Page 12 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

Xander

“ F ound you,” Oakley says to the camera, and something inside me shatters.

My body freezes into a perfect still-life titled “Surveillance Expert Having Existential Crisis.” She’s looking directly at me—not at the camera, but through it. Impossible. Yet here we are.

“Hi there.” She waves, a small, knowing gesture that sends my heart rate into territory usually reserved for cardiac stress tests. “I figured we should introduce ourselves, since you’ve been watching me shower for the past week.”

“That’s—that’s not true!” I blurt to my empty apartment like she might hear me through the video feed.

My face burns hot enough to qualify as a renewable energy source.

“I never put cameras in your bathroom. That would be— I’m not— I have an ethical framework for my unethical behavior, thank you very much! ”

The accusation stings more than it should, considering I literally monitor people for a living.

I have standards, damn it. I’m not some basement-dwelling creep with a collection of toenail clippings. I’m a sophisticated basement-dwelling creep with military-grade surveillance equipment.

“I even closed my eyes when you were changing earlier,” I mutter, then catch myself.

“Great job, Rhodes. Talking to yourself about how you sometimes don’t watch the woman you’re illegally surveilling while she changes clothes.

That’ll hold up beautifully in court. ‘Your Honor, I’d like to enter my basic human decency as Exhibit A. ’”

Did I say all that out loud? To no one? Not that closing my eyes negates the whole invasion thing. But still. Principles.

The justification sounds pathetic, even bouncing around my empty apartment.

What am I doing? Defending my surveillance ethics to someone who can’t hear me, while simultaneously violating her privacy in ways that would justify her calling the FBI, CIA, and whatever agency handles pathetic stalkers with advanced technical skills.

But I can’t bear her thinking I’m that kind of creep. I’m a professional. A gentleman stalker, if such a thing exists.

She’s still staring into the camera.

“I’m not even mad,” she continues, circling her living room like a prosecutor who already has DNA evidence, seventeen witnesses, and a signed confession. “I mean, I should be. Privacy invasion, stalking, general creepiness—the whole psycho stalker gift basket. But here’s the thing...”

She leans in close, her breath fogging the lens. “I’m actually flattered. ”

My temperature spikes so high that I consider the possibility that Lazlo has infected me with one of his imaginary tropical diseases.

Note to self: create a chart later to analyze emotional responses to being caught. Column A: Professional Mortification. Column B: Inappropriate Arousal. Column C: Why These Should Never Intersect. Column D: Therapy Options.

“The question isn’t who you are,” she continues. “I mean, that’s a question. But the more interesting one is, why me? What did I do to earn this level of attention?”

She’s turned my own game against me, and God help me, I’m intellectually aroused in ways that would make Freud throw his hands up and say, “Even I can’t help this guy.”

“Usually I’m watching people who have no idea they’re being observed,” I whisper to my dust particles. “Like studying specimens under glass.”

On screen, Oakley paces, her movements precise. “I’ve been investigating a few cases. Is it the Gallery Killer case? The Beacon Hill stakeouts, the member files I’ve collected—is that what caught your attention?”

Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper that sends a shiver down my spine. “For what it’s worth, I think you might be him. The Gallery Killer. These cameras fit his style. Meticulous, expensive.”

“She’s profiling me.” My fingers tap the desk in a nervous rhythm. I force myself to stop. “The subject is profiling the observer. That’s...statistically unprecedented.”

Oakley removes the camera from the smoke detector, holding it up to her face. The angle disorients me, too intimate .

“Here’s my theory,” she says. “You’re not working for Blackwell. His guys would have just killed me. You’re not police—they lack both the budget and imagination for this setup. So you’re something else entirely. The Gallery Killer.”

I should activate the kill switch. Tell Thorne. This is precisely the scenario the protocols were designed for.

Instead, I lean closer to the monitor, nearly pressing my nose against her pixelated face.

“Fine, don’t answer,” she says with a half-smile. “I’ll figure it out on my own. I always do.”

She returns the camera to its housing, but not before whispering, “Until then, I hope you’re enjoying the show.”

I realize I’ve been holding my breath.

I stare at the screen, frozen. This defies every behavioral algorithm I’ve ever compiled. No one—not a single subject in my extensive surveillance career—has ever discovered a camera and simply...put it back.

