Page 22 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

Oakley

“Shit,” I mutter, saving my work and shutting down the computer. Morgan will kill me if I fall asleep at my desk again. Last time she found me drooling on a police report, she threatened to install a cot in the supply closet and charge me rent.

I gather my notes into my messenger bag, triple-checking that the flash drive Xander left for me sits securely in the inner pocket. The weight of what it contains—evidence that could bring down Blackwell—makes it feel heavier than its tiny size suggests.

My muscles protest as I stand, stiff from hours hunched over my keyboard.

The elevator doors open to the deserted lobby, my footsteps echoing off the marble as I cross to the exit. Outside, the streets stretch empty in both directions. No cars, no pedestrians. Just pools of yellow light from street lamps and the distant hum of traffic.

I take a deep breath of the night air and set off toward the parking garage, adjusting my bag against my hip. The sound of my boots on concrete seems loud in the quiet. A car horn blares somewhere in the distance, making me flinch.

Boston at night transforms into a different city—sharper edges, deeper shadows, secrets whispered in alleyways instead of boardrooms. The walk to the parking garage has never seemed so long before.

Something prickles at the back of my neck. That unmistakable sensation of eyes tracking my movement.

I glance over my shoulder. Nothing. Just an empty sidewalk stretching back to the Beacon’s glass doors.

“You’re jumping at shadows, Oakley. Get it together,” I mutter, tightening my grip on the strap of my messenger bag.The flash drive with all that damning Blackwell evidence burns against my hip like a tiny nuclear reactor.

I pick up my pace, the parking garage now visible at the end of the block. Just a few more minutes and I’ll be safely locked in my car.

The prickling sensation intensifies. I check over my shoulder again, scanning the storefronts, the alleyway entrances, the parked cars. Nothing moves in the shadows.

But something feels wrong. Off .

I fish the pepper spray out of my bag’s side pocket, uncapping it with my thumb. The small canister nestles against my palm. Useless against a bullet, but better than nothing.

The cool metal warms against my skin as I clutch it tighter, finger hovering near the trigger.

My journalism professor called this “prudent paranoia,” the healthy suspicion that keeps reporters alive when they dig too deep.

Given what I now know about Blackwell, prudent paranoia seems like the bare minimum.

I quicken my pace, eyes scanning my surroundings.The shadows between streetlights stretch like hungry mouths, each doorway and alley a potential ambush point.I hold the spray low against my leg, trying not to broadcast that I’m armed but keeping it ready.

A plastic bag tumbles across the sidewalk ahead, making me jump. My grip tightens on the pepper spray, heart hammering against my ribs.

“Just garbage,” I whisper, forcing my breathing to slow. “Just garbage, Oakley.”

But my fingers remain wrapped around the canister, unwilling to return it to my bag. The weight of it grounds me somehow, a tiny talisman of protection against whatever might be lurking in the darkness.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Footsteps? Behind me?

I freeze, listening. The sound stops.

Just my imagination. Or an echo of my own footsteps bouncing off the surrounding buildings.

I start walking again, faster now. The footsteps resume, matching my pace .

My heart slams against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. I stop. The footsteps continue for half a beat before halting.

Not an echo then.

“Hello?” I call out, my voice sounding thin and reedy in the empty street. “Is someone there? Xander, if it’s you, it’s not funny.”

No response. Just the distant rumble of a truck on the highway and the faint hum of the city that never quite goes silent.

I turn and continue toward the parking garage, now moving at a near-jog. Just thirty more yards. Twenty. Ten.

I round the corner to the garage entrance and stop dead. A black panel van sits parked next to my Honda. The van’s windows are tinted dark, impossible to see inside.

My stomach drops.

I back away slowly, changing direction. The main street with its all-night diners and gas stations is only three blocks in the other direction. People, lights, witnesses.

Two men step out from between parked cars ahead of me. They wear black, faces obscured by pulled-down beanies.

I spin around, ready to sprint back the way I came, but a third man blocks my retreat.He’s massive, a human wall of muscle filling the narrow sidewalk, hands already reaching for me.

I don’t hesitate. My finger finds the trigger of the pepper spray, and I aim at his face, depressing the button with every ounce of strength I have.

“Fuck!” He claws at his eyes, staggering backward.The stream catches him full in the face, the caustic liquid transforming his expression from menacing to agonized in an instant.

His hand lashes out—blind, instinctive, brutal. His fist connects with my jaw, sending stars exploding across my vision. I hit the ground hard, my shoulder cracking against the concrete, the pepper spray skittering away across the pavement.

Pain explodes through my face. Blood floods my mouth, metallic and warm. For a moment, the world tilts sideways.

“Grab her!” The voice comes from behind me.

Rough hands seize my arms, dragging me upward. I twist, kicking backward and connecting with something solid. A grunt of pain tells me I’ve hit my mark.

“She’s fighting. Hold her tighter.”

“I’m trying! The bitch is strong.”

I scream. My elbow drives backward, finding a solar plexus, and I hear a satisfying whoosh of expelled air.

The grip on my right arm loosens just enough. I wrench free, spinning toward the nearest gap between buildings.

Three steps. That’s all I manage before a hand fists in my jacket, yanking me backward. My feet scramble for purchase as I’m slammed against a parked car, my spine hitting the metal with enough force to knock the breath from my lungs.

“Blackwell sends his regards,” one whispers, his breath hot against my ear.

I buck against his hold, twisting my body and landing a solid kick to his knee. He curses but doesn’t release me. His partner steps forward, and I barely register the fist before it connects with my stomach, driving deep into my abdomen.

