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

by K.N. Wilder

“He’s dead.” Xander straightens and begins pacing the small space. “This complicates things. Significantly. Exponentially. The complication factor just went parabolic.” “I’m sorry,” I say, still clutching the fish. “Put down the murder weapon, please,” he says, his voice tight, “before you kill me, too. Death by trout was not how I planned to go.”

He runs his hands through his hair. “This is why I plan. This is exactly why I plan. Do you know how many variables we now have to account for? Security cameras? Witnesses? Time of death in a public place? Vehicle descriptions?” “Xander.” He stops, blinking at me like he’s surprised I’m still here. “I just killed someone,” I say, my voice shaking. “With a fish.”

“Okay. We need a plan.” “Here’s the plan. You grab his arms, I’ll take his legs, and we’ll drag him out the back door to the car.” Xander looks appalled. “That’s not a plan! That’s a sentence with action verbs!” Despite everything, a laugh bubbles up. “Welcome to improv murder, babe. Sometimes you gotta wing it.”

“You know what’s truly insane? I’ve known you for what? A month? And in that time, I’ve discovered you spying on me, helped you torture a man to death, almost gotten killed by Blackwell’s men, and now I’ve accidentally murdered someone with a fish. Yet somehow, this—” I gesture between us. “This is the most functional relationship I’ve ever had.” Xander coughs. “That’s...a concerning reflection on your dating history.”

The flashlight beam cuts through the dark, and I have to fight the urge to crane my neck toward the trunk as if it might sprout a neon sign reading “DEAD GUY INSIDE.”

“He’s my boyfriend, not a kidnapper.” I blurt out. “He has a birthmark shaped like Danny DeVito on his left butt cheek. He sleeps with a night light because he saw ‘The Exorcist’ when he was nine, and it traumatized him. He cries at dog food commercials but pretends it’s allergies. He has a collection of novelty socks with math equations on them. He once tried to make me breakfast in bed and set off the smoke detector trying to make toast.” Xander stares at me, his expression caught between horror and fascination.

We wait until the police car disappears from our rearview mirror before either of us speaks. “Danny DeVito birthmark?” Xander asks, pulling back onto the road. “It was the first thing that came to mind,” I admit. “On my left buttock.” “I panicked! I needed something specific enough to sound convincing. Better than telling him there’s a dead body in the trunk that I killed with a decorative fish,” I point out. “Fair,” he concedes. “Though I’m curious about how you picture me with a Danny DeVito birthmark.” “I was worried about the trunk, not your hypothetical butt art,” I say, slumping back. “Would you have preferred I tell him about your actual hobbies? Stalking and murder?” “Point taken,” he says, a hint of amusement creeping into his voice. “Though for the record, I don’t cry in movies.” “That was the one detail that bothered you?” I laugh, feeling almost giddy with relief. “How about the emotional trauma from your childhood hamster’s death?” “Mr. Whiskers would have wanted me to move on,” he says.

The confession scrapes my throat raw. “That makes me terrible, doesn’t it? We just—there’s a body in the trunk and I’m—God, I’m broken. I’m going to hell.” “Probably are. But not because you’re horny.” “Xander!” “Just saying.”

“Your stance is off,” he says, circling me. “Spread your legs more.” He trails off as I widen my stance to something ridiculous. “What?” I blink. “Is this not optimal for stabbing bad guys?” His lips twitch. “You look like you’re about to lay an egg.” “That will be my signature move. The chicken stance. They’ll never see it coming.”

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting justice, Oakley.” “Is that what this is?” I ask, tilting my head. “Justice? Or are we just indulging our darkest impulses?” His lips quirk. “Can’t it be both?” He watches me with laser focus, seeing parts of me I didn’t know existed until recently. “And what does that make me?” “Human. Complicated. Like the rest of us.” “Even you?” I step closer, the knife still dancing between my fingers. “The stalker who screamed like a five-year-old when those red ants attacked?” Color floods his face. “They were fire ants. Venomous.” “Mmmhmm. Very dangerous. Super intimidating how you jumped three feet in the air and danced around slapping yourself.”

I pull out my color-coded sticky notes and begin marking the calendar with Blackwell’s schedule. Pink for public appearances, blue for private meetings, yellow for medical appointments. “Are those tiny cats on your sticky notes?” Xander asks, sounding both amused and horrified. “They were on sale. And they’re not just cats—they’re cats with jetpacks.” I stick one on his forehead. “There. Now you’re adorable and organized.”

“I’ve never been called adorable in my life.” “That’s because people are usually too busy running away screaming.” “Including you?” I meet his eyes over the scattered photos of the man who destroyed my family. “I’m terrified of a lot of things, Xander. You’re not one of them.”

“He’ll be useful when Blackwell starts bleeding,” Xander says. “Oh? We’re doing Blackwell?” Lazlo’s eyes light up as he examines my murder board. “I thought we voted no. Nice organization system, by the way. The sticky notes with—are those jetpack cats?—really tie it together.” “See?” I nudge Xander. “He appreciates it.”

