Page 5 of X Marks the Stalker
I lie to the most dangerous man I know. I’m either evolving or having a psychotic break. The line between the two is remarkably thin.
I open my surveillance equipment drawer, the one withthe good stuff, not the ones I loan to Calloway when I’m feeling generous. Japanese micro-cameras I modified myself with a battery life that outlasts most relationships.
I pack my gear into a nondescript backpack, adding an extra battery bank and my prototype audio enhancement module. Most people would call it stalking. I call it...selective admiration. Tomato, tomahto.
All I know is that watching her work at that crime scene was the most interesting thing I’ve experienced in years, and I’m not ready to end the show.
Oakley Novak doesn’t know it yet, but our paths are now inextricably linked. And for the first time in my existence, I’m not following the protocol.
I’m following her. And if Thorne finds out, I’ll be the next body on the marble floor.
Chapter 2
Oakley
My therapist says I have an unhealthy relationship with sugar. She calls it emotional dependency. I call it investigative fuel. The real crime is how many gummy worms it takes to stay awake during a stakeout.
Acid burns my tongue as I bite the head off another neon worm, the sour shock jolting my brain back to attention. Different crimes require different candies.
Bank fraud? Chocolate-covered espresso beans. Political corruption? Sour Patch Kids. But serial killers who arrange their victims like Renaissance paintings? That demands the nuclear option. Triple-sour gummy worms.
The camera lens focuses with a soft click on the gleaming doors of the Beacon Hill Gentlemen’s Association. Through the viewfinder, men in tailored suits float between luxury cars and the marble steps like sharks circling prey.
Somewhere behind those doorshides the key to the Gallery Killer case. Four art collectors, four poison deaths, four bodies posed like Renaissance paintings, and nothing but silence from Boston PD. But I’ve got a feeling about this place.
My notepad crinkles as I flip through crime scene photos. A waxen corpse arranged likeSaturn Devouring His Sonfrom last year. Another mimickingChrist of Saint John of the Crossfour months ago. A third recreating Gentileschi’sJudith Slaying Holofernesjust weeks back.
And two days ago, David, with the Head of Goliath.
The time between kills shrinks. He’s accelerating.
The articles don’t mention what the press doesn’t know. The Gallery Killer’s signature mutilation. Each male victim was found with their genitals severed and forced into their stomach. A macabre addition to the artistic arrangements that makes my stomach turn every time I think about it. But it’s the one detail that connects all four murders beyond their artistic staging. The killer’s personal signature. Or a message.
A silver chain slides between my fingers as they drift to the locket at my throat. Inside, my parents smile forever, frozen at an age I’ve now surpassed. Dad would have called this stakeout reckless.
I call it Tuesday.
I tap my pen against my teeth, studying the photos I’d taken at the gallery. The killer had posed art dealer Rivera as both David and Goliath. His head was partially severed but still attached, twisted at an impossible angle so that he gazed upon his own dying body. The victim’s eyes had been propped out, forced to witness his own death eternally. Fascinating.
The police don’t want the public to know there’s a serial killer at large. But I know one when I see one.
The Boston PD’s press releases have carefully avoided connecting the murders. “Isolated incident.” “Targeted attack.” “Robbery gone wrong.” I’ve heard it all before—the same bullshit they fed the public when my parents died. The public relations machine is working overtime to prevent panic.
I flip to my notes on the victims. All wealthy art collectors with questionable methods. All arranged in death to mirror famous paintings.
I stare at the imposing brick facade of the Beacon Hill Gentlemen’s Association. The plan unfolds in my head.
Walk in, claim my appointment, secure access to member areas. People rarely question a person who acts like they belong. My tailored blazer and pencil skirt project the perfect blend of professionalism and wealth.
“Hunger is the enemy of justice,” I mutter, slipping a small packet of chocolate-covered espresso beans into my mouth. The caffeine and sugar hit my bloodstream as I approach the entrance, my heels clicking on the sidewalk.
I straighten my shoulders and march toward the entrance, adopting what I hope is a confident stride. The doorway looms before me, promising answers to the Gallery Killer case. Two victims out of four belonged to this exclusive club. This has to be where the killer finds his targets.
Just as I pull the door open, a man appears in the gap, blocking my entrance.
“Excuse me, can I help you?”
The man before me stops my breath. Tall, with dark hair that falls across his forehead and eyes so clear they lookalmost translucent in the glow of the streetlight—a green-gray that shifts as he tilts his head. His suit hugs broad shoulders without a single wrinkle, making mine look like something excavated from a donation bin.
