Page 9 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

Xander

I ’m seven minutes late to a meeting of serial killers, and that’s not even the worst part of my evening.

The worst part is that I can’t stop thinking about a woman who’s investigating the one target that will get her killed. A woman whose nightly routine has become a reflex to me after a week of constant surveillance.

Right now, she’s probably settling in to watch Criminal Minds. I force my hand down, gripping the edge of the mahogany table as I slide into my seat.

Four pairs of eyes turn to me. Thorne’s right eyebrow arches, a subtle gesture that somehow communicates profound disappointment more effectively than a shouted reprimand.

“Sorry about the time,” I say. “Turns out temporal precision is overrated anyway, right? Einstein proved time is relative, which technically means I’m both late and early, depending on your frame of reference.”

Silence. The joke falls flat, hanging awkwardly in the air between us like a dad joke at a funeral.

I focus on the wood grain of the table. Brazilian rosewood, harvested from old-growth forests long before such things were regulated. The swirls form an almost face-like pattern in front of me. I trace the lines with my eyes, following each curve and whorl rather than meeting anyone’s gaze.

“You’re late again,” Calloway says, eyebrows raised. He looks me over like I’m one of his art installations that’s slightly off center. “Twice in one month. Are you feeling okay?”

“Our resident stalker had places to be,” Darius adds, loosening his tie with a half-smile. “Hot date with a security camera?”

My mind races through potential explanations, none of them involving Oakley Novak or the Blackwell file I discovered in her apartment. The Hemlock Society voted last year against Blackwell as a target. Too connected, too dangerous, too public.

But they didn’t see what Blackwell did to Martin. They don’t know what he did to Oakley’s parents.

“I got caught up reviewing some footage,” I say, which isn’t technically a lie.

“Let me guess,” Calloway smirks, “you found a new model of fiber-optic camera and lost track of time.”

“That was one time,” I mutter. “And those cameras were revolutionary.”

Lazlo leans forward. “I’ve seen this before,” he says, eyes wide with mock concern.

“Classic case of SOS. Surveillance Obsession Syndrome. Symptoms include temporal disorientation, social awkwardness—well, more than usual in your case—and an unhealthy fixation on watching other people’s lives instead of having one of your own.

” He snaps his fingers. “Wait, that’s just your personality. Never mind.”

The others chuckle, tension broken. I force a smile, though my mind keeps drifting back to Oakley’s apartment. To the way she’d organized her investigation board. To the evidence that might get her killed.

“I’m fine,” I say, straightening the cuffs of my shirt. “Just got caught up watching a potential situation develop.”

“Fascinating,” Calloway says, not sounding fascinated at all. “Can we move on to actual business now that our resident voyeur has graced us with his presence? Or do we need to hear more about your nonexistent love life?”

Thorne consults his leather-bound agenda. “Ambrose will join us shortly to present his candidate. In the meantime, updates on current operations?”

Darius clears his throat. “The DA’s office is treating Hargrove’s death as suicide, case closed. The evidence I planted about his embezzlement provided sufficient motive.”

“Excellent,” Thorne says with the barest hint of a smile. “Lazlo?”

“The good doctor continues his little side business prescribing opioids to college kids,” Lazlo says, fidgeting with a pen. “I’ve documented three exchanges this week alone. He meets my criteria.”

“Any complications?”

“Just my developing aortic aneurysm,” Lazlo says, pressing a hand to his chest. “Although it might just be heartburn from that Thai place near the hospital. Either way, I’ll probably be dead by next week’s meeting. ”

“We’ll send flowers,” Calloway says. “Something artistic and deeply symbolic of your short, paranoid life.”

All eyes turn to me, expectant. I realize I’ve been tracing the same whorl in the wood for the past minute.

“Xander?” Thorne prompts.

“I—”

The door opens again, and Ambrose strides in, leaning on his cane more heavily than necessary. He’s in full veteran mode tonight, wearing a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches. It makes him look like he’s about to lecture on World War II tactics at Harvard.

“Gentlemen,” he says, nodding. “Apologies for my tardiness. I was making a final assessment of our potential target.” He places a manila folder on the table with theatrical precision. “Dr. Malcolm Wendell, chief of neurosurgery at Boston Memorial.”

Ambrose taps the folder with one finger. “Wendell served as a combat medic in the Gulf War. But our paths never crossed.”

I suppress a smile. His backstory is getting more realistic lately. Progress.

He opens the folder, displaying crime scene photos he’s not supposed to have.

“I count seven suspicious deaths in the past year alone. All patients with no connections, all homeless cases where his ‘mercy’ wouldn’t raise flags.”

Thorne examines the evidence, face impassive. “Your assessment?”

“He’s violating the most sacred oath of medicine,” Ambrose says, his voice dropping. “As we used to say in Delta Force Ranger Team Six, a medic who betrays his patients is lower than whale shit, and that’s at the bottom of the ocean.”

My fingers tap against my thigh, a nervous rhythm I can’t control. I should be focused on this, but my thoughts keep drifting to Oakley’s board, to the connections she’s making to Blackwell.

“I’ll take him,” I hear myself say.

Everyone turns to me.

