Page 39 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

“What? I’ve been holding it for like forty minutes.”

“You could have said something.” He pulls up to the pump.

“And interrupt your serial killer origin story? I have manners.”

The station looks like something from a horror movie—flickering fluorescent lights, a bored attendant visible through grimy windows, and no other cars in sight. Still, any bathroom is better than no bathroom right now.

“I’ll get the gas,” Xander says. “Try not to get murdered in there.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” I step out into the chilly mountain air. “God, it’s freezing.”

“Five minutes,” Xander says, eyeing the dilapidated gas station suspiciously as he fills the tank. “Any longer and I’m assuming you’ve fallen in.”

“Your faith in me is touching,” I call back, my breath fogging in the chill.

I push through the glass door, setting off a jangling bell that makes the bored attendant glance up from his phone.

“Bathroom?” I ask, my bladder screaming in protest at even this one-word delay.

The guy doesn’t speak, just points to a rusty key hanging on a nail by the register. I hurry over and stop short, staring at what has to be the most ridiculous bathroom key attachment I’ve ever seen in my life.

It’s a plastic rainbow trout, at least a foot long, mounted on a wooden plaque. Someone has carved “GOT ONE THIS BIG!” into the wood in uneven letters. The trout’s glass eyes stare at me as if offended by my bathroom emergency.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I mutter, reaching for the monstrosity.

The key itself is attached to the fish’s tail with what looks like baling wire. The entire thing weighs about five pounds, and the trout’s plastic fins dig into my arm as I clutch it.

“Out back,” the attendant says, finally deigning to speak.

I nod thanks and shuffle toward the exit, the absurd fish dangling from my hand. Through the window, Xander pumps gas, his head turning to track my movement. The complete bewilderment on his face when he spots my fishy companion is almost worth the bladder discomfort.

“Don’t ask,” I mouth at him, hoisting the trout higher for emphasis.

The bathroom door sticks, requiring me to ram it with my shoulder while balancing the enormous fish. Inside, it’s as disgusting as expected—a single flickering light illuminating horrors that I immediately try to unsee.

“Whoever designed public restrooms was definitely a man,” I continue my rant to the judgmental fish trophy. “Stand, point, shoot—that’s your entire process. Meanwhile, I’m playing Twister with a rainbow trout just to avoid contracting seven different diseases.”

The toilet paper disintegrates when I touch it, leaving me to MacGyver a solution with the least suspicious-looking paper towels and hand sanitizer.

“And don’t get me started on period emergencies,” I tell the fish as I attempt to wash my hands in a trickle of water. “Every man should have to navigate a gas station bathroom wearing white pants during a surprise visit from Aunt Flo. It would revolutionize public bathroom design overnight.”

The bathroom door bursts open. A wild-eyed man with a patchy beard and a “Live, Laugh, Loot” t-shirt brandishes a screwdriver.

“Gimme your purse! And your phone! And—” his eyes dart, “—and that fish!”

“I don’t have a?—”

He lunges forward, screwdriver aimed at my chest. My fingers tighten around the fish’s wooden base.

My arm swings. The wooden plaque connects with his temple with a solid thwack .

The robber staggers backward, his screwdriver flying from his hand. It strikes the ancient condom dispenser mounted on the wall, puncturing it somehow. The machine starts dispensing its decades-old contents like a jackpot at a depressing casino.

“What the—” the robber exclaims, distracted by the rain of dusty condom packets.

He stumbles backward, slips on the wet floor, and falls. His head connects with the toilet with a sickening crack. The toilet tank lid slides off and smashes on his already-injured head.

Water gushes everywhere from the broken tank as I stand frozen, the fish-key still clutched in my white-knuckled grip.

The bathroom door pushes open, and Xander appears, gun drawn. His eyes widen as he takes in the scene. Me standing in shock with the fish in hand, the robber motionless by the toilet with condoms raining down on his body, and water flooding the floor .

“I...” I start, still holding the fish like a weapon. “He just...”

“This is not on the itinerary,” Xander mutters, holstering his weapon and pulling out latex gloves from his jacket pocket. “This isn’t even in the appendix of potential scenarios.”

“I didn’t mean to?—”

“Of course you didn’t,” he says, crouching beside the man.

His fingers press against the robber’s neck, searching for a pulse. He shifts positions, trying the wrist instead. Thirty seconds pass in silence.

“He’s dead.” Xander straightens and begins pacing the small space. “This complicates things. Significantly. Exponentially. The complication factor just went parabolic.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, still clutching the fish.

“Put down the murder weapon, please,” he says, his voice tight, “before you kill me, too. Death by trout was not how I planned to go.”

He pulls out his phone, checks the screen, then shoves it back in his pocket. “No coverage. Of course, there’s no coverage. That would be convenient, and nothing about this is convenient.”

He runs his hands through his hair. “This is why I plan. This is exactly why I plan. Do you know how many variables we now have to account for? Security cameras? Witnesses? Time of death in a public place? Vehicle descriptions?”

“Xander.”

He stops, blinking at me like he’s surprised I’m still here.

“I just killed someone,” I say, my voice shaking. “With a fish. ”

His expression softens for a fraction of a second before his analytical brain kicks back in. “Yes. Yes, you did. You okay?”

I nod.

He takes a deep breath. “Alright. This is...manageable. Not ideal, but manageable.”

“What do we do?” I ask.

