Page 2 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

“Morgan, I can’t talk right now,” she whispers, eyes still scanning the room. “Because I’m at Rivera’s gallery... No, the police tape doesn’t apply to real journalists. ”

Ah. A journalist. Of course. A journalist with both boundary issues and incredible cheekbones.

She listens, frowning.

“I know what the official report said, but this is definitely another Gallery Killer scene. The blood spatter and body were arranged like Caravaggio’s David and Goliath . An officer let me have a peek. The killer is getting more theatrical with each murder.”

Another pause as she examines a splash of blood on the wall that would have Calloway preening with pride. Artistic temperament—so predictable. Like a toddler wanting you to put his finger painting on the fridge, except the finger painting is made with actual fingers.

“…because the other victims were all connected to the art market. How much more—” She stops abruptly, looking back at the shelf. “It’s an excellent location for a camera. Were you filming yourself?”

She tilts her head. “No, not you. Have to go, Morgan.” She hangs up.

Shit. She’s good. Too good.

I slide my phone out, keeping the movement slow and deliberate behind the sculpture.

I raise my phone just enough to frame her on the screen. Her profile catches the gallery’s dramatic lighting, creating sharp contrasts against her features.

Click .

I lower the phone, making a mental note to run her face through recognition software later. If she’s sniffing around Calloway’s handiwork, I need to know who she is and how much trouble she’s going to cause.

She moves toward the back office, giving me a momentary opening. I check the photo I took. Clear, detailed, usable. Her eyes stare at something off-camera.

This is why I always insist on surveillance first. Know everything before making a move. No unwanted surprises. I save the image, tucking the phone away as I calculate my next move.

Her gaze sweeps the room. My muscles lock. I melt into the wall, barely breathing as her eyes pass inches from my hiding spot. A droplet of sweat slides cold down my spine.

My thumb grazes the knife in my pocket. It would take three seconds to cross the distance, cover her mouth, and sink the knife into her neck before she could scream. Clean. Efficient.

Except... My stomach knots at the image of those intelligent eyes going blank, her notebook falling from limp fingers. The thought sits wrong.

Usually, I’m all about efficiency in the whole “eliminate witnesses” department, but something about the way she’s piecing together the case makes me want to see what she’ll do next.

Her phone blares again. Her boss, based on her expression of mingled irritation and alarm.

“Morgan, I literally can’t—” She pauses, listening. “A press conference? Now? About The Gallery Killer?”

The universe has a sick sense of humor. Almost as sick as my collection of surveillance footage of people who don’t know they’re about to die.

“Fine. I’m on my way.” She takes one last look at the shelf where Calloway’s camera had been, snaps a final photo, and heads for the door, muttering about power-hungry police chiefs and their convenient timing .

The moment the door clicks shut, I exhale, looking down at my shoes, now decorated with human tissue. Perfect. I’ll need to burn these. And I liked these fucking shoes.

“That was closer than the time I accidentally dated a homicide detective,” I murmur, retrieving the remaining two cameras while trying to avoid leaving bloody footprints across the marble. Nothing says professional quite like turning a pristine crime scene into a macabre game of Twister.

Back in my car, I call Calloway. “You owe me. Big time. This is absolutely the last time I lend you my equipment.”

“Did you get everything? Please tell me you got everything.” His voice pitches higher.

“My cameras, yes,” I respond, watching the building’s entrance where the mystery woman is now hurrying toward an Uber. “Your murder scene nearly became my crime scene when someone crashed the party.”

“Someone was there? Who?” The panic in his voice would be satisfying if I weren’t still picking human remains from my clothes.

“A journalist. She called you ‘The Gallery Killer’ while recording notes into her phone.” I slouch in my seat as she slides into her ride.

“Apparently, you’re famous enough to have your own nickname now.

Meanwhile, I’ll probably end up in a footnote as ‘unnamed accomplice found in dumpster after mysterious accident.’”

“The Gallery Killer?” His voice perks up, artistic vanity trumping survival instinct. “That’s actually quite good. Has a certain ring to it. Did she mention?—”

“No, she didn’t critique your use of intestines as decorative elements.” I cut him off before his ego reaches critical mass. “But she did nearly walk in on me while I was collecting the surveillance equipment you forgot.”

“What does she look like? Who is she?” His questions machine-gun through the phone.

“She’s beautiful, and I don’t know yet,” I reply, starting my car while watching her ride disappear around a corner. “But I’m going to find out. And you’re buying me new shoes.”

Back in my apartment, I pull up facial recognition software, running her image through various databases. Within minutes, I have a name.

Oakley Novak, crime journalist for The Boston Beacon . Her bylines include several in-depth pieces on unsolved murders and corruption. Her social media presence is minimal but focused. She’s not into selfies, just work. A woman after my own black heart.

I should report this to Thorne. Protocol says anyone investigating the Hemlock Society is a threat. Society comes first. End of discussion. Do not pass Go, do not collect $200, proceed directly to murder.

Instead, I create a new encrypted folder on my secure server. I download everything about her. Birth certificate. College transcripts. Medical records. Credit score. Every article she’s ever published. The metadata from her phone.

My standard background check spirals into a three-hour deep dive. I hack her phone’s cloud backup. Her photo roll is ninety percent crime scenes, nine percent reference images, and a single blurry picture of a stray cat. No selfies. No beach vacations. No drunken party shots.

God, she’s fascinating.

Instead of my usual red X marking a target for elimination, I draw a blue X over her building on my map. Different color. Different intention.

My phone buzzes with a message.

Thorne

Situation contained?

All clear.

Thorne

Any complications?

My thumb hovers over the screen. In four years with the Society, I've never broken the rules. Never put my interests above the family's safety. Never lied to the man who gave me a place to belong when I had nothing.

Not once.

I’ve also never found someone who catalogs crime scenes with the same obsessive attention to detail that I do.

I stare at the screen, at the photos of Oakley examining Calloway’s handiwork with such focus, and make a decision I’ve never made before.

No.

I lie to the most dangerous man I know. I’m either evolving or having a psychotic break. The line between the two is remarkably thin.

I open my surveillance equipment drawer, the one with the good stuff, not the ones I loan to Calloway when I’m feeling generous. Japanese micro-cameras I modified myself with a battery life that outlasts most relationships.

I pack my gear into a nondescript backpack, adding an extra battery bank and my prototype audio enhancement module. Most people would call it stalking. I call it...selective admiration. Tomato, tomahto.

All I know is that watching her work at that crime scene was the most interesting thing I’ve experienced in years, and I’m not ready to end the show.

Oakley Novak doesn’t know it yet, but our paths are now inextricably linked. And for the first time in my existence, I’m not following the protocol.

I’m following her. And if Thorne finds out, I’ll be the next body on the marble floor.