I never volunteer for targets. I’m the surveillance guy, the eyes and ears. I like to watch more than I like to kill. But if I want any chance to convince them to take down Blackwell in the future, I need to prove I can handle hard cases with no issues. Show commitment.

“You want this target?” Ambrose asks. “I thought this one would fit Lazlo, you know, hospital connections? Hospitals are nightmares for clean work. I’ve been tracking this guy for weeks and haven’t found a single viable approach. Even I’d think twice about this one.”

“Exactly why I should take it,” I say. A difficult, high-risk target that nobody wants, perfect for building the credibility I’ll need later. “His security setup interests me.”

“Xander does love impossible puzzles,” Calloway admits, looking at me curiously.

“He’s got that look,” Lazlo announces to the room, pointing at my face. “Right there. That’s the look he gets when he’s lying but thinks he’s being super convincing. The left corner of his mouth twitches exactly 0.2 millimeters.”

“What look? There’s no look.” I touch my face. “This is my natural expression.”

“There it is again! Classic symptom of AFS. Acute Fabrication Syndrome. First described in the Journal of Made-Up Psychology, volume never.”

Darius’ phone buzzes. He glances down, then lets out a strangled groan. “Son of a—” He catches himself, but his composed expression shatters, jaw tightening with genuine distress. “The Ravens just lost to the Jets. On a Hail Mary. My perfect season is over.”

He slams his phone face-down on the table, running a hand over his face. “I had Lamar starting, too. That’s thirty-eight points gone. Thirty-eight!” His polished attorney demeanor cracks, revealing the neighborhood kid from West Baltimore.

“Fascinating,” Thorne says. “If we could return to the matter at hand?”

Darius slips his phone into his pocket, muttering something about “lucky socks” being in the wash.

“Ah, I see what’s happening here,” Lazlo says, leaning forward with an unsettling gleam in his eyes.

“Our friendly neighborhood stalker doesn’t want the target.

He wants us to stop peeking into whatever or whoever has been occupying his attention lately.

” He taps his temple. “Doctor’s intuition. Never fails.”

Heat creeps up my neck. This is why I need to take the Wendell case. I can feel them closing in on me, circling like sharks smelling blood in the water.

“That’s—that’s completely unfounded,” I manage. “Methodologically unsound conclusion based on insufficient data points. And you’re not a doctor.”

“He’s blushing!” Lazlo announces, pointing at my face like he’s discovered a rare medical condition. “Look at that, actual human emotion from our robot! Quick, someone take a picture before it disappears. We need to document this for the scientific community.”

“I don’t blush,” I protest, knowing full well my face is betraying me. “It’s just warm in here. Ventilation systems in buildings this old are notoriously inefficient. I could draw you a diagram of the airflow problems if you’d like.”

Calloway smirks. “Who is she? Or he? Or they? I’m not judging your surveillance kinks.”

“There’s no one,” I insist, though Oakley’s face flashes in my mind with annoying persistence. “I’m just interested in the technical aspects of the Wendell case.”

“The technical aspects,” Darius repeats, momentarily distracted from his fantasy football disaster. “Right. Because you’ve never surveilled a hospital before.”

“Not this hospital,” I say. “Every hospital has unique...hospital things.”

Ambrose leans on his cane, looking disappointed. “In my black ops days, we had a term for this kind of situation. We called it ‘getting emotionally compromised,’ which is why I never formed attachments during my seventeen classified missions in territories I’m not at liberty to name.”

Thorne clears his throat, the sound cutting through the banter like a knife. The room falls silent.

“As entertaining as this is,” he says, each word precise and measured, “we have business to attend to. Xander currently has no active target, so unless anyone has a specific objection to him taking on Dr. Wendell, I see no reason to prolong this discussion.”

His eyes scan the room, the slight tilt of his head daring anyone to challenge him .

“Any objections?” he asks, his tone suggesting that objecting would be unwise.

Lazlo opens his mouth, then thinks better of it and shrugs. “Fine by me. I’ve got three other potential targets, anyway. Plus, I’m developing concerning symptoms of carpal tunnel syndrome, so I should probably pace myself.”

Calloway nods, though his skeptical gaze lingers on me for a beat too long. “Fine. Just don’t drag this out for months. It removes all artistic impact when kills are delayed unnecessarily. It’s like leaving the audience at intermission for three hours.”

“Then it’s settled,” Thorne says with finality. “Xander will take Dr. Wendell. Now, regarding our primary business?—”

My phone vibrates in my pocket. Once, twice, three times in rapid succession.

Not a text message. A security alert.

I keep my expression neutral as I reach for it, angling the screen away from the others. The alert flashes on my lock screen, and my pulse jumps.

Camera Three Tampering.

My stomach drops. Camera three is nestled between two books on criminal psychology in Oakley’s living room. The perfect angle to capture her investigation board. The most critical camera in the apartment.

I pull up the feeds, and my throat constricts.

Oakley stands in her living room, holding the tiny camera between her thumb and forefinger. Her eyes are wide, lips parted in surprise. She turns it over, examining it from all angles, the soft glow of her desk lamp highlighting the tensing of her jaw. She knows exactly what she’s looking at.

She stares directly into the lens, and it feels like she’s looking straight at me.

“Found you,” she mouths.