Page 13 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

My gaze shifts to the modified surgical equipment diagrams spread across my second monitor. Wendell’s own design, ironically elegant in its simplicity. A neurosurgical probe designed to target specific areas of the brain while the patient remains conscious.

“Perfect poetry,” I whisper, fingertips tracing the schematic. “The instruments of your atrocities becoming the mechanisms of your judgment. ”

I’ve modified the design, of course. Wendell’s version allowed for precise, minimal damage, extending the suffering of his subjects across months while he collected data. My version will be more concentrated.

“Subject remains conscious throughout procedure,” I note, entering parameters into my planning document. “Full cognitive awareness maintained. Subject comprehends what is happening but loses the ability to contextualize experience.”

Wendell will understand he’s being punished, even as his brain functions fade one by one.

I create a detailed timeline, working backward from the final moment. The simulation runs again. I’ve accounted for every variable, every point of failure. The plan is sound, fitting, and adheres to all club protocols.

I close my eyes, remembering the expression on Oakley’s face at Calloway’s crime scene. Not horror or disgust, but fascination. Appreciation. She’d studied the blood patterns like they were brushstrokes, the body position like sculpture.

“She called it ‘artistic’,” I murmur, reopening the Wendell simulation.

The words echo in my head as I stare at my precise, clinical kill plan. Methodologically sound. Operationally secure.

But utterly forgettable.

“What would make her notice this one?”

I shake my head, trying to dislodge the thought. “That’s not the point. The point is elimination of the target. Sanitation of the system.”

But my fingers already dance across the keyboard, pulling up Wendell’s patient files again. My eyes fixate on the brain scans—those beautiful, complex patterns of neural activity destroyed by Wendell’s experiments.

“The brain,” I whisper. “The canvas he used.”

I minimize the simulation and open a new file. What if, instead of a simple elimination, I created something more noteworthy?

I’m not Calloway, staging elaborate artistic tableaus. I’m not Lazlo, seeking adrenaline and danger. My strength has always been my methodical preparation, my invisibility.

But what if, just once, I created something visible? Something that made a statement even after I’ve disappeared?

“Stop it,” I tell myself. “This isn’t about her.”

I try to focus on the operational details, but my mind keeps circling back to the image of Oakley analyzing the scene. What would she see? What would she understand?

And why do I care so desperately what she thinks?

My phone buzzes with an alert from Oakley’s apartment.

Don’t look. Don’t check. Focus on Wendell.

I last exactly forty-seven seconds before reaching for my primary laptop.

Oakley left her apartment, messenger bag stuffed with notepads and what appears to be at least four different types of candy. I replay the footage, noting how she hesitated at the door, glanced at the camera, and smiled before leaving.

That smile replays in my brain for the next twenty minutes. She’ll be gone for at least five hours if her pattern holds. That gives me just enough time to?—

Before I can rationalize myself out of it, I’m already in my kitchen, pulling ingredients from the refrigerator. The insane idea that formed when I saw her leave now feels like the most logical course of action in the world.

“So this is what a psychotic break feels like,” I mutter to my laptop. “Fascinating.”

The chicken breasts sizzle in the pan, filling my apartment with garlic and herb scents. I adjust the heat, consulting the recipe on my tablet. I’ve timed this meal preparation with scientific accuracy.

The pasta will finish cooking exactly when the sauce reaches optimal consistency, and the chicken will rest for seven minutes before I slice it.

“This is insane,” I tell the chicken as I flip it. “I’m cooking for a woman who should be nothing more than a surveillance subject.”

The chicken doesn’t respond, but it releases a satisfying hiss as it browns on the second side.

I’ve never cooked for a surveillance subject before. I’ve never cooked for anyone, actually. My own meals are functional at best—protein, vegetables, carbohydrates combined for maximum nutritional efficiency with minimal preparation time. The culinary equivalent of a beige wall.

This is different, though. I’ve researched recipes, selected ingredients based on her preferences in takeout, and calculated the precise reheat time needed to maintain optimal texture.

“This is a strategic decision,” I explain to the pasta as I drain it. It’s definitely not because I lay awake last night wondering what she likes to eat for lunch. That would be pathological.

I arrange the meal in the glass containers I purchased for this purpose. Microwave-safe. Dishwasher-safe. Leak-proof. The online reviews were extremely thorough.

The food looks good. Not just functional. I take a photo with my phone, stare at it, then delete it.

“This is crazy.”

I turn to the stack of folders on my counter.

My curated selection of Blackwell information.

I’ve spent hours determining which documents to share.

Enough to help her investigation, but not enough to make my next contribution unnecessary.

Enough to make her need me again. Because apparently, I’ve developed the emotional sophistication of an attention-starved golden retriever.

“Tactical information dissemination,” I murmur, sliding the documents into a manila folder.

I move to my desk and pull out a notepad. The previous six pages lie crumpled nearby, a graveyard of rejected notes to Oakley. I’ve analyzed each version with the same attention to detail I use for surveillance operations.

Version one read like a medical examiner’s report.

Version two sounded like we’d known each other for a while (we have, technically, but the relationship has been rather one-sided until now).

