X Marks The Stalker: A Dark Romantic Comedy (The Hemlock Society Book 1)

by K.N. Wilder

If there’s a worse way to start your day than scraping intestines off your shoes, I’d love to hear it.

“This is why we can’t have nice things. Like freedom and no prisons.”

The only thing you’re capable of feeling is mild inconvenience.” I crouch to retrieve a camera, my fingers brushing over its sleek surface. “For the record, I feel deep inconvenience right now. A soul-crushing inconvenience. The kind that requires therapy, a complete biohazard suit, and a lifetime supply of pizza.”

“Remind me again why I still help you?” “Because I’m the only one who remembers your birthday?”

Well, fuck me sideways with a murder weapon. This is an unexpected plot twist. And I hate unexpected plot twists.

Of course, Calloway gets a cool nickname in the press while I’m out here doing twice the work with zero branding. Life is unfair. What would they even call me? The Lurking Stalker? The Camera Guy? The Creepy Tech Support?

Ah. A journalist. Of course. A journalist with both boundary issues and incredible cheekbones.

Did she mention⁠—” “No, she didn’t critique your use of intestines as decorative elements.”

End of discussion. Do not pass Go, do not collect $200, proceed directly to murder.

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.

Most people would call it stalking. I call it...selective admiration.

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.

Different crimes require different candies.

Dad would have called this stakeout reckless. I call it Tuesday.

“Not exactly James Bond, more like Q with better hair and worse social skills. I once spent an entire weekend debugging a security protocol instead of attending my cousin’s wedding. Sent the happy couple a surveillance system as a gift. They haven’t called since, oddly enough.” Despite myself, I laugh. “So you’re a tech geek.” “I prefer ‘security consultant,’”

And he’s standing right in front of me, eating my damn gummy worms. Sexy, murderous killer.

“You seem to be having an interesting internal debate,” he says, breaking into my thoughts. “Care to share with the class?”

Who talks like that? Pretentious security consultants who moonlight as serial killers, that’s who. Or a socially awkward tech guy who reads too many spy novels and thinks mystery is his personality.

Her lock is disappointingly easy to pick. Seven seconds with a tension wrench and rake—not even a challenge. I make a mental note to upgrade it later. For her safety, of course. Like a responsible neighbor might water your plants while you’re away. Except with deadbolts. And without permission.

A drawer filled with—I open it—nothing but candy bars, organized by... Emotional emergency type? The labels make me pause. “‘Breaking Point Butterfingers’... ‘Deadline Disaster Snickers’... ‘Murderer Escapes Justice KitKats’?” I read, a smile tugging at my lips. Who is this woman?

I’m here to assess a threat, not...whatever this is. Get it together. You’re a professional, not a teenager with boundary issues and an overactive imagination.

“I am vengeance. I am the night. I am...really fucking hungry.”

Together, we're unstoppable. Alone, we were just damaged men with violent impulses.

You like her.” My jaw tightens. “No.” “Then you wouldn’t mind if I make a move? She’s hot,” Darius says. “She’s mine!” I growl, jumping up. Darius laughs. “Don’t like her much, huh?” I drop back into my seat. I fell for it. “Well-played, counselor,” I mutter. “But for the record, that wasn’t my smoothest move.” Darius’ eyebrows arch above his designer frames. “Oh, we noticed.”

My face heats. “It’s surveillance.” “It’s stalking with extra steps,”

“Let me get this straight,” Lazlo says, barely containing his laughter. “You walked up to the journalist investigating us and asked her on a date?” “It was a calculated move,” I defend. “Gauge her suspicions, misdirect if needed.” “And?” Thorne prompts. I swallow hard. “She said no.” The room erupts in laughter. Even Thorne’s mouth quirks up at one corner, which for him is practically howling with mirth. “The master of surveillance got shot down!” Lazlo wheezes, slapping the table. “You poor baby.”

This woman carries more emergency food than most people pack for a week-long camping trip.

Fascinating, actually. Not that I’m keeping count. That would be weird. Except I am keeping count because data organization soothes my anxiety like normal people use bath bombs.

