Page 57 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

Oakley

“ T hey’re saying a vigilante killed Richard Blackwell,” Zara says, leaning close over the pounding bass.

My mother’s silver locket freezes between my fingers mid-twist. The man who destroyed my family is dead, and here I am, sipping a gin and tonic in a crowded nightclub like I didn’t help plan his murder.

Bass thrums through my veins, mingling with adrenaline and something darker. Across the club, hidden in shadow, I know Xander watches—my co-conspirator, my lover, my complexity.

I clutch my drink tighter, ice cubes tinkling against glass like tiny warning bells while Zara swirls something electric blue with an umbrella jutting from its sugary depths.

It feels surreal to be here after everything that’s happened. Normal. Almost like I’m playing a role.

“So.” Zara leans forward, her box braids swinging over her shoulder to rest on her chest, gold cuffs catching the strobing lights. “It’s all over the news. Richard Blackwell found dead in his fancy panic room. They’re saying it was some deranged vigilante.”

I take a slow sip of my drink, ice clicking against my teeth. “I saw.”

“The papers are calling it ‘poetic justice.’ All those documents discovered.” Zara studies my face with the intensity she reserves for diagnosing skin conditions on her canine clients. “The papers are reporting that your parents’ case might be reopened.” That Blackwell framed your dad.”

My finger traces a water ring on the table. “They found everything in his home. Records of payoffs, doctored evidence.”

“Oak.” Zara reaches across the table, her warm fingers closing over mine. “How are you? Really?”

The question hangs between us like smoke. How am I? Relieved? Satisfied? The weight that’s lived in my chest for twelve years suddenly...lighter?

“I’m glad he’s dead,” I say, words bubbling up from somewhere primal and raw. “I keep waiting to feel bad about it, but I don’t. There’s only relief.”

Zara nods. “Your parents deserved justice.”

“They deserved to be alive.” My throat tightens as I twist my mother’s locket. “But the truth is out now. The department’s reopening all my dad’s cases. His name will be cleared.” Another sip, longer this time. “They can rest now. My parents. They can finally have peace.”

“And you?” Zara asks. “Can you?”

I look up at her, my oldest friend who’s stood by me through everything. Who brought me Jamaican beef patties when I was too obsessed with work to eat. Who never once told me to give up on my parents’ case, even when everyone else did.

“I think I’m getting there,” I say, surprised to find I mean it. “What about you? How’s the family restaurant situation?”

Zara’s face breaks into a wide grin, her eyes lighting up. “Amazing. That hotel chain contract? It saved everything. My parents had to hire three new people just to keep up with orders.”

“That’s great, Z,” I say, happy for her despite knowing more than I should. “How much is the contract worth?”

“Triple their monthly revenue,” Zara says, taking a victory sip of her rum punch. “Dad threw out the duct-taped mixer. They bought new equipment. They’re so happy.”

I smile, picturing Thorne—or at least I assume it was Thorne. It’s too much of a coincidence to be anyone else. A single phone call from him, a life-changing miracle for Zara’s family.

I take another sip of my drink, following Zara’s animated gesturing as she describes the new kitchen equipment.

“What’s with the smile?” Zara asks, eyebrow raised.

“Nothing,” I say, but it’s everything. The man never mentioned checking on Zara, never breathed a word about helping her family.

Nothing about rescuing a struggling Jamaican restaurant advances his murderous agenda or protects the Society.

Yet he did it anyway—saw something that mattered to me and fixed it, expecting no recognition or gratitude.

Every time I think I understand Thorne, he reveals another layer.

Steel-gray eyes that miss nothing, hands that orchestrate death without trembling, yet the same man who ensures my best friend’s parents keep their livelihood.

Who helped Xander and me when we needed.

His public face—controlled, calculated, dangerous—seems like armor protecting something unexpected underneath. Something almost...tender.

“Hey, Space Cadet.” Zara waves her hand in front of my face. “You disappeared on me.”

“Sorry,” I murmur, twisting my locket again. “Just thinking.”

The Hemlock Society began as a means to an end—a scoop for my newspaper. But somewhere between planning sessions and sharing meals, they’ve become something else.

Xander’s lingering glances. Lazlo’s hypochondriac humor. Calloway’s artistic obsessions. Ambrose with his ancient book quotations and military metaphors. Darius’s fantasy football disasters. They’re killers, yes, but also people with histories and quirks and unexpected kindnesses.

I’ve found a family in them. Something I’ve craved since I lost my parents. But it’s a family bonded by blood spilled rather than shared. Is this really what I’ve been looking for all these years?