Version three accidentally implied bodily harm.

Version four reeked of desperation.

Version five contained so many cryptic references she’d need a decoder ring.

Version six... Well, even I don’t know what I was thinking with version six.

I tear out a fresh page and write.

Oakley—

Found something you might find interesting. More where this came from if you’re willing to talk.

Food is homemade. No poison, I promise. That would be counterproductive at this juncture.

—Your Stalker.

P.S. I always looked away during wardrobe changes. Mostly. Sometimes. Okay, rarely, but I felt bad about it!

I stare at the note. Strike “ at this juncture.” Too formal.

Rewrite. Stare again.

“This is pathetic. You’re leaving a note for a journalist whose apartment you bugged. Not writing a sonnet.”

I fold the note and slip it into the folder. Pack everything into a nondescript messenger bag.

I head to the bathroom, catching my reflection as I wash my hands. I look normal. Functional.

But something feels wrong.

I open my medicine cabinet and find the comb, run it through my hair, which reverts to its usual disheveled state. Splash water on my face. Consider, for one insane moment, the cologne I received as a gift three years ago and never opened.

“What are you doing?” I ask my reflection. “She won’t even see you.”

But I still straighten my shirt. Check my teeth for food particles. Adjust the collar of my jacket.

“This is how serial killers get caught,” I inform my reflection. “ They deviate from established protocols because of... things .”

I say the last word like it’s contaminated.

I grab the messenger bag and head for the door, then stop. Return to the kitchen. Pull out a container of cookies I stress-baked at 3 AM while overthinking the font choice for my note.

Add them to the bag.

“Tactical dessert deployment,” I mutter. “Completely logical.”

I ease the lock pick out of Oakley’s apartment door, listening for the satisfying click that signals success. My heart rate remains steady. Breaking and entering hardly registers as stressful after you’ve done it a few hundred times.

“Honey, I’m home,” I whisper.

The apartment welcomes me with her scent. Coffee, something sweet and flowery that I can’t identify but recognize. The morning light filters through half-drawn blinds, casting long shadows across her living space.

I can almost picture her here, blue eyes narrowed in focus as she pores over her notes, oblivious to the chaos around her.

I move through her apartment with the confidence of someone who’s studied the layout for weeks. Three steps to avoid the creaky floorboard, a slight turn to dodge the edge of her coffee table.

Her leather jacket hangs on a hook by the door. I can’t resist running my fingers along the worn collar, imagining it against her skin. The leather is butter-soft, shaped to her shoulders from years of wear.

“This is weird,” I tell myself, but I don’t stop touching it.

I set down the first of several bags on her kitchen counter, then return to retrieve the rest from the hallway. Eight trips total.

I start with the food, arranging the containers of homemade pasta and chicken in her refrigerator. Garlic bread wrapped in foil. A small container of tiramisu that I may have spent three hours perfecting. But that’s just the beginning.

The second bag contains what might be my most presumptuous purchase. Clothes. Not just any clothes—I’d hacked her laptop to check her browsing history, noting the items she’d bookmarked but never bought.

The silk blouse in emerald green that she’d stared at for twenty minutes last Tuesday. The cashmere sweater in cream that she’d added to her cart three times before deleting it. The dress—God, the dress—in midnight black that would hug every curve I’ve memorized through weeks of observation.

I hang them in her closet, smoothing imaginary wrinkles. Fuck, I want her to wear this while I watch.

There were other things I wanted to buy. Lacy things. But apparently, I still have one functioning boundary left. Who knew?

The third bag holds security upgrades because old habits die hard. A proper deadbolt. Window locks. Motion sensors. Basic survival necessities disguised as home improvement.

The fourth bag is kitchen essentials. Real knives, decent pans, spices that aren’t older than my surveillance equipment. A coffee maker that won’t sound like it’s summoning demons every morning.

The fifth bag contains upgraded emergency snacks. Organic gummy bears. Dark chocolate that doesn’t taste like sadness. Protein bars that might actually contain protein.

“You’re welcome,” I murmur.

I close the refrigerator and turn back to her living room, eyeing the mess of papers on her desk. The disorder physically pains me. Research notes stacked haphazardly. Pens scattered without organizational principle. Post-its applied with no discernible system.

“How do you find anything?” I ask her ghost, moving toward the desk.

I place the folder on Blackwell in the center of her desk.

“One stalker, making a social call,” I say as I arrange the folder at a perfect ninety-degree angle to her keyboard.

A corner of fancy paper peeks out from beneath a stack of newspaper clippings. My fingers tug it free, revealing an embossed invitation.

The Livingston Gallery invites you to our annual Masquerade & Art Auction

Benefiting Children’s Hospital of Boston

Saturday, February 17th, 8:00 PM

Black Tie & Mask Required

Beneath the printed text, a handwritten note: “Oakley – I need your eyes on this crowd. – Morgan”

A masquerade. Where everyone hides in plain sight. Where watching is expected. Where I could see her, not through a lens or screen, but with my own eyes .

“This is perfect,” I whisper, returning the invitation as I found it. “See you there, Oakley Novak.”