Page 11 of X Marks the Stalker
Her emergency snack drawer beckons. I shouldn’t. But one KitKat won’t be missed, right?
The chocolate makes a satisfying snap between my fingers.
“‘Murderer Escapes Justice KitKats,’” I repeat, examining the label she’s taped to the drawer. “Specific.”
The first bite hits my taste buds with a wave of sweetness I rarely allow myself. My meal plan doesn’t typically include processed sugar—efficient nutrition is the goal, not pleasure. But there’s something illicit about standing in her space, eating her emergency chocolate.
My gaze shifts to her unmade bed visible through the doorway. Those tangled sheets. The impression of her body still visible on the mattress.
What does she think about while eating these? Does she sit cross-legged on that messy bed, surrounded by case files, reaching for chocolate when the darkness of her investigationsbecomes too much? Does she close her eyes when she takes the first bite, as a small smile plays across her lips?
I imagine her fingers, not mine, breaking off a piece. The same fingers that wrote those meticulous notes about blood spatter patterns. Strong fingers. Capable. Determined.
I finish the KitKat bar in four precise bites, then fold the wrapper into a perfect square. For a moment, I consider taking it with me to leave no trace, but instead, I place it in her trash can, burying it beneath other wrappers.
I take one final tour of the apartment, committing details to memory. The stack of true crime books beside her bed. The framed photo of a younger Oakley with an older couple—parents, presumably. The running shoes by the door, worn.
“Sleep well, Oakley Novak,” I murmur to the empty room. “I’ll be watching. For your protection, of course. Not because I can’t stop thinking about the way you bit your lip when you lied about your name. Definitely not because of that.”
Three hours later,I slip through the door inside the Beacon Hill Gentlemen’s Association. The air carries notes of expensive whiskey and wood polish.
The club is exactly what it appears to be. An exclusive club for Boston's wealthy elite. Bankers, judges, politicians, all networking over cigars and scotch, completely unaware that six floors below their feet, a different kind of business is conducted.
I bypass the main lounge, heading toward the privatechamber behind the false bookcase in the private library section. Only six men have access to this room, counting me.
Before Thorne found me, I was just another isolated killer, paranoid and alone, making mistakes that would have eventually gotten me caught or killed.
The Society gave me purpose. Structure. A family of people who understood that some people deserve to die, and that the world is better when we remove them from it.
The Society isn't a hierarchy, exactly. Thorne leads because he founded it, because he has the resources and the vision. But we're brothers first. Each of us brings something different to the family—my surveillance expertise, Calloway's artistic perfectionism, Darius's legal knowledge, Lazlo's medical training, Ambrose's military precision.
Together, we're unstoppable. Alone, we were just damaged men with violent impulses.
We have rules. Five sacred tenets that keep us alive and united. And I've broken the most important one. I left a security breach.
I weave through leather armchairs and hushed conversations about market futures and divorce settlements.
The library wing sits empty tonight—most members prefer the main lounge or the cigar room for their networking. I slip inside the private library room and close the heavy oak door behind me. The lock engages automatically with a soft click, a security measure that won't disengage until the bookshelf mechanism resets.
My fingers trace along the third shelf from the bottom, finding the barely perceptible groove behindDante’s Inferno.
A gentle push, and the mechanism clicks. The bookcaseslides inward with hydraulic precision, revealing the narrow staircase beyond.
I step through; The bookcase sliding shut behind me. The staircase descends in a tight spiral, the temperature dropping with each step. Motion-activated lights illuminate my path, casting sharp shadows as I move.
At the bottom, I face a steel door with a biometric scanner and press my palm against the cool metal. A soft blue light traces the unique pattern of veins beneath my skin. The lock disengages with a soft hiss.
The room opens up. Understated luxury compared to the ostentatious displays upstairs. Walls painted deep crimson, leather furniture arranged around a central table of polished obsidian. The lighting is subdued, coming from recessed fixtures that cast no shadows.
No plaques announce what this place is. No membership certificates hang on the walls. Nothing to connect us to the world above. Only the subtle motif repeated throughout—the delicate white hemlock flower etched into the base of crystal tumblers, embossed on coasters, subtly woven into the carpet pattern.
The Hemlock Society is already assembled around the large obsidian table.
I slide into my usual chair. Calloway is already critiquing the lighting. Across from him, Darius, our lawyer, who canargue a confession into an acquittal, is checking his fantasy football scores.
Lazlo, our resident paramedic and walking hypochondriac, is probably diagnosing himself with a rare disease from the hors d'oeuvres. Ambrose, ever the soldier, sits with a ramrod-straight posture that makes his whole 'retired black-ops' story almost believable, his cane resting beside him.
Thorne Ravencroft sits at the head, naturally, his steel-gray eyes flickering to me as I enter.
