Page 7 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

Oakley

T he key sticks at the three-quarter turn, same spot it always does.

I ram my shoulder against the door while balancing my laptop bag, camera case, and the industrial-sized coffee that’s keeping my brain cells from staging a mass suicide after four nights of surveillance. The apartment greets me with darkness and silence.

I flip the light switch with my elbow.

Something’s wrong.

My eyes sweep the room. Laundry explosion in the corner, crime scene photos plastered across the wall, dishes breeding new life forms in the sink. Everything looks normal, but the air feels...violated. The hairs on my neck rise.

“Hello?” I call out, then want to punch myself.Right, because murderers always announce themselves. Just your friendly neighborhood gallery killer. Don’t mind me, I’m just rearranging your sock drawer.

I set my equipment down and reach into my jacket’s hidden inner pocket for the pepper spray I keep there. Right next to the emergency Twizzlers.

My laptop bag drops near the coffee table. I squint at it. The coffee table that’s...aligned with the couch? Yesterday morning, I knocked it crooked, rushing to an interview, and unless gravity decided to develop OCD...

My phone buzzes against my hip, and my soul nearly exits my body.

I fumble through my pockets. The screen glows with a new email notification.

“They found me. Taking off. Don’t contact me. Sorry. Martin.”

“Fuck,” I mutter, jabbing at his number.

It rings four times. I’m about to hang up when the line connects.

“I told you not to call.” His voice sounds thin, stretched like plastic wrap about to tear. Nothing like the confident man who’s been feeding me information on the Blackwell case for months.

“Martin, what’s going on? Who found you?”

“I don’t know, but someone’s been following me. A white van. And someone broke in.”

I scan my apartment again. “How do you know it was connected?”

“Nothing taken, but stuff moved. Then today, my supervisor called me in. Said there was an internal investigation about unauthorized access to some files. They know, Oakley. I need to disappear.”

My mind races. Martin has been crucial to my investigation into Blackwell .

“Where are you now?”

“Cheap motel off Route One. Got a bus ticket to New York for tonight.”

“Don’t leave. I need twenty minutes. What room are you in?”

“No way. I’ve helped enough.”

I pace across my apartment, kicking aside a trail mix wrapper. “Martin, listen to me. Help me take him down. He won’t stop chasing you if I don’t.”

Silence stretches between us, thin as spider silk.

“What room, Martin?”

“118. Driftwood Motel. But twenty minutes, that’s it.”

“Wait for me.”

I hang up and grab my camera bag again, dumping half its contents to make room for my laptop. I need to document whatever Martin tells me.

I blow through every red light between my apartment and the Driftwood Motel, one hand on the wheel, the other alternating between my phone’s GPS and stuffing chocolate-covered espresso beans into my mouth. My Honda screams in mechanical protest as I push it past sixty.

“Come on, come on.” My fingers drum the steering wheel in time with my racing pulse.

The Driftwood Motel materializes ahead, a single-story horseshoe of desperation surrounding a pot-holed parking lot. The vacancy sign flickers, half-dead, mirroring the dreams of anyone staying there. I slow down, scanning for threats.

I pull into a spot three doors down from Martin’s room, behind a rusted pickup truck that offers cover. My hands shake as I kill the engine and reach for my bag .

Two men in dark suits stand outside Martin’s door. My stomach drops through the floor.

Not police. Police wear their badges as armor, bring backup, follow procedure. The taller one knocks while the shorter one keeps his hand inside his jacket, where guns go to hide.

Don’t open. Don’t open.

The door opens. Martin’s face flashes pale as milk before they push inside.

I grab my camera and train the lens on the thin curtains of room 118. The motel’s cheap lighting turns the fabric into a shadow puppet theater.

Three silhouettes. Martin backing up. The taller man gesturing with sharp, angry movements.

No sound reaches me, but I don’t need audio. Martin’s body language broadcasts terror on all frequencies. Shoulders hunched, hands raised.

The shorter figure steps forward, arm extended.

“No, no, no,” I whisper.

A flash. Then another. The curtain brightens with each muzzle flare. No sound. Silencer.

Martin’s silhouette crumples to the floor, a marionette with cut strings.

My hand clamps over my mouth, trapping the scream building in my throat. Bile rises, hot and bitter. I force myself to keep watching.

Martin wasn’t just a source. He was a good man, a rare specimen in a world of self-interest. He didn’t have to help me. He could have ignored my calls, deleted my emails. But he believed in me. And now he’s gone.

The men search the room, rifling through Martin’s belongings. The taller one emerges with a laptop tucked under his arm. The shorter one follows with a folder.

Evidence. Information. Everything Martin had on Blackwell. Everything I need.

I slide down in my seat as they walk to their car, memorizing their faces while staying hidden. The taller one bears a scar running from his left eye to his jaw, jagged as a lightning bolt. The shorter one moves with a slight limp, right leg dragging.

My fingers find the silver locket at my throat, closing around it.

A lifeline. I grip it tighter as I watch the killers walk to their car.

No blood on their pristine suits. They don’t hurry.

They don’t check their surroundings. They move with the confidence of men who know they’ll never face a jury.

My thumb traces the tiny dent on the locket’s edge where Mom dropped it once while gardening.