“What are you doing, Oakley?” I breathe, aware I’ve been clutching my desk so tightly my knuckles have turned white.

This isn’t just unprecedented. It’s impossible. It’s the statistical equivalent of every molecule in my coffee cup spontaneously rearranging into a rare orchid.

On screen, Oakley returns to her murder board, but her body language has changed—more theatrical, more aware. She’s performing now, for me.

I press my fingers to the screen, tracing the outline of her silhouette. “I am so remarkably, spectacularly fucked. And not in the fun way that normal humans with functional social skills occasionally experience.”

She glances back at the camera and winks .

Correction. I am absolutely fucked in every way, including several that haven’t been invented yet.

I snap my laptop shut, breathing like I’ve just outrun a pack of wolves.

“Unprofessional,” I mutter, pacing my apartment. “Unprofessional, inappropriate, and frankly concerning from a psychological perspective.”

My body betrays me with an unmistakable hardening that makes my jeans uncomfortable. Blood rushes south with such intensity I feel lightheaded. I grab a bottle of water from the fridge, press it against my forehead, and consider dunking my entire head in ice.

“Down, boy,” I mutter to my rebellious anatomy. “This is neither the time nor the appropriate surveillance protocol.”

Focus, Rhodes. You have an actual target. A legitimate operation. A purpose that doesn’t involve becoming obsessed with a woman who just caught you spying on her and, instead of calling the police like a normal person, has turned it into some sort of deranged courtship ritual.

God help me, I think I’m in love.

I shake my head and unlock my secondary workstation—the one not connected to the internet—and pull up the Wendell file. The background check I ran on Dr. Malcolm Wendell fills my screen.

Chief of Neurosurgery at Boston Memorial. Harvard Medical School. Pioneer in experimental treatments for degenerative brain disorders.

Monster hiding behind credentials.

My fingers click across the keyboard, displaying the brain scans I’d hacked from hospital records. Patient #1: homeless veteran with early-onset dementia. Patient #4: undocumented immigrant with traumatic brain injury. Patient #9: elderly woman with no family, early Alzheimer’s.

All show identical surgical modifications, never documented in official records. All dead within six months, their bodies cremated at hospital expense.

I arrange the surveillance photos I’ve taken over the past week in chronological order.

Wendell in the hospital parking garage, studying patient charts.

Wendell at the free clinic in Dorchester, observing patients in the waiting room.

Wendell making notes as he watches a homeless encampment from his BMW.

Shopping for subjects.

I label each photo, creating a perfect timeline of his movements. This is what I excel at. This is what makes sense.

“The key is establishing pattern recognition. Wendell visits the clinic every Tuesday, identifying potential subjects who match his experimental criteria.”

I stop, realizing I’m talking to myself again.

“And now I’m explaining surveillance methods to an imaginary version of the woman I’m surveilling,” I tell my reflection in the computer screen. “Definitive proof of mental stability right there.”

I push back from the desk, rubbing my eyes. What would she make of this case?

Would she understand why Wendell needs to die, or would she want him exposed, imprisoned? Would she see the efficiency in eliminating him or argue for systemic change?

“Focus on the actual operation,” I tell myself.

I return to the surveillance photos. In one, Wendell stands at a nursing station, charm personified as he laughs with the staff. In the next, taken seconds later as he turns away, his expression transforms to cold calculation. The mask slipping.

I note the tail placements for tomorrow, the optimal positions to monitor Wendell’s movements without detection. I’ll need to log his entire routine for at least another week before determining the best intervention point.

I type the simulation parameters into the predictive algorithm I’ve designed for this operation. The interface hums as it renders Wendell’s lab in perfect 3D detail, based on architectural plans I’ve obtained through questionably legal channels.

“Test scenario alpha,” I murmur, watching the simulation run. “Subject approaches from the southwest entry. Disables security cameras at junction points here and here.”

The avatar representing me moves through the space.

“Time to complete: four minutes, seventeen seconds. Acceptable margin.”

I adjust the parameters, accounting for human error and unexpected variables. The simulation runs again. Five minutes, thirty-two seconds. Still within operational parameters.