Page 18 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

Oakley

T he crosshairs of my telephoto lens find their target, settling on Xander Rhodes as he emerges from Sentinel Security Solutions. No mask. No voice disguised through a phone. Just flesh and blood.

And holy crackers, what flesh .

Six-foot-one of lethal grace wrapped in a bespoke suit that hugs his shoulders in a way that makes my mouth go dry. He moves with the precision of someone who knows how much space he occupies in the world. Someone accustomed to not being seen unless he wants to be.

But I see you now, Xander.

The camera shutter whispers as I document his movements from my vantage point across the street. Those gray-green eyes that have been watching me through hidden cameras. The same lips that whispered filthy commands while I came apart on my bed.

“The hunter becomes the hunted,” I murmur, reviewing the images on my digital display. Perfect. Crystal clear. Damning.

My phone vibrates. Zara’s hourly check-in.

My lifeline, in case this little surveillance operation goes sideways.

I’d asked her to ping me regularly, making up some vague story about following a lead on a case.

She thinks I’m interviewing a nervous source.

If I don’t respond within five minutes, she sends my location to the police.

I never told her what I’m actually doing—trailing a man who broke into my apartment and installed cameras. Never mentioned the lollipop incident or the gallery encounter. Never explained that I’m meeting him tomorrow night at The Harrington.

I’ve kept her outside this twisted world I’ve stumbled into.

I huff, shoving my phone back in my pocket after sending a quick “All good” reply.

Who am I kidding? I didn’t tell Zara because she’d handcuff me to a radiator before letting me follow a stalker and potential killer across Boston.

Not that following a man who knows every detail of my life is one of my better ideas.

But here I am.

Arousal and adrenaline. The classic combo of poor decisions.

Xander’s black Audi pulls away from the curb, and I slide into traffic three cars behind him.

I grip the steering wheel tighter as his car takes a left onto Commonwealth Avenue.

“This is insane,” I mutter to myself, retrieving a bag of sour gummy worms from my center console. The sugar hits my bloodstream as I chew, thinking through my justifications.

But I just need to know who I’m meeting on Thursday night.

The winding streets force me to hang back. His black Audi is distinctive enough that I can afford to keep two or three cars between us without losing him.

“Come on, Rhodes, where are you taking me?” I murmur, adjusting my rearview mirror.

Is there a line between investigative journalism and obsession? Because I’m pretty sure I crossed it somewhere between letting him keep the cameras in place and getting myself off while he watches.

I follow Xander to a modern medical building in Cambridge, all gleaming glass and self-important architecture.

“What the hell?” I mutter, circling for a spot.

My brain spirals with possibilities. Medical issue? Terminal diagnosis? My stomach knots as I park and yank my press badge from the glove compartment.

Wait. What if he has an STD? Images from that sexual health presentation in college flash before me. Then I remember we’ve never had sex. Not the real kind, anyway.

“Can’t catch anything through the phone.” Although that phone sex was more intense than my last three actual dates combined.

I slide my press badge around my neck and snag a clipboard from an unattended desk. Nothing makes you seem like you belong somewhere like carrying a clipboard.

Inside the lobby, Xander’s speaking to a receptionist, his voice carrying across the space .

“—Dr. Wendell’s office? I’m from the medical board review committee.”

I duck behind a ficus tree, which offers exactly zero actual coverage. The receptionist gives Xander an appointment card, and he walks toward the elevators.

I tuck my press tag into my shirt and approach her desk with my most professional smile. “Hi there. You were just speaking with my boss about where to find Dr. Wendell. I’m his assistant, but he forgot to tell me which floor.”

The receptionist blinks at me. “The neuro wing is on seven. Dr. Wendell’s office is 712.”

“Wonderful, thank you.” I start toward the elevators, then spin back. “Also, what’s Dr. Wendell’s specialty? My boss quizzes me on these things.”

She gives me a strange look. “He’s chief of neurosurgery.”

In the elevator, I press seven and dig through my snack satchel. Confronting a medical mystery requires sustenance. I unwrap a chocolate protein bar and take a massive bite.

The elevator dings as it reaches the seventh floor. I step out, mouth full of chocolate protein bar, and freeze.

Xander stands twenty feet away, his back to me, phone pressed to his ear. His voice carries down the empty hallway.

“—need those records today. Not tomorrow. Today.”

