Page 44 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

I stare at my Star Wars pajama pants and Xander’s oversized t-shirt. “I need to change.”

“Forget clothes. The murder board.”

I look at the wall where we’ve meticulously arranged our Blackwell evidence—photographs, documents, and my precious cat sticky notes forming an intricate web of information.

“Right. Priorities.”

I spring into action, abandoning my half-eaten cereal on the kitchen counter. My mind races through everything we’ve compiled about Blackwell.

“What’s the protocol here?” I ask, already pulling down photographs. “Do we hide everything or just organize it better?”

“Thorne will want to see our work,” Xander says, grabbing a stack of folders. “But we need it to be coherent to convince him. Right now it looks like?—”

“The work of a deranged stalker?” I offer.

“I was going to say ‘enthusiastic journalist,’ but yours works too.”

I snort and start rearranging the timeline. “Can you get me those financial records we found yesterday? The offshore accounts?”

Xander hands me a thick manila folder.

“Do you think they’ll actually help us?”

“They’ll help us if it helps them.” He pauses. “And if they believe you can be trusted.”

I nod, understanding the subtext. No matter what temporary approval Thorne gave me, I’m still an outsider. A liability.

“Fifteen minutes,” Xander warns.

I grab my cat sticky notes—color-coded by significance—and begin repositioning them.

Green for confirmed connections, yellow for suspected, red for financial ties, purple for violence.

The pattern emerges more clearly as I work, showing how Blackwell’s legitimate businesses feed into his criminal enterprises.

“Can you pass me the tape?” I ask, stretching to reach the top of the board.

Xander hands me the roll, his fingers brushing mine. Even now, with killers on their way to evaluate us, that tiny contact sends electricity through me.

“How do you think they’ll judge me?” I can’t help asking.

“They’ll judge your work,” he answers. “Calloway appreciates thoroughness. Thorne respects courage.” He pauses. “And nothing impresses Lazlo more than good snacks.”

I laugh despite myself. “Then I’m set.”

Ten minutes later, our board has transformed from a chaotic obsession to a methodical investigation.

Blackwell’s face stares out from the center, surrounded by his empire of corruption. Twelve years of my life, distilled into one damning display. I hope it’s enough.

I tidy the rest of the cabin, gathering discarded clothes, washing dishes, wiping down counters. I’m not sure why I care what serial killers think of my housekeeping, but I do.

“Two minutes,” Xander says, checking his phone.

I dash to the bedroom, changing from pajamas into jeans and a black sweater. Professional, but not trying too hard. I catch my reflection in the mirror and take a deep breath. This isn’t just about impressing Xander’s murder friends—it’s about finally getting justice for my parents.

“You ready?” Xander appears in the doorway.

“As I’ll ever be,” I adjust my mother’s locket, centering it perfectly.

The security system chimes, announcing our visitors.

Thorne Ravencroft strides in like he owns the place—which he probably does. He’s immaculate in tailored pants and a charcoal button-down with rolled sleeves. His steel-gray eyes scan the cabin, cataloging everything before landing on me.

Thank God I cleaned up .

Behind him, Calloway Frost saunters in with deliberate grace, his asymmetrical blond hair artfully tousled. He wears all black again, the fabric draping his lean frame like it were liquid.

Calloway’s pale blue eyes light up. “You again. Still alive.”

“I’ll live longer than you,” I say.

“Oh, she’s spicy,” Calloway laughs. “I love that.”

The door opens again, admitting a man whose presence immediately shifts the energy in the room.

Tall, with rich, dark skin and penetrating amber eyes, he moves with the controlled power of someone who navigates different worlds daily.

Something about him feels both completely put-together and slightly dangerous, like he knows exactly who he is and doesn’t care if that works for anyone else.

“Ms. Novak,” he says, his voice like smooth bourbon. “Darius Evers. I tracked your coverage of the Westfield corruption case. Impressive work.”

“You’re an attorney,” I blurt, recognition dawning. “You represented the mayor during that scandal.”

