Page 8 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

Xander

O akley’s apartment door clicks shut behind her. Fifty-seven minutes since she witnessed her source get murdered. Not that I timed it.

Okay, I did. Sue me. Chronological precision is my love language.

I pull up the camera feeds on my phone, sinking lower in the driver’s seat of my car. The temperature dropped another five degrees since sunset, but I barely notice, transfixed by the video streams filling my screen.

The living room feed shows her most clearly—the wide-angle lens I installed behind her bookshelf capturing her entire shabby-chic aesthetic in 4K resolution.

She vomited when she saw the killing. One of her sources, I believe. It’s an expected reaction. What I didn’t expect was how quickly she’d transition to...whatever this is now.

She moves with purpose, heading straight for her investigation board. Her fingers rearrange photos and red strings like she’s debugging complex code. She never even takes off her jacket. The brown leather one with at least seven concealed snack pockets.

I counted. Twice. This woman carries more emergency food than most people pack for a week-long camping trip.

She reaches for a black marker and draws an X over a photo.

I smile despite myself. Just like I mark mine. Though my system involves less yarn and more encrypted spreadsheets.

I’ve observed trauma responses in forty-seven surveillance subjects, and hers is...different. Fascinating, actually. Not that I’m keeping count. That would be weird. Except I am keeping count because data organization soothes my anxiety like normal people use bath bombs.

My thumb swipes to cycle through the feeds—kitchen, bedroom, hallway, fire escape. Everything functioning.

I zoom in on her face as she steps back from the board, her expression tight with determination rather than fear. She’s muttering something to herself, but the directional mic I placed in the ceiling fan picks up only fragments. I’ll need to fix that.

“...connections here... Blackwell...”

I sit up straighter in my car, cranking the heat as I zoom in. Her fingers trace the lines between Blackwell’s newspaper clippings and the dead man.

“Shit,” I whisper, fogging the windshield. The man was connected to Blackwell.

Blackwell isn’t just anyone. The man owns Boston’s infrastructure. Three mayors, two police commissioners, and a district attorney owe their careers to him. His media empire controls every narrative that matters. When problems arise for Richard Blackwell, they tend to disappear—permanently.

Like that man just did.

In my eight years of surveillance work, I’ve learned to recognize the truly dangerous people.

They’re rarely the obvious monsters. They’re the ones with spotless public images and private security details.

The ones who never touch the trigger but have men on speed dial who will.

Blackwell sits at the apex of that particular food chain.

I’ve avoided his orbit. Even the Hemlock Society steers clear of his business. Not from any moral qualms—we simply recognize an apex predator when we see one.

My phone screen shows Oakley circling Blackwell’s name, jabbing her marker with such force I’m surprised it doesn’t tear through the paper. Her dedication is admirable. Suicidal, but admirable.

“You have no idea what you’re walking into,” I mutter, rubbing my tired eyes.

Blackwell’s security team won’t see a determined journalist. They’ll see a loose end. And I’ve watched enough loose ends get tied up to know how that story ends.

My thumb freezes over the screen. A chill that has nothing to do with the February night seeps through me. Why am I worried about her?

I’m gathering information, that’s it. Not developing inappropriate concern for a subject. Definitely not imagining what her hair smells like up close.

She steps away from the board and drops onto her couch, springs creaking under her weight.

Her hand reaches into what appears to be an ordinary jacket pocket but somehow produces an entire family-sized bag of peanut M&M’s.

She tears it open with her teeth, and a fistful of candy disappears into her mouth.

“Emotional eating,” I murmur to myself. “Classic stress response.”

She sets down the candy and crosses to a bookcase, retrieving a framed photograph I hadn’t paid attention to during installation. The camera captures her profile as she stares at it, the lines of her face softening.

“I’m so close, Mom, Dad,” she says, her voice catching on the static of my directional mic. “I’m almost there. Blackwell won’t get away with what he did to you.”

The breath stalls in my chest. This isn’t about The Gallery Killer at all. This is personal.

I zoom in on the photo in her hands—a family portrait. A middle-aged couple with a teenage girl between them, all smiling. The woman has Oakley’s eyes. The man, her jawline.

“Shit.” I’d missed something fundamental. Her investigation into Blackwell is about her parents. I knew they were dead, but…

My phone buzzes with a message.

Thorne

Meeting tomorrow. 8 PM. Updates?

False alarm.

“Who are you, Oakley Novak?” I mutter, zooming in slightly as she settles into the couch again.

My surveillance subjects fall into predictable categories. Targets for elimination, potential threats to the Society, work stuff. She fits none of these. She’s a variable I didn’t account for. A wild card. The mysterious “other” option in a multiple-choice quiz.