“Enough about my parents’ miracle,” Zara says, studying me. “What’s going on with you? You seem different.”

I pop a French fry into my mouth. “Different how?”

“I don’t know. Like you’re here, but not here.” She narrows her eyes. “It’s not just the Blackwell thing, is it?”

My phone vibrates against the table. Xander.

“Who keeps texting you?” Zara tries to peek at my screen. “Is it sexy security guy?”

I angle the phone away. “Maybe.”

Xander

Do you have an answer for Thorne?

Not yet. I asked for more time to think about it.

Xander

Want to think about it over sex?

“You’re smiling at your phone,” Zara points out. “I haven’t seen that in...ever.”

Xander

Don’t drink too much.

I frown, scanning the bar. The booths along the wall, the crowded area by the dartboards, the bar itself where men in business attire unwind after work. No sign of Xander’s familiar face.

Are you stalking me?

Three dots appear immediately.

Xander

Always.

Something warm unfurls in my chest.

I set my phone down. “Sorry. Can I ask you something hypothetical?”

“Those are my favorite kind of somethings.” Zara steals one of my fries.

I take a breath. “What would you do if you had an option to join something big, important. But it’s not really who you are? Or who you thought you were?”

“Is this about a job?” Zara asks, eyebrows raised. “Did the Boston Globe finally offer you that crime desk position?”

“No, but something like that.”

“Well,” Zara says, signaling the bartender for another round, “my grandma would say, ‘If yuh born fi hang, yuh can’t drown.’”

“Meaning?”

“Your destiny finds you, no matter what.” She shrugs. “But personally, I think that’s bullshit. We choose who we become.”

The bartender sets fresh drinks before us. I wrap fingers around the cool glass but don’t lift it.

“When I opened my shop,” Zara continues, “everyone said I was crazy to leave a stable job to groom dogs. But it felt right.” She points a French fry at me. “What feels right for you?”

“I don’t know.” I stare into my drink, watching the ice cubes slowly melt.

Thorne’s words echo in my mind. “The question isn’t whether you can kill, Oakley. It’s whether you need to.”

And that’s the crux of it all. Each member of the Hemlock Society has a compulsion—a need that drives them.

Calloway transforms murder into art to purify his world.

Lazlo chases the adrenaline rush while punishing those who hurt children.

Darius creates his meticulous death chambers to balance the scales that the justice system never will. Thorne orchestrates it all.

And Xander... Xander watches.

But me? I killed Blackwell for revenge .

That itch they describe isn’t there. That compulsion crawling beneath their skin.

My phone buzzes again, this time with a photo message. I angle the screen away from Zara’s prying eyes and open it, my breath catching. It’s a close-up of Xander’s hand holding what looks like?—

“What’s he saying that’s making you turn that color?” Zara asks, leaning forward with a grin. “Must be good.”

I lock my screen. “Nothing.”

“Uh-huh. Your face disagrees.” She sips her cocktail, smiling.

My phone buzzes again.

Xander

I can see you from here. That dress is killing me. So glad I bought it for you.

I scan the club again. The dance floor, packed with writhing bodies. The VIP section above us. The shadowy corners where couples press against each other.

Where are you?

Xander

Three o’clock. Behind the column.

I turn slightly, and there he is—leaning against a pillar near the bar, watching me with that intense focus that sends electricity across my skin.

Dark jeans and a fitted black Henley showcasing shoulders that should require a permit.

Our eyes lock across the room, and he raises his whiskey glass an inch or two.

“He’s here,” I say .

“Who’s—” Zara swivels, following my gaze. “Wait, is that him? Your mystery man?”

I nod, heat climbing up my neck as Xander’s eyes travel slowly down my body, lingering on the hemline of my dress.

“Damn, Acorn.” Zara whistles low. “Now I see why you’ve been distracted. He’s gorgeous. Invite him over.”

Want to join us?

He reads my text. His eyebrow raises slightly, and I can almost hear his mental calculations, weighing the risk of meeting Zara against disappointing me.

Xander

Are you sure?

She’s dying to meet you.

“I invited him over,” I tell Zara.

Zara practically bounces in her seat. “Yes! I’ve been wanting to meet this guy for weeks. He’s like Bigfoot—I was starting to think you made him up.”

Xander pushes away from the column, moving through the crowd with that graceful, purposeful walk that somehow parts groups of people without them even noticing, his eyes never leaving mine.

“Oh my God,” Zara murmurs. “The way he’s looking at you. Like you’re the only person on the planet. So hot.”

“Stop it,” I whisper, but I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face.