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

by K.N. Wilder

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

“Based on previous scenes, the body was likely positioned to mirror a painting’s composition. Need to get crime scene photos to confirm and check autopsy report for any extracted organs, but I’m sure it’s him. Everything matches The Gallery Killer.” The Gallery Killer. 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?

“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.”

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.

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. Tomato, tomahto.

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. 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 Gallery Killer. What if it’s him? He matches the loose profile I’ve been building. He’s a member, he has the physical strength, access to victims, and most importantly, the ability to move through high society without raising suspicions. And he’s standing right in front of me, eating my damn gummy worms. Sexy, murderous killer.

I pull out my phone and tap the number into a search engine. Nothing comes up. “Sweet and sour,” I mutter, mimicking his words. “Not unlike you.” Who talks like that? Pretentious security consultants who moonlight as serial killers, that’s who.

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.

“I am vengeance. I am the night. I am...really fucking hungry.” Her emergency snack drawer beckons. I shouldn’t. But one KitKat won’t be missed, right? The chocolate makes a satisfying snap between my fingers. “‘Murderer Escapes Justice KitKats,’” I repeat, examining the label she’s taped to the drawer. “Specific.”

Fifty-seven minutes since she witnessed her source get murdered. Not that I timed it. Okay, I did. Sue me. Chronological precision is my love language.

“Lazlo?” “The good doctor continues his little side business prescribing opioids to college kids,” Lazlo says, fidgeting with a pen. “I’ve documented three exchanges this week alone. He meets my criteria.” “Any complications?” “Just my developing aortic aneurysm,” Lazlo says, pressing a hand to his chest. “Although it might just be heartburn from that Thai place near the hospital. Either way, I’ll probably be dead by next week’s meeting.” “We’ll send flowers,” Calloway says. “Something artistic and deeply symbolic of your short, paranoid 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.”

“That’s—that’s completely unfounded,” I manage. “Methodologically unsound conclusion based on insufficient data points. And you’re not a doctor.” “He’s blushing!” Lazlo announces, pointing at my face like he’s discovered a rare medical condition. “Look at that, actual human emotion from our robot! Quick, someone take a picture before it disappears. We need to document this for the scientific community.”

“Hi there.” She waves, a small, knowing gesture that sends my heart rate into territory usually reserved for cardiac stress tests. “I figured we should introduce ourselves, since you’ve been watching me shower for the past week.” “That’s—that’s not true!” I blurt to my empty apartment like she might hear me through the video feed. My face burns hot enough to qualify as a renewable energy source. “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!”

“I even closed my eyes when you were changing earlier,” I mutter, then catch myself. “Great job, Rhodes. Talking to yourself about how you sometimes don’t watch the woman you’re illegally surveilling while she changes clothes. That’ll hold up beautifully in court. ‘Your Honor, I’d like to enter my basic human decency as Exhibit A.’” Did I say all that out loud? To no one? Not that closing my eyes negates the whole invasion thing. But still. Principles.

She leans in close, her breath fogging the lens. “I’m actually flattered.” My temperature spikes so high that I consider the possibility that Lazlo has infected me with one of his imaginary tropical diseases. 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.

God help me, I’m intellectually aroused in ways that would make Freud throw his hands up and say, “Even I can’t help this guy.”

“Unprofessional,” I mutter, pacing my apartment. “Unprofessional, inappropriate, and frankly concerning from a psychological perspective.”

I grab a bottle of water from the fridge, press it against my forehead, and consider dunking my entire head in ice. “Down, boy,” I mutter to my rebellious anatomy. “This is neither the time nor the appropriate surveillance protocol.” 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,” I tell my reflection in the computer screen. “Definitive proof of mental stability right there.”

My phone buzzes with an alert from Oakley’s apartment. Don’t look. Don’t check. Focus on Wendell. I last exactly forty-seven seconds before reaching for my primary laptop.

“So this is what a psychotic break feels like,” I mutter to my laptop. “Fascinating.”

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.”

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?” “I’m detail-oriented.” He shrugs, then winces. “That’s not helping my case, is it?”

“I’m your secret admirer.” He pulls back, wincing. “That sounded much less juvenile in my head. I had several options prepared and somehow selected the worst one. I’d like to request a do-over, but I suspect the moment has passed.”

What would I even say? Hey Zara, guess what? I just got off with a mystery man who might also be a serial killer I’m investigating. There was a lollipop involved in ways that would make a porn director blush. She’d have me committed. Or worse, she’d want details.

I’ve always been good at balancing—physically, at least. Emotionally, I’m about as balanced as a Jenga tower in an earthquake.

None of this is me. I calculate. I plan. I don’t react. But I can’t stop seeing her face, the tears tracking through the dust on her cheeks. She never cries.

“I’m going to die,” I whimper, feeling another pinch. “This is how it ends for me. Death by ass attack.”

And she’s mine to protect. The possessive pronoun feels alien, yet right. When did that happen? When did she shift from surveillance subject to...something else? But I like it. My woman. Mine.

A clean kill. Merciful, in its way. I stare at Wendell’s body, at the clean arterial spray across the plastic sheets. This isn’t what Xander planned. His meticulous setup, the mirrors, the tools—everything had been arranged for something far more elaborate. Something I’d interrupted. “I ruined it for you,” I whisper, the words scraping my raw throat. “All your preparation, your planning. I messed it all up.” Xander’s eyes meet mine, and I expect to see frustration, maybe even anger. Instead, there’s something else—a softness out of place in a room splattered with blood. “No,” he says, setting the bloodied scalpel down. His voice drops to a whisper. “You made it better. Perfect, actually.”

