Page 51 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

Xander

B lackwell’s vacant eyes reflect the ceiling lights, unseeing. Blood creeps across the floor, soaking through the evidence we’ve literally nailed to his chest.

The red string connecting his sins gleams under the harsh lighting, like a web spun by a vindictive spider. Beside me, Oakley vibrates with aftershocks of adrenaline.

“You did it,” I say, my voice bouncing oddly in the confined space.

Oakley turns to me, pupils dilated to black holes, chest rising and falling in rapid bursts. A spray of Blackwell’s blood paints her cheek like macabre war paint.

Most gorgeous vigilante murderer ever .

“We did it,” she corrects, her voice shaky but sure. “Years waiting for this moment.”

I reach out, thumb grazing her cheek, smearing the blood rather than removing it. Something primitive stirs in my chest at the sight. Marking her. Bonding us together through this act of justice. Or murder.

Semantics, really.

She crashes into me, her mouth finding mine with the desperate intensity of someone breaking the surface after nearly drowning.

Lazlo’s voice shatters our moment, crackling through the comm with his signature terrible timing.

“Congrats on the most twisted first date milestone in history—murdering the guy who killed your parents! Welcome to the Hemlock family. Very touching moment, truly beautiful, but security’s sweeping the building floor by floor looking for the offender, which is yours truly.

They’ll reach the penthouse level soon.”

Oakley pulls back, a wild laugh escaping her. “Is he always like this?”

“Lazlo has a PhD in mood-killing,” I reach up and switch off both our comms with a decisive click.

“What are you doing?” Oakley whispers, eyes widening.

The silence rings between us. My hands shake slightly as I cup her face. Just in case I don’t make it out of here...

“I need a moment without our cheerful audience,” I say, attempting a smile that doesn’t quite stick. “Security’s coming, and I need to tell you something.”

Her eyes search mine, vulnerable beneath all that fierce determination.

“Xander—”

“I love you.” The words tumble out, raw and unfiltered. “Not because we just committed homicide together, though that’s certainly a unique bonding activity.” I stroke her cheek with my thumb. “I’ve loved you since you looked directly into my camera and called me out. ”

Her breath catches. I press my forehead against hers.

“I’ve spent my life observing people from a distance. Studying them. But you’re the first person who ever really saw me in return.”

A tear cuts through the blood on her cheek. “Xander, I?—”

“We’ll talk more when this is over,” I say, heart hammering against my ribs. I can’t bear to hear her response now. Not if it’s not what I hope for. “Now comes the fun sequel—escaping without becoming headline news.” I nod toward the ventilation shaft. “You need to go. Now.”

Her eyes dart around the panic room. “Where will you hide?”

“Don’t worry about me.” I disentangle from her embrace and guide her toward the ventilation shaft. “I’ll figure something out. You need to get to that restaurant before anyone notices you’re missing.”

“But—”

“No time to debate,” I say. “Darius is waiting to establish your alibi. If you’re not there when security finds the body, this all falls apart.”

Her eyes scan the room one more time, recognizing the lack of hiding spots. “There’s nowhere for you to?—”

“I’ll manage,” I say, already lifting her toward the vent. “Trust me. But you have to leave right now. Every second counts.”

She grips my wrists, fear flashing in her eyes. “What if they find you?”

“They won’t.” I boost her higher. “Remember the plan? Forty-eight hours, tops. Then I’m out. I have supplies. Don’t worry. ”

She hesitates just a moment longer, then she pulls herself into the vent, looking back over her shoulder. “Forty-eight hours. If you’re not out by then?—”

“I will be.” I stretch up to kiss her one last time. “Now go. Security’s moving fast. They can’t see you on this floor.”

With one final, intense look that punches straight through my chest, she disappears into the shaft of darkness. I listen to her movements fade, then force myself to focus. Emotions later. Survival protocols now.

Blood pools beneath Blackwell’s body, spreading in concentric circles across the polished concrete. Time to be meticulous. Leave no trace of myself, only the message we crafted for whoever finds the body.

My reflection in the stainless steel wall catches my eye—blood spatter dotting my cheek like a macabre connect-the-dots puzzle. I scrub with an alcohol pad from my kit, then attack my face, neck, and hands. The chemical stench burns my sinuses as I scour every inch of skin.

