Page 14 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

Oakley

I scan the Livingston Gallery through the eyeholes of my silver mask, hunting for a killer among Boston’s elite. He’s here—I’m certain.

The Gallery Killer wouldn’t miss the Frost exhibition. Not when these paintings mirror his own macabre aesthetic. A man who poses victims like art masterpieces craves this kind of validation.

My pulse races, fingers tingling with anticipation. The thought of cornering him, of demanding answers face to face, sends electricity through my body that settles low in my belly.

Every tuxedoed gentleman becomes a suspect. Could it be the silver-haired man appraising the abstract near the entrance? The bearded professor typing notes in a leather journal? The tall figure whose gaze lingers too long on the security exits?

My stomach flips. The man who broke into my home. Who installed the cameras. Who left me a cooked dinner and a folder of damning evidence. He terrifies me, but there’s a pull I can’t deny. A part of me wants to find him, to corner him in this gilded cage and demand answers.

Or let him corner me.

My black dress—a thrift store find I altered with passable stitching—serves its dual purpose. Elegant enough to blend with wealth, practical enough for what I’m really doing. Stalking a stalker.

“Extraordinary brushwork, don’t you think?” A woman in a peacock mask gestures at a painting beside me.

I nod, mumble agreement, and scan the room over her shoulder.

The guest list I’d bribed from a caterer’s assistant confirmed several Beacon Hill Gentlemen’s Association members would attend tonight. Through my mask’s eyeholes, I catalog faces against my mental gallery of surveillance photos.

Thorne Ravencroft stands by the bar—unmistakable even behind his gold-leafed mask. Navy Tom Ford tuxedo. Three fingers of scotch. The scar curling across the back of his right hand. I check his name on my mental list. Potential Gallery Killer? Perhaps. Shady? Without question.

But another figure draws my focus across the room.

A blond man studying a painting with the intensity of a predator tracking prey.

His posture radiates power, his tuxedo fitting him like a second skin.

His black mask obscures most of his face, but it’s the way he moves that captivates me—controlled, deliberate, like a dancer who knows where each muscle should be .

I drift closer, feigning interest in a nearby sculpture while eavesdropping.

“The brushwork suggests trauma translated through controlled violence,” he tells another patron, his voice flowing like expensive whiskey. “Note how it channels aggression into precision. A fascinating dichotomy.”

My breath catches. His analysis of violence speaks of intimate knowledge. Of someone who understands the transformation of brutality into beauty.

When I glance back, he’s vanished into the crowd.

I circle through the gallery’s main room, tracking faces, conversations, connections. The blond man reappears across the room, examining another painting with the same unnerving focus. I navigate toward him, brushing past a server.

By the time I reach his position, he’s disappeared again.

For thirty minutes, I play this strange game of cat and mouse. Each time I spot him and approach, he melts away before I get close enough for conversation.

Did he recognize me despite my mask? Or am I being paranoid?

The question sends electricity down my spine. Perhaps this is all part of his game.

I find a small cocktail table nestled between a ficus and an abstract sculpture—a perfect vantage point for surveilling the entire main gallery while remaining partially concealed.

The lights dim, sending a ripple of anticipation through the crowd. Conversations halt mid-sentence. My skin prickles with awareness as crystal glasses clink together in the new silence .

A spotlight illuminates the stage, and there he is. Blond hair. Black mask. My mystery man.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” announces a voice from hidden speakers. “Please welcome the visionary artist Calloway Frost.”

The blond man is Calloway Frost himself. I cross-reference his height, build, and mannerisms against my mental catalog. Art world darling. Beacon Hill member.

Gallery Killer suspect number one.

I dig through my purse for the tiny notebook where I’d scribbled observations about the club members. Could Frost be both a killer and a celebrated artist? The perfect cover—creating art inspired by his own murders.

A shadow falls across my notes. I glance up, startled.

A tall figure in a black mask materializes at my table, moving with such deliberate quietness that I never saw him approaching. Without asking permission, he pulls out the chair across from me and sits, as if we’d planned this meeting all along.

“Looking for someone specific?” His voice is a controlled baritone, deep and measured.

Something about that voice sends a jolt of recognition through me, though I can’t place why it sounds familiar.

I freeze for half a second before forcing myself to look unimpressed. “Who wants to know?”