“You here, with me,” he whispers, eyes burning with reverence, “is everything. I’d burn worlds to keep this moment. To keep you.”

“Cleanup complete,” I say, merging back onto the highway. “My hero.” “Here to serve.” I pause, a thought surfacing. “I wish I had a cool nickname. Like The Gallery Killer.”

“Xander?” My voice slices through the apartment’s perfect silence. Nothing. I just had mind-blowing sex with a serial killer. The thought hits me. And the weirdest part? I’m not even bothered by it. I stare at the ceiling, waiting for the panic to set in. The moral crisis. The “oh God, what have I done” moment. Nothing comes. “Please don’t be dismembering someone in the bathtub,” I mutter, swinging my legs over the bed’s edge. “I’m not ready for that level of relationship commitment.”

Unlike my apartment—a chaotic collection of research papers and coffee mugs—Xander’s space contains nothing without purpose. No clutter, no excess, just carefully selected furniture with clean, deliberate lines. “Serial killers really are the ultimate minimalists,” I whisper to myself. “Marie Kondo has nothing on him.”

“Xander?” I call. “If you’re doing anything stereotypically serial killery right now, I’d appreciate a heads-up. Is this a ‘hide under the bed’ situation or more of a ‘pretend I saw nothing’ scenario?” No response. Great.

The pieces click into place. My mind races, possibilities multiplying faster than I can process them. “How many are there?” I ask, circling the room like it might hold visual clues. “Is it just here in Boston, or—” I stop, a new thought forming. “Oh my God, is this international? Do you have branches? Like Murderers Without Borders?” Xander turns, eyebrow raised.

I nod, tugging at the oversized sweatpants threatening to slide off my hips. Perfect first impression for a murder club—disheveled journalist in borrowed clothes that scream “we just had sex before fleeing assassins.”

“How deliciously dramatic,” Calloway says, clasping his hands together. “The stalker finds love. I’m living for this narrative arc.” “Shut up, Calloway,” Thorne and Xander say in unison. Thorne’s mouth quirks in what might be a ghost of a smile. “She found you,” he says to Xander. “Despite your precautions. Your obsessive protocols.” “Yes.” “That’s...concerning.” “Or impressive,” I interject. Thorne’s gaze shifts to me, measuring. “Perhaps both.”

Something clicks in my mind—pieces falling into place with horrifying clarity. The gallery murders. Three art critics found posed like Renaissance paintings. “You’re him,” I breathe, staring at Calloway. “The Gallery Killer.” The room goes silent. Xander tenses, his hand reaching for my arm in warning. Calloway’s expression shifts from surprise to delight. “My, my. She is good.” He turns to Xander with mock offense. “You didn’t tell me she was a fan of my work.” “She wasn’t supposed to know about your ‘work,’” Xander replies, his voice tight. I can’t stop myself. “The composition of the bodies—the lighting, the positioning—it was brilliant in a terrifying way. I covered the murders.” I swallow hard. “He deserved what he got after what he did to those young models.” Calloway’s eyes widen. “She gets it! Oh, I like her.”

“Tell me, what was your favorite detail?” “That’s enough,” Xander cuts in, stepping between us, his jaw clenched. “Oh, someone’s jealous,” Calloway singsongs, looking delighted. “Are we keeping her? Like a...

“What in the Bob Ross happy little accident is this standoff?” he whispers.

touch his face, feeling the slight stubble against my palm. “I only have eyes for one killer in this room.” “God help you if you didn’t,” he murmurs, leaning into my touch.

“A friend?” I repeat, this time aloud, my voice quiet. Oakley adjusts her clothing, tugging her shirt down. “Well, I couldn’t say ‘my serial killer stalker friend,’ could I?” She looks up at me through those impossible lashes, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth. “I’m anything but a friend.” Her smile widens as she watches my expression darken. “You’re cute when you’re angry.” “I’m not cute,” I growl, crossing the distance between us in two strides. “Serial killers aren’t cute. Puppies are cute. Babies are cute.”

“You’re mine, Oakley,” I whisper against her lips. “To love and to cherish. And I’m yours. You can have everything. My life, my heart. Everything.”

“We need gas,” Xander says, slowing the car as we approach a lonely service station glowing like a neon island in the darkness. “Unless you want to push this car the last ten miles.” I peer at the small convenience store attached to the gas pumps. “Perfect. I need to pee so badly, I’m considering your empty coffee cup as an option.” He gives me a scandalized glance that makes me laugh. “What? I’ve been holding it for like forty minutes.” “You could have said something.” He pulls up to the pump. “And interrupt your serial killer origin story? I have manners.”

“Whoever designed public restrooms was definitely a man,” I continue my rant to the judgmental fish trophy. “Stand, point, shoot—that’s your entire process. Meanwhile, I’m playing Twister with a rainbow trout just to avoid contracting seven different diseases.” The toilet paper disintegrates when I touch it, leaving me to MacGyver a solution with the least suspicious-looking paper towels and hand sanitizer. “And don’t get me started on period emergencies,” I tell the fish as I attempt to wash my hands in a trickle of water. “Every man should have to navigate a gas station bathroom wearing white pants during a surprise visit from Aunt Flo. It would revolutionize public bathroom design overnight.”