Page 3 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)
Oakley
M y therapist says I have an unhealthy relationship with sugar. She calls it emotional dependency. I call it investigative fuel. The real crime is how many gummy worms it takes to stay awake during a stakeout.
Acid burns my tongue as I bite the head off another neon worm, the sour shock jolting my brain back to attention. Different crimes require different candies.
Bank fraud? Chocolate-covered espresso beans. Political corruption? Sour Patch Kids. But serial killers who arrange their victims like Renaissance paintings? That demands the nuclear option. Triple-sour gummy worms.
The camera lens focuses with a soft click on the gleaming doors of the Beacon Hill Gentlemen’s Association. Through the viewfinder, men in tailored suits float between luxury cars and the marble steps like sharks circling prey.
Somewhere behind those doors hides the key to the Gallery Killer case. Four art collectors, four poison deaths, four bodies posed like Renaissance paintings, and nothing but silence from Boston PD. But I’ve got a feeling about this place.
My notepad crinkles as I flip through crime scene photos. A waxen corpse arranged like Saturn Devouring His Son from last year. Another mimicking Christ of Saint John of the Cross four months ago. A third recreating Gentileschi’s Judith Slaying Holofernes just weeks back.
And two days ago, David, with the Head of Goliath.
The time between kills shrinks. He’s accelerating.
The articles don’t mention what the press doesn’t know.
The Gallery Killer’s signature mutilation.
Each male victim was found with their genitals severed and forced into their stomach.
A macabre addition to the artistic arrangements that makes my stomach turn every time I think about it.
But it’s the one detail that connects all four murders beyond their artistic staging.
The killer’s personal signature. Or a message.
A silver chain slides between my fingers as they drift to the locket at my throat. Inside, my parents smile forever, frozen at an age I’ve now surpassed. Dad would have called this stakeout reckless.
I call it Tuesday.
I tap my pen against my teeth, studying the photos I’d taken at the gallery.
The killer had posed art dealer Rivera as both David and Goliath.
His head was partially severed but still attached, twisted at an impossible angle so that he gazed upon his own dying body.
The victim’s eyes had been propped out, forced to witness his own death eternally. Fascinating .
The police don’t want the public to know there’s a serial killer at large. But I know one when I see one.
The Boston PD’s press releases have carefully avoided connecting the murders. “Isolated incident.” “Targeted attack.” “Robbery gone wrong.” I’ve heard it all before—the same bullshit they fed the public when my parents died. The public relations machine is working overtime to prevent panic.
I flip to my notes on the victims. All wealthy art collectors with questionable methods. All arranged in death to mirror famous paintings.
I stare at the imposing brick facade of the Beacon Hill Gentlemen’s Association. The plan unfolds in my head.
Walk in, claim my appointment, secure access to member areas. People rarely question a person who acts like they belong. My tailored blazer and pencil skirt project the perfect blend of professionalism and wealth.
“Hunger is the enemy of justice,” I mutter, slipping a small packet of chocolate-covered espresso beans into my mouth. The caffeine and sugar hit my bloodstream as I approach the entrance, my heels clicking on the sidewalk.
I straighten my shoulders and march toward the entrance, adopting what I hope is a confident stride. The doorway looms before me, promising answers to the Gallery Killer case. Two victims out of four belonged to this exclusive club. This has to be where the killer finds his targets.
Just as I pull the door open, a man appears in the gap, blocking my entrance.
“Excuse me, can I help you?”
The man before me stops my breath. Tall, with dark hair that falls across his forehead and eyes so clear they look almost translucent in the glow of the streetlight—a green-gray that shifts as he tilts his head.
His suit hugs broad shoulders without a single wrinkle, making mine look like something excavated from a donation bin.
A small silver pin gleams on his lapel. Not the Beacon Hill crest, but something different. A stylized flower with delicate petals. Never seen this symbol before.
His fingers twist silver cufflinks at his wrists in small, precise rotations before he catches himself and stops.
“I, uh—” My voice catches, but I recover quickly, the accent sliding into place. “I’m here for a meeting. Nova—” I catch myself. “Novaris. Oak...en Novaris.”
I’d aimed for James Bond but came out sounding like Kermit the Frog. Smooth, Oakley. Real smooth.
