Page 56 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

Oakley

I sit at the black obsidian table, my fingers laced through Xander’s. His hand radiates warmth again—so different from the cold, limp weight I’d dragged from Blackwell’s vault.

The air in the chamber seems to pulse with unspoken power. Six killers gathered around a table of black stone. Men who’ve claimed dozens of lives between them—and me.

A family reunion of predators.

The hemlock flower motifs etched into the crystal tumblers catch the crimson light, transforming harmless designs into silent declarations.

Each leather chair bears the subtle imprint of its owner, worn into their postures, like nests built by meticulous birds of prey.

Nothing in this hidden chamber beneath the Beacon Hill Gentlemen’s Association exists by accident.

This is a temple built for judgment. For execution. For justice delivered by those who’ve appointed themselves its architects.

And they’re all watching me.

“I believe congratulations are in order,” Darius says, raising his glass. His amber eyes gleam behind designer glasses. “Blackwell is dead, and the empire he built continues to crumble as we speak. Perfect execution of justice.”

“To justice served cold,” Calloway adds, studying me with an artist’s appreciation. “And to our newest collaborator.”

The weight of their gazes presses on me. I take a sip of the expensive whiskey Thorne poured for me, letting it burn down my throat.

“You performed admirably under pressure,” Thorne says, his voice carrying the faintest note of approval. “The nail gun was a brilliant touch. Symmetrical justice for a man who hammered your family’s reputation.”

A warm glow spreads through my chest at his words, the sensation catching me off guard. Since when does Thorne’s approval matter? Why should I care what this cold-blooded killer thinks of my work?

Yet the praise lingers, sweet and dangerous.

“She saved my life,” Xander says, his voice still raspy. His thumb traces circles on the back of my hand. “She came back for me when she could have walked away.”

“We all did. Breaking approximately sixteen protocols,” Thorne notes, his finger tapping once against his glass.

“Worth it,” I say, squeezing Xander’s hand.

I set my tumbler down, the crystal making a soft clink against the obsidian surface. “The cops came by my apartment yesterday,” I say, breaking the momentary silence. “About my parents.”

Five sets of eyes snap to attention. Xander’s hand tightens around mine.

“That was expected.” Thorne’s voice remains calm, but his posture shifts. “What did they say?”

I run my thumb along the rim of my glass. “Said some new evidence came to light after Blackwell’s death. Documents found in his office that suggest he was involved in my parents’ deaths.”

Lazlo leans forward with unusual focus. “What did you tell them?”

I shrug, meeting his gaze. “What we agreed on. It’s the same thing I’ve been telling anyone who would listen for the past twelve years.

That Blackwell killed them. That my father never took bribes.

That the murder-suicide narrative was bullshit.

” I take another sip of whiskey, savoring the burn.

“Difference is, this time they seemed to believe me.”

Calloway tilts his head. “How detailed were their questions?”

“Mostly about my whereabouts the night Blackwell died. Standard alibi-establishing stuff.” I tap my fingernails against the glass.

“Did they ask about any of us?” Thorne asks.

“No. Just me. My history with Blackwell. The usual.”

Xander clears his throat. “They won’t find anything that connects us to the panic room,” he says. “No DNA was recovered from the scene. They’re still working with the theory that whoever killed him left through the vent system, but they can’t prove who it was.”

“The fingerprint I created was destroyed,” Lazlo adds, fidgeting with his cufflinks. “Though I must say, my synthesized fingerprint technique was some of my best work. Almost a shame no one will appreciate it.”

“The only concrete evidence they have that connects you to Blackwell’s death, to his involvement in framing your father,” Xander continues, squeezing my hand, “along with ten other cases, was stapled to him.”

Thorne taps his fingers on the table surface, a sound like gentle rainfall. He turns to Darius. “Keep an eye on the investigation. If anything comes up that involves any of us, I want to know immediately.”

Darius nods, his amber eyes unreadable. “Already on it. I have contacts in the DA’s office. They’ll tip me off if anything comes up.”

My finger hovers over the newspaper app before tapping it open. Blackwell’s face stares back at me from behind the headline.

MEDIA MOGUL MURDERED: Shocking Evidence Reveals Decades of Corruption.

“The detectives are still trying to untangle all the evidence we nailed to him.”

Darius scrolls through his own phone. “Channel 7 is running a special report tonight on Blackwell’s offshore accounts. The paper trail we left is getting plenty of attention.”

“It’s working exactly as planned,” Thorne says, his voice measured but satisfied. “The empire falls, brick by brick.”

For over ten years, I’ve dreamed of this—justice for my parents. Vindication. The truth revealed.

“They’re reopening my parents’ case,” I say, my voice steady despite the emotion building in my chest. “Detective Sean Novak and Dr. Katherine Novak, victims of a powerful man’s corruption, not a murder-suicide.”