I pull out a handheld vacuum and run it over the floor, collecting microscopic evidence we might have shed despite our protection. Probably excessive, but “probably” gets people caught.

The nail gun sits beside Blackwell, wiped clean and left as part of our tableau. Everything else goes back into my pack.

Now for the hard part—finding somewhere to hide.

I scan the panic room. It’s big, with reinforced walls, a small bathroom alcove, and minimal furnishings. The ventilation system Oakley used is the only way in or out besides the main door, and I’d need to dislocate every joint in my body to fit through it .

The cabinet—too small. Under the bed—obvious. Bathroom alcove—nowhere to hide unless I develop the ability to transform into a roll of toilet paper.

I press my palms against various panels in the walls, looking for any hidden compartments. Nothing gives. The ceiling is solid, with recessed lighting fixtures too small to provide access to any crawl space. Fuck, I was sure a man like Blackwell would have them.

I’d been convinced a paranoid billionaire like Blackwell would have hidden compartments, secret panels, something designed for emergency escapes. Turns out money can’t buy imagination.

I knew this possibility existed when I volunteered. Calculated the statistical probability of ending up trapped, accepted the risks, and stepped into this death box, anyway.

For her.

Because Oakley couldn’t do this alone, and twelve years of hunting deserved its conclusion. Watching her get justice for her parents was worth every consequence, even if my future wardrobe consists of prison orange. A color that clashes catastrophically with my complexion.

“Well, shit.” I run fingers through my hair, scanning the space again. “Rhodes, you’ve outdone yourself in the bad decisions department.”

Movement on one of the security monitors catches my eye. I freeze, watching as six guards in tactical gear burst from the elevator, weapons drawn. They’re early.

“Double shit,” I mutter, watching them sweep through the penthouse.

“Perimeter secure,” one guard says into his radio.

My pulse quickens as they move toward the office where the panic room entrance is hidden. In five minutes, they’ll start wondering why Blackwell isn’t responding.

I need a hiding place. Now.

The guards converge outside the panic room door, weapons raised. I watch them through the monitors, my breathing shallow. What if they have a way to open the door?

“Mr. Blackwell?” The lead guard pounds on the door. “Sir, are you in there? Please respond.”

I glance at Blackwell’s corpse, half-expecting it to answer.

“Mr. Blackwell! This is security. The building’s been compromised. We need confirmation you’re safe.”

I scan the room again. Nothing. No hidden panels, no maintenance shafts, no emergency exits. Just reinforced walls, a corpse, and me.

Blackwell’s phone lights up where it lies a few feet from his body.

The second guard presses his radio. “Control, we have no response from the panic room.”

The team leader taps at the control panel outside. “System shows panic mode activated. Door’s sealed for the next forty-eight hours.”

“So we’re locked out?”

“Affirmative.”

“What if he’s hurt in there? Medical emergency?”

I watch them debate as I assess my dwindling options.

“Control, we have a situation. The panic room is sealed with Mr. Blackwell inside. No response to communication attempts. He doesn’t answer his phone. Request instructions.”

They wait, heads tilted toward their earpieces .

“Roger that. We’ll attempt the manual override with Ms. Blackwell’s credentials.”

The lead guard turns to his team. “Control is contacting the ex-wife for her override code. Johnson, stay here and keep trying to establish contact. The rest of you, secure the perimeter and prep for medical entry.”

Five guards scatter, leaving one stationed at the door.

I exhale. They’ll be coming back with override codes. When that door opens, they’ll find a very dead Blackwell and—if I don’t hurry—a very alive suspect.

My gaze lands on the massive safe built into the far wall—one of those luxury models for the paranoid ultra-rich.

“When in doubt, hide in the money pit,” I mutter, approaching the vault door.

It’s substantial—maybe four feet tall and three feet wide. Big enough for me to squeeze inside if I channel my inner contortionist. The steel walls would shield me from thermal scanners, and the construction is soundproof by design.

But the air... that’s a critical variable. A sealed box this size might hold enough oxygen for six, maybe eight hours if I regulate my breathing. Not ideal.

Still, no other options are presenting themselves. I could drag Blackwell’s body and chair over here, position him for a retinal scan, then clean up the drag marks. It might?—

Fuck. If I can use Blackwell’s retina to access the safe, so can the police when they find his body. They’ll open it during evidence collection and find me playing sardine.

