjoying the show,” I say, a smile playing at the corners of my mouth. “Because I’m just getting started.”
My phone buzzes on the table, vibrating next to the camera. I pick it up, Zara’s grinning face lighting up my screen alongside her name in bold letters. I inhale deeply before swiping to answer.
“Hey, you,” I say, injecting cheer into my voice while my eyes never leave the camera lens as I speak.
“Oakley! Please tell me you’re not hunched over your laptop right now.” Zara’s voice fills my ear, warm and familiar.
“Me? Never.” I force a laugh, wondering if the camera picks up audio too. Probably does. “Just...taking a break.”
“A break? You? Did aliens replace you with a pod person?” She laughs. “I’m calling because Marco and I are grabbing dinner at that new Thai place on Boylston. The one with those mango sticky rice donuts you won’t shut up about.”
My stomach growls at the mention of food.
“And,” Zara continues, her voice taking on that tone that means trouble, “Marco’s bringing his friend. The architect I told you about? The one who just moved here from Chicago?”
I move away from the camera. “Let me guess. Tall, handsome, and single?”
“Six-foot-two, dimples, and yes, gloriously unattached. His cologne smells like mortgage approval and emotional stability.”
I wonder what my mysterious watcher thinks of this conversation. Are they amused by my friend’s matchmaking attempts? Are they taking notes on my friends? Is Zara at risk?
“I can’t tonight, Z.” I sigh, making it sound regretful rather than afraid. “I’ve got this deadline for the council piece, and I’m still working sources on the Gallery Killer story.”
I add an extra emphasis on “Gallery Killer,” watching the camera lens closely for any reaction. Of course, there isn’t one. It’s a camera, you idiot.
“Seriously? You’re passing up mango sticky rice donuts and a hot architect for work? Again?” Zara’s disappointment travels through the phone.
“I know, I know. I’m the worst. Satan’s calling to take notes on my friendship skills.” I twist a strand of hair around my finger, putting on a show of casual regret. “Rain check? ”
“Fine, but you need a life outside of murder and corruption, Oakley. I’m worried about you.”
If only she knew about the cameras. About Martin. About the fact that I’m putting on a performance for someone who broke into my apartment.
“I’m fine, really. Just busy,” I say. “Tell Marco I said hi, okay? And have a sticky rice donut for me.”
“Will do. But next time, you’re coming out if I have to drag you.”
“Deal,” I say, knowing I’m lying. Knowing I can’t drag Zara into this. She needs to stay away from my world. “Enough about me. What’s up with you?”
“Actually...” Zara’s voice shifts, losing its teasing edge.
The sudden seriousness in her tone makes me stand straighter. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s my parents.” She sighs, the sound heavy with concern. “The restaurant’s not doing well.”
I glance at the camera, uncomfortable having this conversation while being viewed. I lower my voice.
“What do you mean? That place is always packed when I come by.”
“Yeah, on weekends maybe. But weekday business has dropped by almost forty percent in the last two months.” The strain in her voice makes my chest tighten. “They won’t admit there’s a problem, but I see the books when Mom thinks I’m not looking.”
“Is it seasonal? Winter’s always slower for?—”
“It’s not seasonal,” Zara cuts me off. “It’s that new spot across the street.
‘Island Fusion’ or whatever they’re calling themselves.
” The bitterness in her voice is something I rarely hear from perpetually sunny Zara.
“They’ve got fancy cocktails with dry ice smoke effects and DJ nights on Thursdays. They’re trendy.”
I sink onto my bed. “Your parents make the best Jamaican food in the city. People know that.”
“Tell that to the line of influencers taking selfies across the street.” She makes a disgusted sound.
“You know what the worst part is? My parents won’t even acknowledge there’s an issue.
Dad keeps saying ‘We’ve weathered worse’ while Mom pretends everything’s fine as she stares at spreadsheets at three in the morning. ”
“How bad is it?”
“Bad enough that they laid off Miss Claudia last week. She’s been with them since before I was born, Oakley.” Her voice cracks. “And the equipment is falling apart. The big mixer broke yesterday, and Dad’s using duct tape to hold it together because they can’t afford the repairs right now.”
“Shit, Z.” I break off a piece of chocolate but don’t eat it. “What can I do?”
“Nothing. I just needed to tell someone who wouldn’t give me the ‘Phillips family optimism’ speech.” She tries to laugh, but it comes out strained. “I’m using all my dog grooming profits to help cover their rent increase, but it’s not enough.”
I sit up straighter. “Rent increase? In this economy? That’s predatory.”
“Tell me about it. Twenty percent jump with barely a month’s notice.”
My journalist brain kicks in. “Who owns the building?”
“Some property management company. Wellness something. ”
An icy feeling spreads through my chest. “Wellness Metro Holdings?”
“Yeah, that sounds right. Why?”
I close my eyes, the pieces clicking together. “Just curious.”
Wellness Metro Holdings. One of Blackwell’s companies. Fits.
She laughs, but it’s weak. “I’m scared for them, Oakley. They’ve put everything into that restaurant. It’s their whole life.”
The vulnerability in her voice makes my throat tight. Zara’s always the strong one, the one who takes care of everyone else.
“They’re going to be okay,” I promise, even though I know better than to make promises I can’t keep. “We’ll figure something out.”
“Yeah,” she says, not sounding convinced. “Anyway, I should go. Marco’s waiting.”
“Go enjoy your date. And your architect friend.” I pause. “Hey, Z? Thanks for telling me.”
“Thanks for listening. Love you, Acorn.”
“Love you too,” I say, ending the call.
I sit on my bed, staring at the wall. Blackwell. Again. His reach extends everywhere, touching even the people I care about most. First, my parents, now Zara’s family.
“That was my friend,” I say to the camera. “We met in college. She has nothing to do with my cases. I could have told her about you.” I gesture at the camera. “About Martin. About all of it. She’d drop everything and come over with pepper spray and her boyfriend’s baseball bat.”
I lean closer to the lens .
“But I didn’t tell her,” I continue, staring into the camera. “Because I protect the people I care about.”
I stand up, attempting to look intimidating despite the absurdity of threatening an electronic device. My voice drops lower.
“So let me make this crystal clear to whoever’s watching. Zara stays out of this. My friends, my contacts—they’re off-limits.”
I pace around the table, feeling ridiculous yet determined.
“You want to scare me? You want to watch me? Fine. But if anything happens to Zara or anyone else I care about, I’ll burn everything down looking for you.”
My laugh comes out harsher than intended.
“Who am I kidding? You probably already have a complete file on me. You’ve heard every conversation I’ve had in here for...however long these have been planted.”
I pick up the camera, inspecting it.
“You know about my candy stash. My obsession with this case. My parents.” My voice catches. “You probably know what kind of toothpaste I use and how I take my coffee.”
I set the camera back down, running my hand through my hair.
“So here’s the deal. This is between you and me.
Whatever you want, whatever game you’re playing—keep it focused on me.
Because if you go after Zara or anyone else in my life, you’ll discover I’m not just some nosy journalist. I’m the daughter of a detective and a forensic psychologist, and I inherited all their best qualities. ”
I lean in closer to the lens, my voice barely above a whisper.
“And their worst ones, too.”