I stare at the man sprawled across the bathroom floor as my brain struggles to process what just happened. The urge to vomit—or laugh—bubbles up, but I swallow it down.

“We need to get him out of here,” Xander says, pacing the small space between the sink and the door. His usually methodical movements have turned jerky and tense.

“Breathe,” I tell him, surprised by how steady my voice sounds. “Just breathe.”

He stops pacing and looks at me like I’ve suggested we take a leisurely swim in the toilet water still gushing across the floor. “Breathe? There’s a dead body, Oakley.”

“I’m aware. I’m the one who killed him with a fish.”

“Right. With a fish. In a gas station bathroom.” His voice rises. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen. I plan things. I research. I create contingencies and backup contingencies and?—”

I grab his shoulders. “Xander. Look at me.”

His gray-green eyes lock onto mine.

“We’ve got this,” I say. “No cameras, no witnesses except the clerk, and he barely looked up from his phone. We’ll get the body out, clean up, and be gone before anyone knows what happened.”

He takes a deep breath. “Okay. We need a plan. ”

“Here’s the plan. You grab his arms, I’ll take his legs, and we’ll drag him out the back door to the car.”

Xander looks appalled. “That’s not a plan! That’s a sentence with action verbs!”

Despite everything, a laugh bubbles up. “Welcome to improv murder, babe. Sometimes you gotta wing it.”

We stare at each other for a beat before Xander sighs. “Fine. Put on these gloves.” He pulls a second pair from his pocket and hands them to me.

“You just happen to be carrying two pairs of disposable gloves?”

“I also have three backup pairs in the car,” he says without a hint of irony. “Plus, a full forensic cleanup kit in the trunk. I’m not an amateur.”

I slide the gloves on. “Of course you do.”

Xander grabs the robber’s arms while I take his legs. The body is heavier than I expected, and the first attempt to lift him results in us nearly dropping him back into the growing puddle.

“On three,” I suggest. “One, two?—”

“This is ridiculous,” Xander mutters. “I should have brought my folding transport sheet. It’s in the emergency kit under the?—”

“Three!” I interrupt, hoisting up my end.

We maneuver through the door, the dead weight swinging between us like some macabre pendulum. The back of the gas station is deserted, a gravel lot littered with cigarette butts and empty beer cans stretching into the darkness.

“Car,” I grunt, already feeling the strain in my shoulders .

“I can’t just leave him here while I get the car,” Xander protests. “Someone might see!”

“Who? The raccoons?”

“Raccoons have excellent night vision and notable curiosity. They’re?—”

“Xander! The car! Now!”

“Don’t move,” he says, as if I might decide to take the corpse for a quick stroll.

I stand guard beside my accidental victim, trying not to look at his face. The distant sound of an engine tells me Xander has started the car. Headlights sweep across the gravel lot as he pulls around to the back.

He opens the trunk, and I’m not surprised to see it’s immaculately clean, with what appears to be a plastic liner already in place.

The corpse’s head smacks against the bumper with a thud that makes me wince.

“Sorry,” I mutter, then feel ridiculous for apologizing to a dead guy.

With a final effort, we fold the body into the trunk.

“You’re remarkably calm for someone who just committed her first homicide.”

“I’m compartmentalizing,” I explain, surprising myself with the truth of it. “Complete breakdown scheduled for later. I’ve penciled it in right after we dispose of the body and before dinner.”

He studies my face for a moment, then nods. “We should clean up the bathroom, remove any obvious evidence.”

“Already on it.” I hold up the fish key. “This beauty needs to go back on its hook.”

“You’re returning the murder weapon to the scene? ”

I shrug. “Pretty sure that’s expected when you borrow bathroom keys.”

I examine the fish key still in my hand, grab tissues from my pocket and wipe it clean, making sure to get every crevice.

A laugh escapes him. “This is insane.”

While Xander handles the bathroom cleanup, I slip back inside and return the fish to its hook by the register. The clerk doesn’t even look up from his phone.

We meet back at the car moments later.

“What now?” I ask, buckling my seatbelt as he pulls away from the gas station, our headlights cutting through the darkness.

“Now we have a body in the trunk and a three-hour drive ahead of us.”

“Just another Friday night, right?” I attempt a joke that falls flat.

We drive in silence for several miles, the weight of what happened settling between us. I stare out the window, watching the trees flash by in the darkness.

“How are you really doing?” Xander asks, his voice soft in the quiet car.

“I don’t know yet,” I admit. “I keep waiting for the guilt or horror to hit, but it’s like I’m watching someone else’s movie.”

“It’ll come,” he says with certainty. “The reality of it. Maybe not tonight or tomorrow, but it will.”

“You know what’s truly insane? I’ve known you for what?

A month? And in that time, I’ve discovered you spying on me, helped you torture a man to death, almost gotten killed by Blackwell’s men, and now I’ve accidentally murdered someone with a fish.

Yet somehow, this—” I gesture between us.

“This is the most functional relationship I’ve ever had. ”

Xander coughs. “That’s...a concerning reflection on your dating history.”

“Tell me about it. My last boyfriend thought putting the toilet seat down was too much commitment.”

The car swerves as a deer darts across the road. Xander curses, regaining control as the animal bounds into the forest.

“That was close,” I breathe, heart pounding.

“Yes, because explaining a deer collision with a corpse in the trunk would round out this evening nicely,” Xander mutters.

Red and blue lights flash behind us, illuminating the car’s interior in alternating crimson and sapphire.

“Oh fuck,” I whisper.