“I represent many people.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Some deserve it more than others.”

“He’s our legal contingency plan,” Xander explains.

“And fantasy football champion three years running,” Darius adds, checking his phone. “Which reminds me—Thorne, you still owe me fifty bucks from last season.”

Thorne’s expression remains unchanged. “I dispute the validity of that last touchdown.”

“The commissioner ruled. Accept your loss with dignity.”

The final arrival strides through the door with calm purpose, carrying a medical bag. He scans the room with intelligent, golden-brown eyes before they land on me.

“Sorry I’m late. Thought I was developing symptoms of Bolivian hemorrhagic fever, but turns out it was just heartburn from those gas station taquitos.

” He spots me and breaks into a wide grin.

“You must be the journalist who’s turned our resident shadow into a lovesick teenager,” he says with a smile that could melt ice.

“Lazlo Vega. I’m the one they call when things get messy. ”

“He’ll be useful when Blackwell starts bleeding,” Xander says.

“Oh? We’re doing Blackwell?” Lazlo’s eyes light up as he examines my murder board. “I thought we voted no. Nice organization system, by the way. The sticky notes with—are those jetpack cats?—really tie it together.”

“See?” I nudge Xander. “He appreciates it.”

Thorne moves to the center of the room, commanding attention without effort. “Let’s be clear, if we’re doing this, this operation will need to be impeccable.”

“I’ve already started surveillance on his medical facility,” Xander says, pulling out his phone. “Building security is primarily focused on patient privacy, not intrusion prevention.”

“I can bring supplies for various cardiac scenarios,” Lazlo says, patting his medical bag.

“Where’s Ambrose?” Xander asks, looking toward the door.

“Out of town,” Thorne replies. “Won’t be back until next week.”

I stare at them, these killers discussing murder with the casual efficiency of a corporate board meeting .

“You’re all...helping?” I ask.

“Of course, darling,” Calloway says. “We’re a society. Very exclusive membership, deadly benefits package.”

“Plus,” Lazlo adds with a warm smile, “adding a journalist to the mix brings a fresh perspective.” He winks, somehow making even this morbid discussion seem charming. “We’ve never had a journalist before. It’s exciting. Like adding a new instrument to the orchestra of death.”

“That metaphor needs work,” Darius mutters.

“I’m thinking about your parents’ case,” Thorne says, ignoring them. “The connection to Blackwell has significant implications.”

I tense. “You know about my parents?”

“I make it my business to know about new recruits,” Thorne replies, something cold and calculating in his eyes. “The police will see you as a potential suspect. You have a clear motive.”

“I haven’t exactly hidden my investigation of him,” I admit.

“It’s a factor we need to account for,” Thorne continues. “Though it shouldn’t be that hard to divert their attention. Blackwell has a long list of victims and enemies. The challenge will be ensuring your name doesn’t rise to the top of that list.”

“We’ll need to create distance,” Darius adds. “Establish alibis, minimize electronic footprints.”

“What he’s saying,” Xander translates, “is that we need to protect you from suspicion while still getting you the justice you deserve.”

“Also because Xander is clearly smitten,” Calloway stage-whispers, “and we’re nothing if not supportive of workplace romance.”

“This isn’t a workplace,” Xander protests.

“Of course it is, Bestie. Murder is our business, and business is killing.”

Thorne studies my murder board. “You’ve done impressive work mapping his medical appointments.”

“The blood thinners create an opportunity,” I explain, slipping into reporter mode. “Minimal security, predictable schedule, enhanced vulnerability.”

“She’s a natural,” Darius observes with appreciation.

“I told you,” Xander says, pride evident in his voice.

Strange warmth spreads through me at his words, at being accepted into this bizarre, deadly fellowship.

“Well,” Calloway says, clapping his hands together, “shall we begin planning how to deliver our cardiac friend to the great art gallery in the sky? I’m thinking something with dramatic blood spatter—really make use of those thinners.”