My mind races through alternatives, but they all lead to the same conclusion.

I turn to look at Blackwell’s body, his vacant eyes still fixed on the ceiling. A wave of revulsion washes over me as I accept what needs to happen next.

“This wasn’t in the protocol,” I mutter to myself, pulling on a fresh pair of nitrile gloves. “This is definitely not in any protocol of mine.”

I crouch beside Blackwell’s body, taking out my tactical knife.

“God, I hate eyes. Like, fucking hate them.”

I position the blade near Blackwell’s right eye socket. My stomach performs gymnastics routines.

“This is ridiculous,” I mutter to myself. “I’ve removed a man’s heart while it was still beating. But eyes? Nope. Hard limit.”

I tap the knife handle against my palm, stalling. The cold metal bounces against my skin while I try to psych myself up.

“What kind of professional killer has an eye phobia? That’s like a chef who can’t stand the sight of onions. Or a librarian terrified of paper cuts.”

The knife hovers while my hand trembles. Blood continues pooling beneath the body, inching closer to my shoes. I shift my position, buying a few more seconds of delay.

“Come on, Rhodes. They’re just gelatinous spheres. Orbs of goo. Nature’s original surveillance cameras.”

I swallow hard, my throat clicking in the silent room.

“Oh great, now I’ve made it worse by anthropomorphizing them.”

My free hand braces against Blackwell’s cold forehead, steadying both of us for what comes next .

“Not going to puke. Absolutely not puking. Definitely going to puke.”

Vitreous fluid oozes between my fingers as I complete the extraction.

I gag, protein bar threatening a reappearance. I’ve gotten my hands dirty—literally—plenty of times, but something about eyes triggers a reaction I can’t override.

“This is so much worse than I anticipated,” I mutter, placing Blackwell’s eye in a plastic bag. I shudder, wiping sweat from my forehead with my forearm.

I take several deep breaths through my mouth.

One down, one to go.

I shift position and begin work on the left eye, bile climbing my throat. This one detaches more easily, which somehow makes it worse.

“Never again,” I promise myself, securing the second eye in its own bag. “This is a one-time solution to a one-time problem.”

I stand before the biometric safe, Blackwell’s eye between my fingers. My rational mind screams about unspeakable grossness while my practical side chants: Necessary. Necessary.

“This better work,” I mutter, positioning the eye in front of the scanner.

A pinprick of red light sweeps across the detached retina. For a terrible moment, I think it’s failed—then a satisfying mechanical click, followed by a female AI voice.

“Welcome, Mr. Blackwell.”

The heavy door swings open, revealing a walk-in vault. It’s spacious—six feet by three at least—with steel-lined walls and shelving units along one side. The other wall contains file cabinets. Emergency lighting strips run along the ceiling, casting everything in a bluish glow.

Roughly one hundred cubic feet of space.

Not ideal, but better than being caught red-handed with Blackwell’s corpse.

Cash stacks—euros, yen, dollars—sit neatly bundled. Several velvet bags probably contain gemstones or other portable wealth. But what captures my attention are file folders and external hard drives.

I gather all the documents and hard drives, carrying them out to Blackwell’s desk for the police to find.

Back in the vault, I remove my lightweight backpack and pull out a small toiletry kit and fresh clothes. I seal Blackwell’s eyes in an insulated container and tuck it away.

I strip off my clothing piece by piece. The familiar process of cleaning up after a kill grounds me, returns me to protocol.

Alcohol wipes across every inch of exposed skin, again. Extra attention to fingernails, ears, hairline. Fresh deodorant. Clean socks, underwear, black tactical pants, and a dark navy button-up that could pass for business casual once I’m out. I slip on new shoe covers over clean shoes.

Every item goes into a sealable evidence bag—clothes, wipes, shoe covers, gloves. I squeeze the air out and seal it tight. Second bag, for paranoia’s sake. The double-bagged evidence fits into my pack alongside minimal supplies—water, protein bars, battery pack.

Now comes the worst part. Waiting. Just me, my thoughts, and a container of human eyeballs.

“Somehow, not the worst date I’ve ever had,” I mutter as I pull the vault door closed.