Xander’s hand tightens around mine. “The evidence we left pointing to Blackwell’s involvement is pretty irrefutable. Even the most skeptical detectives can’t ignore it.”

“The medical examiner who falsified your mother’s autopsy report has already been suspended,” Lazlo adds, looking up from his tablet. “And three officers involved in the original investigation are facing internal affairs reviews.”

I pull up another article, this one featuring a photo of my father in his detective uniform beside my mother in her lab coat—the same photo I kept on my investigation board for years. “Look at this. ‘Decorated Detective Framed by Media Mogul: The True Story of Sean and Katherine Novak.’”

“Your father’s old partner gave an interview,” Thorne says, sliding his phone toward me. “Says he always had doubts about the official story.”

On screen, Captain Miller, now gray-haired and retired, stands on the steps of police headquarters. “Sean Novak was the most honest cop I ever knew,” the caption reads. “I never believed he would hurt his wife or himself.”

I blink back tears. “Twelve years. Twelve years I’ve been trying to get anyone to listen.”

“They’re listening now,” Xander says, his thumb brushing across my knuckles.

Darius adjusts his glasses. “Blackwell Media Group’s stock dropped sixty-three percent this morning. The board has called an emergency meeting. Several major shareholders have already jumped ship.”

“They’re even revisiting Martin Reeves’ murder. Police are investigating whether Blackwell’s security team was involved.”

“One death opens the door to justice for many,” Thorne observes, refilling my glass.

I set down my phone and look around at these men—killers who have become my allies, my collaborators. Perhaps even my friends. The red-tinged light makes them look almost otherworldly, like figures in a painting depicting both heaven and hell.

“My whole adult life has been about this moment,” I say. “Proving that my father didn’t kill my mother. Proving that Blackwell was behind it all. Showing the world who he really was.”

“Mission accomplished,” Calloway says, raising his glass. “Your performance piece is complete, and the critics are raving.”

“And quite stylishly,” Lazlo adds. “The murder board was a nice touch. Very thematic. Though I still maintain we could have gone with something more exotic. I have a collection of rare venoms that?—”

“Next time, Lazlo,” Darius says.

I pick up my glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light. “For the first time in ten years, I feel...” I pause, searching for the right word.

“Vindicated?” Darius suggests.

“Avenged?” offers Calloway. “Artistically satisfied?”

I shake my head. “Content.”

The word hangs strange on my tongue, foreign after so many years of rage and purpose. But it’s true. The hollow space that’s carved itself inside me has...shifted. Not gone, but transformed. Where white-hot fury once boiled, something cooler now flows through the chambers of my heart.

My gaze drifts to Xander, his thumb still tracing circles on my skin. The emptiness that drove me for so long now pulses with something new, something that doesn’t demand constant feeding but offers sustenance instead.

“To content,” Xander says, raising his glass to mine. His eyes crinkle at the corners—the first genuine smile I’ve seen from him since the vault.

Six crystal tumblers clink against mine, the sound bright and clear in the underground chamber. I meet each pair of eyes—cold blue, amber, gray-green, deep brown, steel gray—and feel something I haven’t experienced in years.

Peace.

Thorne studies me for a long moment, then sets his tumbler down with a soft click against the table. “Which brings us to the matter at hand.”

The room falls silent except for the soft hum of the ventilation system.

“You’ve accomplished what you set out to do,” Thorne continues. “Blackwell is dead. Your parents are avenged. Your mission is complete.”

I swallow hard. He’s right. The singular focus that’s driven me since I was sixteen has been fulfilled. There’s a hollow space inside me where that purpose used to live.

“Xander tells us you’ve demonstrated certain...aptitudes,” Lazlo says, leaning forward. “The gas station guy. Your contributions with Wendell. Not to mention your quick thinking during the extraction.”

“I didn’t plan those,” I say. “The gas station was self- defense. And Wendell...” I trail off, remembering the sound of metal against bone.

“That’s the point,” Xander says. “You didn’t plan them, but you performed them. Like you were born for it.”

“What Xander is trying to say,” Thorne interjects, “is that you’ve proven yourself capable. But capability isn’t the only consideration.”

I unwrap a chocolate bar from my pocket, breaking it into pieces. No one comments on my nervous habit anymore.

“We are serial killers,” Thorne continues, the words hanging in the air. “We kill because we need to. It’s a compulsion, a drive that cannot be ignored. Xander must watch. Calloway must create. I must execute justice.”

He leans forward, fingers steepled. “Your drive was vengeance for your parents. Now that Blackwell is dead, that drive is satisfied.”

“What Thorne is asking,” Xander translates, his eyes fixed on mine, “is whether you still feel the need to kill now that your mission is complete.”

I consider this. The nail gun in my hand. The weight of the knife during training. The rush of power when the gas station attendant fell. Were those moments just a means to an end, or something more?

“So,” Thorne asks, “do you want to be a part of us?”