All the air rushes from my lungs. I fold around the pain, trying to breathe, to fight, to do anything besides hang in their grasp as black spots dance across my vision.

The man’s fingers dig into my cheeks, squeezing until my jaw throbs. He yanks my face close to his, close enough that I can smell coffee and cigarettes on his breath through the mask. His eyes are flat and cold, cruel.

“Stop asking questions about Blackwell,” he growls, his thumb pressing into the hollow beneath my cheekbone.

I try to wrench away, but his grip only tightens. My pulse thunders in my ears.

“We know what you’ve been doing. The calls.” He leans closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Your little meeting with Martin before his unfortunate accident.”

My blood freezes in my veins. They’ve been watching me. For how long? Days? Weeks?

“Blackwell says you’re smart. Smart enough to walk away from this,” the man continues, releasing my face with a small shove. “This is your warning. Next time, we won’t be so gentle.”

I spit blood onto the pavement, my split lip burning. “Tell Blackwell I’m not afraid of him.”

One man snorts.The third—the one I pepper-sprayed—has recovered enough to join his partners, eyes red-rimmed and watering, but locked on me with undisguised hatred.

His gaze drops to my chest. “What’s this?”

Before I can react, his hand shoots out, grabbing my mother’s locket. With a sharp yank, the silver chain snaps from my neck.

“No!” I lunge forward, desperation overwhelming caution. “Give that back! ”

He dangles the locket, examining it in the dim light. “Mine now.”

That locket holds the only picture I have of my parents together. The last thing my mother touched before she died.

I launch myself at him, fingers clawing for the necklace. “That’s mine!”

Pain explodes across my face as a fist connects with my cheekbone again. The force spins me sideways, and I crash against the parked car, vision blurring. My knees buckle, but I refuse to go down, clinging to the car’s side mirror for balance.

“Don’t even think about going to the police,” the man with my locket says, tucking it into his pocket. “Nothing but trouble for you there.”

“Next time won’t be just a warning.” He presses something cold and metal against my ribs—the unmistakable shape of a gun barrel. “Accidents happen to nosy reporters all the time in this city. Just like they happened to your parents.”

I struggle to breathe, the pain in my ribs competing with the fury and fear coursing through me. The gun presses harder, the threat clear.

The van door slides shut with a metallic slam. Tires squeal against the pavement as they speed away, leaving me alone in the darkness.

I curl into myself on the cold concrete, one arm wrapped around my sore ribs. My jaw throbs. Blood trickles from my split lip, salty and warm against my tongue. But the physical pain barely registers against the crushing hollowness spreading through my chest.

My hand rises to my throat, fingers searching for the familiar weight of my mother’s silver locket. My fingertips find only bare skin where the chain should be.

“No,” I whisper, the word scraping raw from my throat. The necklace is gone. The only physical connection I had left to her, the locket she wore every day until the last day of her life.

The concrete bites into my palms as I push myself to a sitting position.

I force myself to stand, leaning against a parked car as my legs threaten to fold. Just twenty more steps to my car.

My messenger bag hangs from my shoulder, the strap twisted. With trembling fingers, I check the contents—my notebook, the flash drive still secure in the inner pocket. At least they didn’t take that.

I reach my car at last, fumbling with keys that won’t stay steady in my grip. The metal scrapes against the lock before sliding home. I collapse into the driver’s seat, pulling the door closed with a thud that reverberates through my aching body.

In the silence of my car, the night’s events crash over me. My fingers grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white, fighting to maintain control. But my throat tightens and my vision blurs as tears well up, hot and insistent.

“No.” I shake my head, blinking. “Don’t fucking cry. Not here. Not now.”

I start the engine, the familiar rumble offering minimal comfort. The dashboard clock glows 2:17 AM. The streets remain empty as I pull out of the parking space, wincing as the seatbelt presses against my bruised ribs.

The drive home passes in a blur. Muscle memory guides me through familiar turns while my mind replays the attack on an endless loop. The locket. The gun. The warning. My mother’s locket.

I fumble with my keys, dropping them twice before fitting the right one into the lock. My hands won’t stop shaking. I twist the key, push the door open, step inside, and then turn to secure every lock and chain. A pathetic barrier between me and men who could break through if they really wanted to.

My messenger bag slides from my shoulder, landing with a soft thump on the hardwood floor. The sound echoes through my silent apartment.

The adrenaline drains from my system, like someone pulled a plug. My limbs turn to concrete. Three steps carry me to the couch before my knees give out.

I sink into the cushions, pain blooming across my ribs, my face, my scraped palms. But it’s the empty space at my neck that hurts most of all.

The absence feels wrong—a phantom limb, a missing tooth, a hole punched through my chest. I’ve worn that locket since my sixteenth birthday. Every day. Through showers and sleep and swimming pools. Through college interviews and first dates and my parents’ funeral.

Gone.

“Mom,” I whisper, my voice breaking on that single syllable.

The tight control I’ve maintained for years—through the trial, the funeral, the endless nights of research—splinters like glass. My chest heaves with the first sob, raw and painful, tearing itself from my throat.

I lay on the couch, knees drawn up to my chest despite the protest from my ribs. Tears stream hot down my face, causing the cut on my lip to sting, dripping onto the cushions beneath me.

The next sob comes harder, and the next, until I’m shaking with them. I press my face into the cushion to muffle the sound, though there’s no one here to hear me break.

The tears don’t stop. They soak into the couch cushion, my sleeves, my hair. My muscles ache from the tension of holding myself together for so long, only to fall apart now, alone in my apartment, with nothing left of her but memories.

“I need you,” I whisper. “Please.”