The car pulls away, and I press the locket to my lips, the metal warming against them. Mom would tell me to call the police. Dad would say the same. But the police didn’t help them. The police believed Blackwell’s story. The police found no evidence of foul play when my parents were found dead.

Should I follow them?

I should follow them.

Fuck.

I sit frozen, knuckles white around my camera, the taste of copper filling my mouth where I’ve bitten the inside of my cheek.

Martin is dead. Because of me. Because I pushed him to help me.

My hand fumbles for the door handle. I spill out onto the asphalt, knees hitting hard. The contents of my stomach splatter across the pavement.

I heave until nothing remains but bile and gasping breaths.

Martin waited for me. I asked him to wait.

Twenty minutes, I said. If I’d driven faster. If I’d left immediately. If I hadn’t made him talk to me again.

The realization crashes down. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, the acid taste lingering on my tongue. My eyes burn with tears I refuse to let fall. Not here.

A man who simply helped me access records that should have been public, anyway. A clerk who wanted to do the right thing.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

The men could return. They could check the parking lot.

I drag myself back into the driver’s seat, hands trembling so badly that I drop my keys twice before starting the engine. The Honda coughs to life.

I ease out without headlights, heart thundering in my ears. Once I reach the main road, I flip them on and force myself to drive at the speed limit. No attention. No suspicion.

The folder Martin had. The laptop. Everything documenting Blackwell’s connections to the corrupt officials who framed my father. Who framed others. Everything linking him to my mother’s death. Gone.

Two years of investigation. Hundreds of hours pursuing leads, connecting dots, building a case that would finally expose the truth. My one chance at justice for my parents.

I need to make sure no one follows me home .

I pull over three blocks from my apartment, unable to see through the tears that break free. My fist pounds the steering wheel once, twice, again, until my hand throbs with pain that doesn’t begin to match the hollow ache in my chest.

I sit immobile, watching occasional cars pass, their headlights sweeping across my windshield. The digital clock on my dashboard changes numbers. Ten minutes. Twenty. Thirty.

No one followed me. No one saw me.

I straighten, wiping streaks of mascara from under my eyes. The moment of weakness passes, leaving cold clarity in its wake.

Martin is dead. My evidence is gone.

But I’m still here.

I leave my car at the curb instead of bothering with the garage. It’s almost midnight. Boston sleeps, unaware that evidence of Blackwell’s crimes has just been obliterated along with Martin’s life.

The walk to my apartment feels equal to wading through cement. My limbs move by rote. One foot in front of another. My key finds the lock. My hand twists the knob.

I slip inside and stand in the darkness. The emptiness of my apartment mocks me.

Call the police? Report what I saw?

A bitter laugh escapes my lips. Police. Guardians of justice.Right, and Santa Claus runs a summer camp for unicorns.

My father wore that uniform. Believed in that badge. And when he found evidence of Blackwell’s corruption, his own brothers helped destroy him. Planted evidence. Falsified reports. Created a narrative where my detective father took bribes.

I flip on the light and face my investigation wall. Two years of work. Red strings connecting photos, documents, testimonies. Martin’s photo sits near the center.

I cross the room and reach for a thick black marker. With slow, deliberate strokes, I draw an X across his face.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper at the photo. “I’m so sorry.”

My fingers trace the other connections now severed by his death. Officials Blackwell had in his pocket. Documentation of payoffs. Evidence that could have brought down Blackwell’s empire.

All gone.

I slam my palm against the wall and send pain shooting up my arm.

I rip Martin’s photo from the wall and stare at his Xed-out face. For a moment, I see him again. The shadow behind the motel curtain crumpling to the floor.

One call to report a murder. That’s what a good citizen would do. What a journalist with integrity would do.

But I know better. If Blackwell has moles in law enforcement—and he does—they’d know I was the caller. They’d trace me to the scene. They’d discover my connection to Martin. They’d realize what information I was after.

And then another X would appear on my investigation board. My own.

I open my laptop instead, hands still trembling. There must be another way. Another source. Another angle of attack.

Hours blur together. I try his social media accounts, hoping for messages I might recover. Nothing .

My fingers ache from typing. My eyes burn from staring at the screen. The sun rises, casting long shadows across my floor, but I barely notice.

Blackwell’s web is vast, but there’s always a thread to pull. Always. I’ll find it. A man that powerful leaves tracks, no matter how carefully he tries to erase them. And when I do, he’ll regret the day he crossed my family.

My stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten since... I can’t remember. I fish a protein bar from my jacket pocket, unwrap it, and bite down without tasting it.

My eyelids grow heavy. The words on my screen blur and double.

I’m getting nowhere.

With a frustrated growl, I slam my laptop closed. My body aches as I drag myself to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. The mirror shows a stranger. Hair wild, eyes hollow, skin pale beneath smudged makeup.

I stumble to my bedroom, too exhausted to undress. I fall onto the mattress, springs protesting beneath me.

The ceiling stares back at me, blank and unforgiving. Like the motel room ceiling Martin stared at as he died, waiting for me to arrive.

“I should feel worse about watching someone die,” I whisper to the empty room. “But all I feel is...rage.”