Page 20 of X Marks the Stalker
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’scrosshairs, 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.
