Page 15 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)
“Those aren’t the hands of an artist,” I say. “You know surveillance, not canvas.”
“Perhaps I appreciate art without creating it.”
I look into his eyes. “No,” I say. “You’re not him. You’re not The Gallery Killer. You know nothing about art.”
The corner of his mouth lifts in what might be appreciation. “Quite observant. Though I’m familiar with other forms of composition.” He gestures at the placement of security cameras around the room. “There’s an art to seeing without being seen.”
He adjusts his position, causing his sleeve to ride up just enough. Black ink peeks out from beneath expensive fabric—the edge of what appears to be a geometric tattoo. Something about the pattern tickles my memory.
That tattoo. I’ve seen it before.
But where?
I need to see more of that tattoo to confirm my suspicions.
I shift in my seat, extending my leg until it presses against his. The contact is unmistakably intentional. My eyes never leave his as I maintain the pressure, crossing professional boundaries without a word.
His pupils dilate behind his mask. He doesn’t pull away from the contact.
He leans toward me, the air between us heavy with unspoken tension. His mask shifts slightly with the movement, revealing a fraction more of his jawline.
“Did you enjoy my gift? The folder, not the chicken—though I put effort into both.”
“The Blackwell financial records were illuminating,” I reply, keeping my voice steady. “Though I have questions about how you accessed offshore accounts, even my best sources couldn’t crack.”
His hand disappears beneath the tablecloth. The whisper of his fingers brushes my knee, just below the hem of my dress. Electricity crackles up my thigh. Something small and metallic in his palm presses against my skin.
“I know what Richard Blackwell did to your parents,” he says, his voice dropping lower. “Sean Novak wasn’t dirty. Katherine wasn’t having an affair. The evidence was planted after Blackwell’s men staged the scene.”
The air rushes from my lungs. These details—these exact details—match the theories I’ve constructed over years of investigation. Theories I’ve never shared with anyone.
“How could you possibly?—”
“The same way I know Martin Reeves was shot three times. The same way I know the men who killed him removed a flash drive from his left sock. The same way I know they used a .22 caliber with a homemade suppressor.”
My mind races. These details weren’t released to the press. Weren’t in any report I could access. I’m moving into dangerous territory, yet I lean closer rather than pulling away.
His fingers slide higher, skimming along my thigh.
My skin burns under his touch. A sensible part of my brain screams, “This is insane.” I’m letting a stranger who broke into my apartment touch me in the middle of a crowded art gallery.
But the heat of his fingers against my bare skin silences that voice.
Fear and arousal twist together until I can’t separate them.
I shift in my seat, widening the space between my thighs beneath the tablecloth. An invitation he immediately accepts. I’ve lost control.
“What else do you know?” I ask, my voice barely audible over the ambient gallery noise. I keep my expression neutral, as if we’re discussing nothing more provocative than auction prices.
“Everything,” he whispers, his fingers grazing the edge of my underwear, then sliding over the thin fabric, finding my clit with unerring accuracy. “Though I should confess I’m more of a ‘dinner first, then private location’ kind of guy. This is kinky, even for me.”
The juxtaposition of his skilled touch and his slightly flustered commentary creates a tension that heightens every sensation.
I bite my lip, suppressing a moan. My breathing becomes shallow, uneven.
The exhibitionism of it—being touched like this with Boston’s elite mingling just feet away—makes me wetter than I want to admit.
I should stop him. I should be disgusted with myself.
Instead, I press against his hand.
I don’t even know why I’m letting him do this. He’s a stalker. Possibly a murderer. Yet I’m so aroused I can barely think straight. Don’t want him to stop. The danger, the intimacy, the feeling of being seen... I’ve completely lost my mind .
His fingers move with devastating precision, as if he’s been studying exactly how to touch me. And maybe he has.
Through the haze of my arousal, his fingers slip beneath the fabric, and reality crashes back. We’re in public. I don’t know who this man is. The journalist part of my brain finally overrides whatever madness has possessed me.
I grasp his wrist, stilling his movement.
“Stop.” The word comes out breathier than I intend.
He pauses. No resistance, no pushing. Just immediate compliance that somehow makes this whole situation even more confusing.
“Too much?” he asks, voice calm despite the electricity still crackling between us.
Not enough, I want to scream. My body aches for him to continue. What kind of person am I becoming?
Despite everything—the surveillance, the breaking and entering, the audacity of approaching me here—there’s something in his immediate response that disarms me completely. He stopped the instant I asked. No argument. No persuasion. Just respect for my boundary, offered without hesitation.
I should be terrified of this man. He’s invaded my privacy in ways that should make my skin crawl. Yet somehow, in this moment, I feel...protected. As if the same intensity he brings to watching me has transformed into guarding me.
It makes no logical sense, but my instincts—the same ones that have kept me alive through dangerous investigations—aren’t signaling a threat. They’re signaling something far more complicated.
He withdraws his hand, the friction sending one last shiver through me. As he pulls away, something small and hard presses into my palm—metallic and familiar.
A flash drive.
My fingers close around it. Our eyes lock as I slip it into my purse.
“What’s on this?” I ask, struggling to regain my professional composure.
“Everything Martin was killed for,” he says. “The complete financial trail connecting Blackwell to shell corporations that purchased properties where three women were found dead. The same pattern that led your father to investigate Blackwell before he was framed.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. The flash drive burns a hole in my purse.
“Why give this to me?”
“Because you’re the right person to use it.”
His thumb brushes over my knuckles, a touch so light it might be accidental if not for the deliberate way his eyes hold mine.
“There’s more where that came from,” he says. “If you’re interested.”
“More information about Blackwell?” I ask, though I suspect the offer extends beyond just data.
He smiles. “That. And other things.”
My body still hums from his touch, embarrassingly responsive to this dangerous stranger. The rational part of my brain screams I should grab the flash drive and run—report him to the police for breaking into my apartment, for watching me through cameras .
But the journalist in me, the daughter of murdered parents, wants—needs—whatever else he knows.
“The Harrington. Thursday. 9 PM. Be there. Private enough that we won’t be interrupted. Public enough that you’ll feel safe.” He stands, adjusting his mask.
“Who are you?” I whisper.
He leans in closer, his lips grazing my ear. “I’m your secret admirer.” He pulls back, wincing. “That sounded much less juvenile in my head. I had several options prepared and somehow selected the worst one. I’d like to request a do-over, but I suspect the moment has passed.”
His self-deprecation lingers between us as he turns away from the table with fluid grace that makes the movement seem choreographed. Then he walks away, disappearing into the crowd.
I sit frozen for several heartbeats, my skin still tingling where his fingers touched me. The ghost of that touch remains between my thighs, a phantom pressure that refuses to fade. My underwear sticks to me, wet with evidence of my arousal.
This man knows things about me no one should know. He’s been in my space, touched my things, watched me in my most private moments.
And I just let him touch me in public.
I should be terrified. Instead, a strange mixture of adrenaline and arousal courses through my veins. I’ve spent my career hunting stories, chasing leads, following the bread crumbs of evidence. Now I’m the one being hunted, observed, studied. And some broken part of me craves more.
I take a steadying breath and stand, smoothing my dress with shaking hands. I scan the crowd, searching for any sign of him, but he’s vanished.
My fingers brush against my purse, gracing the outline of the flash drive inside. Evidence that could finally bring down Blackwell. Evidence that could lead to justice for my parents.
“You won’t be a secret for long,” I whisper to the empty space beside me. “I’ll find you.”