I press myself against the wall, heart hammering. He hasn’t seen me. The protein bar sticks to the roof of my mouth as I try to swallow.

Xander ends his call and strides down the corridor, disappearing around a corner. I count to ten before peeling myself off the wall and following, clipboard clutched to my chest like a shield .

Room 712, she said.

I peek through the small window in the door. Xander moves around the office, examining the certificates on the wall, the computer setup, the filing cabinet. Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out something small—a camera, identical to the ones I found in my apartment.

My breath catches as he installs it above a bookshelf, angled toward the desk. He places another behind a framed photograph, then a third inside a potted plant.

This isn’t about medical issues. He’s not a patient.

He’s hunting.

The realization washes over me like ice water. The same man who’s been watching me is now targeting this neurosurgeon. But why? What connects them? Or is this just what Xander does, watches people through hidden cameras for some twisted purpose?

Xander pauses at Wendell’s computer, inserting a USB drive and tapping keys. His face focused, intense, devoid of emotion as he accesses whatever secrets this doctor holds.

Footsteps echo down the hallway. Sharp, purposeful clicks of shoes on tile. My heart leaps into my throat. Someone’s coming.

I flatten myself against the wall beside the door, praying Xander doesn’t glance at the window. The footsteps grow louder. Closer.

“Dr. Wendell?” A woman’s voice calls out. “Your three o’clock is here early.”

Fuck.

Inside the office, Xander freezes, fingers still on the keyboard. His head snaps toward the door—toward me.

I dive across the hallway, chocolate protein bar still clutched in my hand, and slam into the women’s restroom. The door swings shut behind me just as I hear Wendell’s office door open.

“I’m sorry,” Xander says. “Dr. Wendell stepped out. Asked me to update his scheduling software.”

“Oh! I didn’t realize IT was here today.”

“Just routine maintenance. All done now.”

My heart hammers so loudly I’m certain they can hear it through the bathroom door. I press my ear against the cool surface, straining to catch every word.

“Well, I’ll let Dr. Wendell know you were here, Mr...?”

“Johnson. And no need to mention it. He knows I’m here.”

I roll my eyes. Johnson? Really? The man who hacked offshore accounts couldn’t come up with a better alias?

The bathroom door pushes against my face, sending me stumbling backward. A nurse in blue scrubs gives me a startled look as she enters.

“Sorry,” I mutter, rubbing my forehead where the door hit. “I was just...checking the door for...squeaks.”

She glances at the chocolate protein bar smashed in my hand, then at my press badge, then back to my face.

“It’s a new technique,” I say with complete seriousness.

The nurse edges past me toward the stalls, giving me the universal face of “please don’t murder me in this bathroom.”

I peek out the door. The hallway is clear. Xander must have left.

I sprint toward the elevator, jabbing the down button as if that might make it arrive faster. The doors slide open, and I nearly collapse with relief when I find it empty .

In the lobby, I spot Xander’s broad shoulders disappearing through the revolving doors.

I follow him out of the medical building, ducking behind a Mercedes, when he stops to check his phone.

The crisp February air stings my cheeks, but I barely notice. My mind races with questions about what I just witnessed. Surveillance equipment in a neurosurgeon’s office. Unauthorized computer access. The same techniques he used on me.

Xander’s Audi heads toward Somerville, and I follow. Security consultant. Club member. Apartment invader. And now... What? Industrial espionage against medical professionals?

I glance at my chocolate-smeared fingers on the steering wheel and realize I’m still clutching the mangled remains of my protein bar. I toss it onto the passenger seat, where it lands on my collection of surveillance equipment with a sad thump.

“Well,” I mutter to myself, “at least I’m not the only one being stalked by Boston’s most eligible creeper.”

The Audi takes a sharp right turn, and I follow at a safe distance, wondering where this bizarre day will lead next. Twenty minutes later, I have my answer as Xander pulls into a sprawling parking lot.

He parks outside Harbor Hardware, a massive warehouse-style store with enough distance between aisles that I can follow without being spotted. I grab a basket to blend in and trail him from a distance. He moves with purpose, consulting a list on his phone.

In the organization section, he selects heavy-duty plastic sheeting. The kind used for painting or construction. Not one roll, but three large ones. My journalist brain calculates the square footage. Enough to cover a room. Or wrap something large.

Like a body.