“Oaken. Like the tree?”
“It’s Finnish,” I say, doubling down on this rapidly deteriorating lie. “Very common in Finland. Which is where I’m from. Helsinki. The capital of Finland.”
Why am I still talking? Someone please hit my mute button.
He leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms. There’s something in his eyes—amusement mixed with something harder to read.
“Right.” He smiles, and my stomach does a weird flip. “Look, I admire your commitment, but this is a private club. Members only.”
“I have an invitation,” I insist.
“From whom?”
“From...a member.”
“Which member?”
“The one who...invited me. ”
He laughs, and the sound is warm and rich. “You’re persistent. I respect that.” He steps closer, and his cologne makes my brain short-circuit momentarily. “But I can’t let you in. Club rules.”
“But I need to—” I bite my lip, almost forgetting the accent again. Shit. “It’s important.”
“I’m sure it is,” he says, not unkindly. “But so are the club’s privacy policies.” He steps in front of me, effectively blocking the entrance. “Now, is there something specific I could help you with? Perhaps something that doesn’t involve breaking and entering?”
I hang my head in defeat, my eyes up and staring into his green eyes. His gaze travels from my oxfords to my suit jacket, lingering at my waist.
“This is a men’s club,” he says, his voice dropping lower, his eyes never leaving mine. “And you are definitely not a man.” His lips curl into a smile. “And I mean that in the very best way possible.”
Heat crawls up my neck.
He takes a step closer, and I resist the urge to step back. “What’s your real name? Because I’m guessing it’s not Oaken from Helsinki.”
“That’s not important.”
“On the contrary,” he says, leaning in slightly. “I find it extremely important.”
His proximity makes it hard to concentrate on anything other than the way his cologne wraps around me. He’s close enough now that I notice a small scar near his eyebrow and the slight asymmetry of his features that somehow makes him more attractive, not less .
“Oakley,” I admit, my voice betraying me by coming out softer than intended. “Oakley Novak.”
“Oakley,” he repeats, testing my name on his tongue. He leans in, his lips nearly brushing my ear. “Do you know what happens to people who try to break into private establishments under false pretenses?”
His whisper sends a shiver down my spine that feels like fingertips trailing across my skin.
“They get arrested?” I suggest, painfully aware of how close he is.
“They get me,” he murmurs. “And I am considerably more thorough than the police.”
He pulls back just enough to look at my face, and there’s a hint of amusement in his eyes.
“I’m the guy they call when something goes wrong with their fancy security system.
” He gestures to the building with a self-deprecating shrug.
“Not exactly James Bond, more like Q with better hair and worse social skills. I once spent an entire weekend debugging a security protocol instead of attending my cousin’s wedding.
Sent the happy couple a surveillance system as a gift.
They haven’t called since, oddly enough. ”
Despite myself, I laugh. “So you’re a tech geek.”
“I prefer ‘security consultant,’” he says, “though ‘tech geek’ is probably more accurate.” His eyes light up with genuine enthusiasm.
“I once reconfigured an entire building’s security grid during a power outage using just a—” He stops, seeming to remember he’s supposed to be intimidating me, not sharing his tech achievements.
His hand finds his cufflink again, twisting it once.
He gestures to the building. “In short, I make sure people who aren’t supposed to get in—” he gives me a pointed look “—don’t get in.”
“And how’s that working out for you today, Mr. Security Consultant?”
“Well, I caught you before you made it through the door, so technically my record remains unblemished.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a business card. “Though I will admit, trying to sneak in is a bold choice. Points for creativity, minus several million for execution.”
“I could have got in,” I argue, taking the card. It’s sleek and minimalist, with just a phone number and a small logo.
“I’m sure,” he says, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You just need to improve your cover story, your Finnish accent, and your understanding of private club etiquette.”
I shove the card in my pocket. “I’m a work in progress.”
“Aren’t we all?” His eyes never leave mine as he reaches toward me, his hand coming closer to my face. For a wild second, I think he might touch my cheek, and my heart hammers against my ribs.
Instead, his fingers dip into my suit pocket, the one right above my heart. My breath stops as his knuckles brush against my breast through the fabric.
He extracts my emergency stash of sour gummy worms with the casual precision of a pickpocket.
“How did you?—”