I tap into her laptop through the remote access software I installed.

Her browser history reveals dozens of searches on Blackwell and his associates spanning years, not days. This isn’t a recent obsession—it’s her life’s work. Folders within folders of research, meticulously organized. Financial records. Property deeds. Newspaper clippings from fifteen years ago.

And then I find it—a police report marked CONFIDENTIAL. Thomas and Eleanor Novak. Murder-suicide.

The official story: Corrupt detective Thomas Novak killed his wife before turning the gun on himself, when he was about to get caught. Case closed in record time despite inconsistencies flagged by junior officers.

“Jesus,” I breathe, scrolling through the files.

There it is, buried in redacted interview transcripts—sixteen-year-old Oakley Novak insisting her father was framed. That both parents were murdered. No one believed her.

The cops wrote her off, just like they write off anyone who doesn’t fit their narrative. I’ve seen it happen too many times. But she kept going, filing reports, pulling records, asking questions that got her laughed out of every room.

She’s been fighting this fight for years, long before she knew Blackwell’s name.

I scroll through the police report again, my stomach twisting. She should have given up. Most people would have. But she didn’t.

And now she’s walking straight into Blackwell’s crosshairs, armed with nothing but her conviction and a bag of fucking peanut M&M’s.

I click through PDF after PDF, my mouth dry. Young Oakley, filing FOIA requests. Harassing police officials. Being dismissed as a traumatized teenager, unable to accept her father’s crimes.

I know manufactured evidence when I see it. The Novak case reeks of it.

Martin’s murder has nothing to do with The Gallery Killer. Nothing to do with the Hemlock Society. There’s no reason to keep watching Oakley Novak reorganize her conspiracy board for the fourth time.

But I watch as she walks to bed, stretching arms over her head. The oversized Boston University t-shirt she changed into rides up, revealing a strip of skin above her pajama pants. My mouth goes dry.

“Fuck,” I whisper.

I rub my temples, my breath forming cloudy ghosts against the windshield. This isn’t my problem. She’s not my problem. I’m here to gather information on a potential Gallery Killer connection, report back to the Hemlock Society, and move on.

Except.

Except there’s something about Oakley Novak that refuses to file neatly into my mental categorization system.

The way she approaches her investigation, methodical yet passionate.

The way she talks to her parents’ photograph, determined yet vulnerable.

The way she’s prepared to take on Blackwell, armed with nothing but journalistic integrity and an arsenal of emergency snacks .

My entire professional life revolves around the gap between public and private personas.

The businessman who donates millions to children’s charities while trafficking teenagers. The beloved community pastor who beats his wife behind locked doors. The celebrated philanthropist who embezzles from her own foundation.

Everyone has secrets. That’s what I’ve built my life around—the certainty that beneath every smile lurks something darker.

But I’ve been watching Oakley Novak for some time now, and I’m beginning to question my fundamental understanding of human nature.

Because she doesn’t change.

When she walked into her apartment tonight, devastated from witnessing her source’s murder, she was the same person who left this morning—just sadder, more determined. No mask fell away when she closed her door. No hidden vices emerged when she thought no one was watching.

Even her quirks remain consistent. She eats the same ridiculous snack combinations whether she’s at a crime scene or alone in her kitchen at 1 AM.

She talks to herself in the same animated way whether addressing colleagues or an empty room. The messy organizational system that seems chaotic to observers follows the exact same internal logic in both her public presentations and private research.

I zoom in on her sleeping form, curled around a pillow, still wearing her socks. One hand clutches her phone, ready to answer if a source calls, even in sleep.

My parents built their entire lives around appearances. Country club memberships and charity galas masked the cold war that raged behind our front door.

My mother’s perfect makeup concealed bruises. My father’s community leadership awards hung on walls that had witnessed his rages. I learned early that people are fundamentally different when no one is watching.

What am I supposed to do with someone like Oakley, who is exactly what she appears to be?

You’re going to get yourself killed.

I touch her image on the screen. “You need protection,” I whisper. “From Blackwell. From yourself.” A beat. “From me.”

The truth hits me with uncomfortable clarity.

If she discovers my surveillance, she’ll hate me.

If she learns I’m affiliated with the very group she’s investigating for the Gallery Killer case, she’ll fear me.

And if she ever finds out what I’ve done to other targets—people I deemed deserving of justice—she’ll want me dead or imprisoned.

But right now, none of that matters. What matters is that Richard Blackwell will destroy her for digging into his past. And for reasons I can’t entirely explain, I can’t let that happen.

I start my car. This isn’t just observation anymore. Oakley Novak needs a guardian angel, even if she’d consider me the devil.