Page 4 of X Marks the Stalker
“Fine. I’m on my way.” She takes one last look at the shelf where Calloway’s camera had been, snaps a final photo, and heads for the door, muttering about power-hungry police chiefs and their convenient timing.
The moment the door clicks shut, I exhale, looking down at my shoes, now decorated with human tissue. Perfect. I’ll need to burn these. And I liked these fucking shoes.
“That was closer than the time I accidentally dated a homicide detective,” I murmur, retrieving the remaining two cameras while trying to avoid leaving bloody footprints across the marble. Nothing says professional quite like turning a pristine crime scene into a macabre game of Twister.
Back in my car, I call Calloway. “You owe me. Big time. This is absolutely the last time I lend you my equipment.”
“Did you get everything? Please tell me you got everything.” His voice pitches higher.
“My cameras, yes,” I respond, watching the building’s entrance where the mystery woman is now hurrying toward an Uber. “Your murder scene nearly became my crime scene when someone crashed the party.”
“Someone was there? Who?” The panic in his voice would be satisfying if I weren’t still picking human remains from my clothes.
“A journalist. She called you ‘The Gallery Killer’ while recording notes into her phone.” I slouch in my seat as she slides into her ride. “Apparently, you’re famous enough to have your own nickname now. Meanwhile, I’ll probably end up in a footnote as ‘unnamed accomplice found in dumpster after mysterious accident.’”
“The Gallery Killer?” His voice perks up, artistic vanity trumping survival instinct. “That’s actually quite good. Has a certain ring to it. Did she mention?—”
“No, she didn’t critique your use of intestines as decorative elements.” I cut him off before his ego reaches criticalmass. “But she did nearly walk in on me while I was collecting the surveillance equipment you forgot.”
“What does she look like? Who is she?” His questions machine-gun through the phone.
“She’s beautiful, and I don’t know yet,” I reply, starting my car while watching her ride disappear around a corner. “But I’m going to find out. And you’re buying me new shoes.”
Back in my apartment,I pull up facial recognition software, running her image through various databases. Within minutes, I have a name.
Oakley Novak, crime journalist forThe Boston Beacon. Her bylines include several in-depth pieces on unsolved murders and corruption. Her social media presence is minimal but focused. She’s not into selfies, just work. A woman after my own black heart.
I should report this to Thorne. Protocol says anyone investigating the Hemlock Society is a threat. Society comes first. End of discussion. Do not pass Go, do not collect $200, proceed directly to murder.
Instead, I create a new encrypted folder on my secure server. I download everything about her. Birth certificate. College transcripts. Medical records. Credit score. Every article she’s ever published. The metadata from her phone.
My standard background check spirals into a three-hour deep dive. I hack her phone’s cloud backup. Her photo roll is ninety percent crime scenes, nine percent reference images,and a single blurry picture of a stray cat. No selfies. No beach vacations. No drunken party shots.
God, she’s fascinating.
Instead of my usual red X marking a target for elimination, I draw a blue X over her building on my map. Different color. Different intention.
My phone buzzes with a message.
Thorne
Situation contained?
All clear.
Thorne
Any complications?
My thumb hovers over the screen. In four years with the Society, I've never broken the rules. Never put my interests above the family's safety. Never lied to the man who gave me a place to belong when I had nothing.
Not once.
I’ve also never found someone who catalogs crime scenes with the same obsessive attention to detail that I do.
I stare at the screen, at the photos of Oakley examining Calloway’s handiwork with such focus, and make a decision I’ve never made before.
No.
