Page 50 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

“Megan Clarke,” I say, holding up a photo of a dark-haired teenager. “Twenty years old when she disappeared.”

I hand the nail gun to Xander. He presses it against Blackwell’s shoulder. The mechanical thunk echoes as the nail penetrates flesh and muscle, securing the photo to Blackwell’s body. Blackwell’s scream muffles against the cloth, his body jerking against the restraints.

“Rebecca Torres,” I continue, sliding another photo across the table. “Nineteen. Last seen getting into a black car registered to your company.”

Thunk . Another nail, another photo, this time into his upper arm. Blood trickles in thin rivulets down his skin.

“Daniel Forrester,” I say, presenting a photo of a middle-aged man. “Whistleblower at your media company who was about to reveal your blackmail operation.”

Thunk . Blackwell’s chest this time, just below the collarbone.

For each piece of evidence, each name, each life destroyed, the nail gun delivers judgment.

I maintain eye contact with Blackwell as Xander works, each nail securing a document, a photo, a piece of evidence to Blackwell’s flesh.

His muffled screams gradually subside to whimpers, then to a hollow, defeated silence.

The nail gun’s metallic clank punctuates each new photo until Blackwell’s torso becomes a grotesque bulletin board of his crimes. Blood seeps from dozens of wounds where metal pierces flesh, spreading crimson pools across his once-pristine shirt.

I’m placing a document detailing bribes to Judge Harrison when Blackwell’s head lolls forward, his body going slack.

“Shit,” I mutter, checking his pulse. It’s there, but faint. “He’s out and we’re not done.”

Xander drops the nail gun and reaches into our supplies, pulling out a pre-filled syringe. “Lazlo’s special delivery,” he says, tapping the barrel to remove air bubbles. “Said we might need this.”

He jams the needle into Blackwell’s chest, pushing the plunger down. For a moment, nothing happens. Then Blackwell’s body convulses, his head snapping back, eyes flying open wide with a gasp that sounds like a drowning man breaking the surface.

“Welcome back,” I say, leaning in close enough to see the sweat beading on his forehead, to smell the metallic tang of his blood mixed with expensive cologne.

His chest heaves with desperate, ragged breaths. The adrenaline forces his heart to pump harder, sending fresh blood pouring from each wound. Little crimson rivulets trace paths down his torso, dripping onto his thighs and pooling on the floor beneath the chair.

“Can’t have you checking out early,” I say, removing the gag from his mouth. “We’re not finished yet.”

Blackwell’s eyes dart around the room, pupils dilated from the chemical surge.

I take the red string from my pocket and begin connecting the nails, creating a web across Blackwell’s body. Each connection represents relationships between victims, between crimes, between pieces of evidence that have taken me years to assemble.

“Every thread connects, Richard,” I say, my voice steadier than I expected. “Every crime, every cover-up, every death—they all lead back to you.”

The red lines form a grotesque map across his torso, blood mixing with deeper crimson thread. The string connects teenage girls to corrupt judges to business rivals who died in “accidents.” A constellation of suffering with Blackwell at its center.

I step away to appreciate my murder board before continuing.

From the bottom of the folder, I withdraw the police report of my parents’ deaths.

“Detective Sean Novak,” I say, my voice shaking. “Dr. Katherine Novak.”

I take the nail gun from Xander, feeling its weight, its purpose. I place it against Blackwell’s inner thigh, where the pain will be excruciating, but not lethal.

“My father.” Thunk .

I move to his other thigh. “My mother.” Thunk .

Blackwell’s eyes roll back, pain threatening to pull him under. Xander slaps him hard across the face.

“Eyes front, Richard,” he says. “You don’t get to leave the theater during the finale.”

I connect these final nails with red string, completing the web—the human murder board made of its creator. Blackwell hangs suspended in the chair, transfixed by physical evidence of his crimes, his skin now a gruesome collage of photos, documents, and blood.

It’s time.

I try to line the nail gun up with the center of Blackwell’s chest, but my hands won’t stop shaking.

Something between rage and grief rises in my throat, choking me.

Twelve years of searching, investigating, piecing together evidence—all leading to this moment.

Yet now that it’s here, my body betrays me.

Blackwell’s eyes find mine, barely focused through the haze of pain.

The nail gun trembles in my grip. Hot tears spill down my cheeks, blurring my vision.

Xander’s fingers wrap around mine, not pulling the nail gun away, just steadying it.

“Let me,” he whispers. “You did great.”

I release my grip, feeling the weight transfer from my hands to his. My arms drop to my sides.

Xander positions the nail gun over Blackwell’s heart. The bloody web of string stretches as Blackwell’s chest rises with one final desperate inhale.

“This is for Oakley,” Xander says, his voice calm and clinical. “And everyone else you destroyed.”

The mechanical thunk of the nail gun echoes in the small space. Blackwell’s body jerks once, then goes still.

The red string quivers, then settles as Blackwell’s final breath escapes.