Her dedication is admirable. Suicidal, but admirable.

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.

I’m seven minutes late to a meeting of serial killers, and that’s not even the worst part of my evening.

Four pairs of eyes turn to me. Thorne’s right eyebrow arches, a subtle gesture that somehow communicates profound disappointment more effectively than a shouted reprimand.

Silence. The joke falls flat, hanging awkwardly in the air between us like a dad joke at a funeral.

“I’ve seen this before,” he says, eyes wide with mock concern. “Classic case of SOS. Surveillance Obsession Syndrome. Symptoms include temporal disorientation, social awkwardness—well, more than usual in your case—and an unhealthy fixation on watching other people’s lives instead of having one of your own.” He snaps his fingers. “Wait, that’s just your personality. Never mind.”

“Fascinating,” Calloway says, not sounding fascinated at all. “Can we move on to actual business now that our resident voyeur has graced us with his presence? Or do we need to hear more about your nonexistent love life?”

“He’s got that look,” Lazlo announces to the room, pointing at my face. “Right there. That’s the look he gets when he’s lying but thinks he’s being super convincing. The left corner of his mouth twitches exactly 0.2 millimeters.” “What look? There’s no look.” I touch my face. “This is my natural expression.” “There it is again! Classic symptom of AFS. Acute Fabrication Syndrome. First described in the Journal of Made-Up Psychology, volume never.”

I place the camera back on the table. “You know what’s weird?” I say, sitting again. “I should be terrified right now. But I’m not.” I lean in closer to the camera. “I’m kind of...flattered? Is that messed up? Probably ranks somewhere between ‘concerning’ and ‘needs therapy immediately.’”

“I never put cameras in your bathroom. That would be— I’m not— I have an ethical framework for my unethical behavior, thank you very much!” The accusation stings more than it should, considering I literally monitor people for a living.

I have standards, damn it. I’m not some basement-dwelling creep with a collection of toenail clippings. I’m a sophisticated basement-dwelling creep with military-grade surveillance equipment.

Note to self: create a chart later to analyze emotional responses to being caught. Column A: Professional Mortification. Column B: Inappropriate Arousal. Column C: Why These Should Never Intersect. Column D: Therapy Options.

“I am so remarkably, spectacularly fucked. And not in the fun way that normal humans with functional social skills occasionally experience.” She glances back at the camera and winks. Correction. I am absolutely fucked in every way, including several that haven’t been invented yet.

Focus, Rhodes. You have an actual target. A legitimate operation. A purpose that doesn’t involve becoming obsessed with a woman who just caught you spying on her and, instead of calling the police like a normal person, has turned it into some sort of deranged courtship ritual. God help me, I think I’m in love.

“And now I’m explaining surveillance methods to an imaginary version of the woman I’m surveilling,”

The culinary equivalent of a beige wall.

Enough to help her investigation, but not enough to make my next contribution unnecessary. Enough to make her need me again. Because apparently, I’ve developed the emotional sophistication of an attention-starved golden retriever.

I grab the messenger bag and head for the door, then stop. Return to the kitchen. Pull out a container of cookies I stress-baked at 3 AM while overthinking the font choice for my note. Add them to the bag. “Tactical dessert deployment,” I mutter. “Completely logical.”

There were other things I wanted to buy. Lacy things. But apparently, I still have one functioning boundary left. Who knew?

Organic gummy bears. Dark chocolate that doesn’t taste like sadness. Protein bars that might actually contain protein. “You’re welcome,” I murmur.

The contrast between his imposing presence and this awkward explanation catches me off guard. There’s something almost endearing about it. I’m losing my grip on reality if I find a stalker “endearing.” “So you’re stalking me for my own good?” I arch an eyebrow. “Stalking is such an unpleasant term. I prefer targeted observation with occasional nutritional intervention.”

I stare at him, speechless. Of all the ways to critique someone’s investigative skills... “You broke into my apartment, installed cameras, and your takeaway is that my color-coding sucks?”