Page 30 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

Xander

“ S orry about the wait,” I say, glancing at Oakley. “Extra cleanup required since you skipped the plastic coveralls.”

Her face glows pale in the dashboard light. The night has transformed her—not aged her, but hardened her. The way ancient tribes believed that consuming an enemy’s heart transferred their power. She’s seen behind the curtain now. Crossed the line.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, fingers twisting in her lap.

“It’s okay.” I start the engine, the purr vibrating through the seat.

As we pull away from the curb, Oakley suddenly sits up straight. “Wait. What about my car?”

“Where is it?” I ask, slowing down.

“I parked it a few blocks away,” she says, glancing back over her shoulder.

“Far enough so they won’t connect it to the scene?””

“Yes.”

“Good girl. Then we’ll leave it there for now. Until it’s safe.”

Oakley’s nose crinkles. She leans forward, sniffing. “What’s that awful smell?”

I nod toward the rear seat where the small plastic waste bin sits. “Had to bring your puke bin. Couldn’t leave it there. We’ll dump it en route.”

“Oh.” She turns away, pressing her forehead against the cool glass as we pull onto the empty street. The clinic recedes in the rearview mirror, pristine and ordinary on the outside. No one would ever guess what happened inside.

After several minutes of silence, she turns back to me. “What did you do with the body?” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Did you put it in the trunk?”

I almost laugh. “God no. That’s the best way to get caught.”

Her brow furrows. “Then where?”

“Still in the clinic.”

“You want it discovered?” Her eyes widen, reflecting the passing streetlights.

“Of course.” I merge onto the highway, light strobing across our faces in hypnotic patterns. “What’s the point if nobody knows? If a tree falls in the forest...”

I exit at a rundown industrial area miles from both the clinic and my apartment. The streetlights here flicker, most of the businesses dark and shuttered for the night. Perfect.

“Why are we stopping?” Oakley asks, tension creeping back into her voice.

“Evidence disposal.” I pull behind an abandoned warehouse, headlights illuminating a massive dumpster overflowing with construction debris. “Won’t be a minute.”

I grab the bin from the back seat, the smell hitting me again. Oakley watches through the windshield as I cross to the dumpster, lift its rusty lid, and dump the bin’s contents deep among broken drywall and rotting lumber. The bin itself follows, disappearing into the waste.

A stray cat darts away from the noise, the only witness to our visit. I return to the car, hands now empty, and pull back onto the road.

“Cleanup complete,” I say, merging back onto the highway.

“My hero.”

“Here to serve.” I pause, a thought surfacing. “I wish I had a cool nickname. Like The Gallery Killer.”

Oakley studies me, her expression shifting. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “The Surgeon?”

I shake my head. “Too on the nose.”

“The Mirror Man?”

“That sounds like I sell vanity furniture. And the mirrors were a one-time thing.”

She taps her fingers against her thigh. “The Symmetrist?”

“That’s not even a real word.” I take the exit ramp.

“The Justice Junkie?” A small smile plays at the corner of her mouth.

I shoot her a look, eyebrow raised. “I’m not an addict.”

“The Night Doctor?”

“Better, but still medical. Too specific to this kill.”

“The Brain Drain?” Her smile widens .

“That’s terrible. You’re terrible at this.” I can’t help the answering smile.

“The Watchman?”

I consider this, rolling it around in my head. “Not bad. Simple. Has layers.”

I guide my car into the familiar darkness of my garage, the engine’s rumble fading to silence as I press the button to lower the door behind us. The mechanical whir echoes in the enclosed space.

“Home sweet home,” I murmur, keys jingling as I remove them from the ignition.

“This is where you live?” Oakley asks, peering through the windshield at the concrete walls.

I nod, suddenly self-conscious. My fingers drum against the steering wheel one last time before falling still.

“Come on,” I say, unbuckling my seatbelt with a metallic click. “Let’s go inside.”

She nods, following me through the hidden door that connects to my apartment.

My place surprises her—I see it in the slight widening of her eyes, the parting of her lips.

People expect killers to live in dungeons or weird boxes. Instead, she finds sleek mid-century furniture, original art, and floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the harbor. The city lights shimmer on the water like scattered stars.

“This is...not what I expected,” she says, running her fingertips along the back of a leather sofa.

“What were you expecting? A basement with plastic sheets and a collection of severed heads?” I flick on a lamp, casting warm light across the polished hardwood floors.

A small laugh escapes her. “Maybe not that extreme, but definitely not...” She gestures to an arranged bookshelf, “First editions of Vonnegut.”

