Page 19 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

I swallow hard, ducking behind a display of power tools when he glances in my direction. He adds thick rope to his cart—the sturdy kind used for boating, not the decorative type. Twenty feet of it, at least.

When he heads to checkout, I abandon my empty basket and hurry to my car, heart pounding. I watch through my windshield as he loads the supplies into his trunk.

My phone buzzes.

Zara

All good?

Still breathing.

Xander pulls out of the parking lot, and I follow at a careful distance. He drives to the opposite side of town, parking outside Beacon Building Supply. Smart. Different stores mean no one remembers the guy who bought all the murder supplies at once.

Because that’s what these are, right? Murder supplies. The realization settles cold and heavy in my stomach.

It’s the mirrors that unsettle me. What kind of killer needs custom-cut reflective surfaces?

Inside, I trail him to the mirror section, where he selects several large pieces of reflective glass, enough to create a funhouse effect in a room.

He consults with an employee about having them cut to specific dimensions.

I pretend to examine the bathroom fixtures while straining to hear their conversation.

“...need them to reflect at precise angles,” Xander explains. The employee nods, marking measurements on the glass.

At checkout, he pays cash. Another red flag. No digital trail.

Back in my car, I stuff a handful of chocolate-covered pretzels into my mouth, trying to process what’s happening. My journalistic instincts scream that this is big, but my survival instincts whisper I should run, not walk, in the opposite direction.

Who is Dr. Wendell to him? A target? Something else?

My stomach clenches with dread as I watch Xander load the extra supplies into his trunk. The collection paints a disturbing picture. These aren’t the tools of a random killer but of someone who approaches murder like an art form or science experiment.

I slide down in my seat as Xander walks to the driver’s side of his car.

I grip my steering wheel, unable to follow. My hands shake. My brain spins. I’ve followed Xander all day, and what I’ve found are red flags the size of Massachusetts.

Plastic sheeting. Rope. Custom mirrors . Surveillance equipment.

“Maybe he’s renovating his bathroom,” I whisper, the joke falling flat even to my own ears. “Or maybe he lied to me about not being The Gallery Killer.”

I’ve covered enough murders to recognize preparations when I see them. My stomach churns as the implications settle over me like a shroud. The man I’ve been texting, the one who’s seen me naked through hidden cameras, is gathering supplies to kill someone.

Dr. Malcolm Wendell. Chief of Neurosurgery.

Memory fragments from previous cases flash before me. Three wealthy art collectors found dead in the past eight months, each staged in elaborate tableaux mimicking famous paintings.

The Gallery Killer. The case that led me to the Beacon Hill Gentlemen’s Association.

Each victim poisoned, then arranged in death with meticulous attention to artistic detail.

I grab my laptop from the passenger seat and pull up the file on The Gallery Killer.

Photos of elaborately staged crime scenes flank detailed notes on each victim’s occupation, connections, and the artistic significance of their murder tableaux.

I search for any mention of Dr. Wendell—any connection to the previous victims or the art world.

Nothing.

The Gallery Killer’s victims were all wealthy collectors. Dr. Wendell doesn’t fit the profile. He’s a neurosurgeon, not an art patron. His name never appears in my investigation notes.

I pull up medical board records, searching for any misconduct reports against Wendell. Two complaints filed three years ago, both dismissed. One more a year ago. Something about experimental procedures. Inadequate consent processes. Enough to raise questions.

I stare at the photos from each Gallery Killer crime scene. The careful positioning of bodies. The symbolic props. The artist’s statement each murder seemed to make. Then I compare it with what I just witnessed Xander purchasing.

The truth slams into me like a physical blow.

Xander isn’t The Gallery Killer.

He’s a different predator.

The Gallery Killer transforms death into art. Xander is planning something else—something that requires surveillance, mirrors, and restraints.

My fingers freeze on the keyboard as another realization dawns.

Two different killers, both connected to the Beacon Hill Gentlemen’s Association? Impossible coincidence. There’s something more going on in that club, something beyond wealth and privilege. A pattern I’m only beginning to see.

How many killers could one exclusive club possibly harbor? The question sends ice through my veins as I remember the multiple men I’ve photographed entering those doors.

I thought I was hunting The Gallery Killer. Now I’m caught between two different monsters, with the meeting at The Harrington looming before me like a death sentence.

I start my car, feeling the rumble of the engine match my internal turmoil. My journalistic ethics scream at me to call the police, to report what I’ve witnessed. The rational part of my brain knows what the detectives would say if I walked into the precinct.

“Let me get this straight, Novak. You want us to investigate a man for buying hardware supplies? Because you think he’s planning a murder based on...what evidence, exactly?”

My fingers drum against the steering wheel as I stare at the empty parking spot where Xander’s Audi had been.

What would I tell them? That I followed a man who’s been watching me through cameras that I allowed to remain in my apartment?

That we’ve been exchanging explicit texts?

That I’m meeting him on a rooftop tomorrow?

They’d either laugh me out of the station or lock me up for a psych evaluation.

I need actual proof. Photos of murder supplies aren’t enough. Anyone could claim they’re for a renovation project. I need concrete evidence linking Xander to a murder plot before anyone would take me seriously.

The truth is, I stopped trusting official channels the moment they declared my father corrupt and my mother collateral damage. Blackwell’s money and influence had manipulated the system that was supposed to protect us. The same system that would ignore my warnings about Xander.

“Damn it,” I whisper, hitting the steering wheel with my fist.

I could confront Xander. Lay my cards on the table at our late-night meeting.

But the image of that rope and plastic sheeting flashes in my mind, and a cold wave of self-preservation washes over me.

If I reveal that I’ve been following him, watching him, what would stop him from adding me to whatever he has planned for the doctor?

I could walk away. Delete his number. Remove the cameras. Move apartments. Change my name.

“What if...” I say aloud to my empty car, the thought crystallizing into something concrete and terrifying. “What if I use this?”

The idea lights up my brain like a thunderstorm. Xander’s clearly not an amateur. He has skills. Surveillance, breaking and entering, meticulous planning. He’s already provided information about Blackwell that I hadn’t been able to uncover in years of investigation.

My heart pounds against my ribs. This is the thinking that gets journalists fired. Or killed. Or both.

But after ten years of dead ends and destroyed evidence, of witnesses who disappear and leads that evaporate, wasted years when the traditional methods have failed. Blackwell remains untouchable behind his wall of money and influence.

I’ve played by the rules, and the rules have protected the guilty.

My finger hovers over the 911 button on my phone.

One call. That’s all it would take.

In journalism school, they taught us to report, not judge. To observe, not participate.

I slide my phone into my pocket without making the call.

Tomorrow at The Harrington, I’ll stare into the eyes of a killer and ask for his help.