Page 19 of X Marks the Stalker
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 mediaempire 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 somehowproduces 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, workstuff. 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.