“Wait here,” I say, moving toward the hallway. Her gaze follows, as if afraid I’ll vanish.

I retrieve the small velvet pouch from the safe in my room.

When I return, Oakley sits where I left her, eyes fixed on me. I extend the pouch. “This belongs to you.”

She opens it, breath catching. The locket spills into her palm, its familiar oval pattern catching the light. Her fingers trace its contours, trembling.

“You got it back.” Her voice wavers, eyes glistening with tears that threaten to spill. She clutches it to her chest, knuckles whitening. “This was the last thing she gave me... The day before—” Her voice breaks. “This is the best thing anyone has ever done for me.”

“They won’t hurt you again.” I meet her gaze. I don’t elaborate on the details. Some things are better left unsaid, even between people like us.

She crosses the space between us, arms encircling my waist with surprising strength.

Her face presses against my chest, tears breaking free, soaking through my shirt.

For a moment, I stand frozen, unused to comfort rather than control.

Then, my arms fold around her, one hand cradling the back of her head, holding her against the steady rhythm of my heartbeat.

She pulls back, examining the locket. “The chain is different.”

“Had to replace it. The original was broken.” I reach for the necklace. “I tried to find the most similar one. Turn around. ”

She turns, lifting her hair. I step closer, bringing the chain around her neck. The clasp requires precision, my fingers brushing her skin as I secure it. The locket falls into place, my hands lingering on her shoulders.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.” I lead her toward the master bathroom. “Shower’s through here.”

“Right.” Her fingers trail along my arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

The bathroom gleams with black tile and glass, large enough for four. I turn the water on, steam filling the room while I open a cabinet.

“Here.” I hand her a fresh towel. “I’ll find clean clothes for after.”

She takes the towel but doesn’t move to undress. Instead, her eyes burn into mine, igniting my pulse.

“Join me?” she asks. “For efficiency.”

The high from Wendell still courses through us both—power, fear, control. I recognize that look because I’ve seen it in the mirror. The need for something human after witnessing something monstrous.

“Yes,” I say. “Efficiency.”

We strip without ceremony, clothes dropping to the tile. I step into the shower first, turning to offer my hand. She freezes, eyes widening as they travel down my body, taking in every inch with undisguised appreciation.

“Oh,” she says on a breath, her cheeks flushing darker than before.

Her gaze lingers on the ridged muscles of my abdomen, the scars marking my skin, then lower. Her tongue darts out to moisten her lips .

“Something wrong?” I ask, self-conscious under her scrutiny.

She shakes her head, eyes meeting mine with unfamiliar heat. “Not wrong. Just...unexpected.”

“Unexpected how?” Water streams down my body as I wait for her answer.

“You’re beautiful,” she says, no artifice in her voice. “Like a statue. Perfect.” Her fingers reach out, hovering inches from my chest, not quite touching. “I knew you’d be fit, but this is...” Her eyes drift downward again, a small gasp escaping her lips. “And you’re...bigger than I imagined.”

Her eyes light up, lips parting. The naked hunger in her expression stirs something primal in me, not just desire for release, but the raw need to claim and be claimed.

She steps into the shower, the glass door closing behind her. The space feels smaller with both of us inside, steam curling around our bodies.

“Let me,” she says.

Her touch glides across my chest, soap trailing in slick patterns down my arms, washing away evidence, washing away death.

Her palm flattens against my stomach, muscles tensing beneath her fingers.

The bathroom steam curls around us, fogging the mirror until our reflections blur into ghostly outlines.

“Is this okay?” she asks.

“Yes,” I manage.

She continues washing me, methodical yet intimate. When her hand drifts lower, I capture her wrist.

“Your turn,” I say, taking the soap.

I clean her arms, neck, and face. She closes her eyes as I work, surrendering to my touch.

Water droplets cling to her eyelashes, trembling with each breath.

When I finish, we stand facing each other, water cascading over us, the steam rising in thick clouds around our bodies, shrouding the bathroom in white mist. The shower’s patter drowns out the world beyond this tiled sanctuary.

She gazes up through wet lashes, expression both vulnerable and determined.

“Are you clean?” she asks.

I blink. “Yes? We’re in the shower.” A rare smile tugs at my lips. “Rather thoroughly cleaned, I’d say.”

Her laugh breaks through the tension, unexpected and bright in the steamy enclosure. “No, I meant—” She bites her lip, eyes dancing with amusement. “STDs. Are you clean?”