He wears an expensive black suit that fits him perfectly. Dark hair, neatly styled. His mask covers most of his face, but I catch glimpses of his sharp jawline. In the dim lighting of the auction house, his eyes are lost in shadow behind the mask—dark hollows that make it impossible to read.

“Did you enjoy the food I left for you?” he asks .

What the fuck? I almost scream.

The arranged meal in my refrigerator. The folder with Blackwell information. This is him. This is my stalker.

I force my breathing to remain even.

The tight cut of his suit can’t conceal the muscular frame beneath. His shoulders stretch the fabric of his jacket—broad and powerful—tapering down to a trim waist. My mouth goes dry. I imagine those hands pinning me down, and a rush of shame flows at the thought.

My heart pounds against my ribs, blood rushing in my ears, pooling low in my belly. I’ve lost my mind. This man could be a killer, and my body is responding like he’s a Tinder date.

I glance back toward the stage. Calloway Frost still stands in the spotlight, gesturing toward his artwork. Not him, then. My secret observer is someone else.

“You broke into my apartment to...cook for me?” I keep my voice low, controlled.

He shifts in his seat, a subtle movement that betrays discomfort despite his composed exterior. “I, uh?—”

For a moment, his voice cracks, revealing something more authentic underneath.

“The takeout containers in your trash suggested a concerning lack of nutritional variety. Not that I was analyzing your garbage. That would be—” He stops himself, clears his throat. “I mean, surveillance is a lengthy process. Proper nutrition is important.”

The contrast between his imposing presence and this awkward explanation catches me off guard. There’s something almost endearing about it .

I’m losing my grip on reality if I find a stalker “endearing.”

“So you’re stalking me for my own good?” I arch an eyebrow.

“Stalking is such an unpleasant term. I prefer targeted observation with occasional nutritional intervention.” His mouth quirks up at one corner. “Though I admit the line between thorough research and restraining order territory gets blurry around the three-week mark.”

Maintaining professional composure takes effort, especially when an unexpected pulse throbs between my thighs. This man broke into my home, invaded my privacy, watched me through cameras—and yet, instead of fear, my body hums with anticipation, a traitor to all common sense.

I decide on a direct approach, leaning forward.

“Are you The Gallery Killer?” I ask, my voice low but steady. “Are you planning to kill me?”

A soft laugh escapes from behind his mask—not mocking, but genuinely amused.

“If I were, would announcing it at a crowded art gala be the smartest move? Though I suppose it would make for a dramatic reveal. Very cinematic.” He tilts his head.

“But no. I’m not The Gallery Killer. I have other talents. ”

“Such as breaking and entering? Camera installation? Gourmet cooking?”

“I’m a man of diverse interests.” He adjusts his cufflinks—a nervous gesture that contradicts his confident words. “Though if we’re listing my skills, I should mention I make an exceptional soufflé. Very difficult to time properly.”

Despite myself, my lips twitch toward a smile .

He groans. “That came out wrong. I’m not winning points for non-creepiness here, am I?”

The candid admission surprises a laugh out of me. “Not really, no. Are you trying for points?”

“I would say this isn’t normally how I introduce myself to women, but that would imply I regularly introduce myself to women, which—” He stops, shakes his head. “I should stop talking now.”

I lean forward. “Your cameras, behind the true crime books? Not exactly subtle.”

“In my defense, I thought it was thematically appropriate.” His fingers tap against his glass—another tell. “Though I suppose hiding surveillance equipment among books about catching killers does border on meta-commentary.”

“Why are you watching me?” I ask.

“I had an interest in your investigation.” He pauses, then adds, “Your color-coding could use some work.”

I blink. “My what?”

“Your investigation board. Red for suspects, blue for victims. But yellow for...locations? Green for timelines? It lacks internal consistency.”

I stare at him, speechless. Of all the ways to critique someone’s investigative skills...

“You broke into my apartment, installed cameras, and your takeaway is that my color-coding sucks?”

“I’m detail-oriented.” He shrugs, then winces. “That’s not helping my case, is it?”

His hands adjust his cufflinks again—long fingers moving with deliberate precision. No paint under his nails, no calluses from holding brushes, no staining along the edges of his fingers. His movements speak of calculation, not artistic flourish.

I imagine those fingers sliding across my skin and swallow hard. I’ve lost my mind. My libido and self-preservation instinct are clearly no longer on speaking terms.