“We’ll need to create distance,” Darius adds. “Establish alibis, minimize electronic footprints.” “What he’s saying,” Xander translates, “is that we need to protect you from suspicion while still getting you the justice you deserve.” “Also because Xander is clearly smitten,” Calloway stage-whispers, “and we’re nothing if not supportive of workplace romance.” “This isn’t a workplace,” Xander protests. “Of course it is, Bestie. Murder is our business, and business is killing.”

“Snack, anyone?” I ask, pulling a package of cookies from my jacket pocket. “I find plotting murder works up an appetite.” Lazlo accepts with a warm smile. “Chocolate chip. Excellent choice. Did you know these have the exact same circumference as a human aortic valve?” “That’s disturbing,” I say, offering the package to the others. “Also, strangely fascinating.”

Death has a boardroom, and it smells like old money.

“So I just go in alone? Set up shop and kill the man who murdered my parents? Just like that?” “No.” Xander steps forward, voice firm. “She can’t do this alone.” My relief curdles into indignation. “Wait. What do you mean I can’t? You don’t think I’m capable?” Xander blinks, confusion crossing his face. “You literally just said⁠—” “I said I shouldn’t have to do it alone,” I snap. “Not that I can’t.”

My heart pounds against my ribs, not from the fear of crawling through that vent, but from the image of Xander trapped in Blackwell’s panic room with nowhere to go. Cornered. Discovered. Executed. Thorne picks up a tablet and swipes through several screens. “While we have the schematics of the ventilation system and outer dimensions, we lack interior details. No cameras inside that we know of.” “So we’d be going in blind,” I say, crossing my arms. “That’s not a plan. That’s suicide.”

“Talk to me, Oakley,” Xander’s voice crackles through my earpiece. “What do you see?” “Dust. Cobwebs. More dust. Pretty sure I just made friends with a spider who’s planning to follow me on Instagram.”

“Did you just make a joke?” “Thought it might help with the claustrophobia.” “Who says I’m claustrophobic?” “Your elevated breathing pattern and the way you’ve been muttering ‘don’t think about being buried alive’ for the past five minutes.” “I haven’t been—” I pause, realizing he’s right. “Okay, fine. Keep talking.”

“We’ve got a problem,” I say. “There’s biometric security here.” “As expected,” Thorne’s voice cuts in. “Check your right pocket.” I pat down the pocket of my black tactical pants and pull out what looks like a thin film. “What am I looking at?” I ask. “Synthetic fingerprint. Lazlo created it from a champagne flute Blackwell used at the charity auction.” My eyes widen. “You guys are terrifying.” “Thank you,” four voices respond simultaneously.

“Jesus Christ, this is gross. We can still hear you guys, you know.” Lazlo’s voice cuts through our moment, crackling in our earpieces. I pull away from Xander, breathless and disoriented. His eyes stay locked on mine, pupils blown wide, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth before we tug our masks back into place. “Sorry,” I whisper, touching my fingers to my swollen lips. “Don’t be,” Xander murmurs, only for me. “Seriously,” Lazlo continues in our ears. “I can hear you breathing. Like, every little gross wet noise. It’s like being trapped inside someone else’s porn session. At least put us on mute.”

“What the hell did you unleash, Lazlo?” Xander whispers into the comm. “Medical grade smoke bombs,” Lazlo responds cheerfully. “Non-toxic, but extremely disorienting. And the little guys? Just some prototypes I’ve been working on. They’re programmed to seek body heat and make terrifying clicking sounds. No real danger, but absolutely nightmare-inducing. I call them ‘anxiety incarnate.’ Fun.”

I step toward Blackwell and place the blade against his skin, right next to Xander’s mark. With deliberate pressure, I carve a circle—an “O” to complement his “X.” Blackwell writhes against his restraints, but I maintain steady pressure, completing the circle. Blood beads along both our marks, tiny crimson dots forming a macabre connect-the-dots puzzle on his chest. “XO,” Xander says, his voice warming with approval. “Fitting signature for our first collaboration.”

Lazlo’s voice shatters our moment, crackling through the comm with his signature terrible timing. “Congrats on the most twisted first date milestone in history—murdering the guy who killed your parents! Welcome to the Hemlock family. Very touching moment, truly beautiful, but security’s sweeping the building floor by floor looking for the offender, which is yours truly. They’ll reach the penthouse level soon.” Oakley pulls back, a wild laugh escaping her. “Is he always like this?” “Lazlo has a PhD in mood-killing,”

“This is ridiculous,” I mutter to myself. “I’ve removed a man’s heart while it was still beating. But eyes? Nope. Hard limit.” I tap the knife handle against my palm, stalling. The cold metal bounces against my skin while I try to psych myself up. “What kind of professional killer has an eye phobia? That’s like a chef who can’t stand the sight of onions. Or a librarian terrified of paper cuts.” The knife hovers while my hand trembles. Blood continues pooling beneath the body, inching closer to my shoes. I shift my position, buying a few more seconds of delay. “Come on, Rhodes. They’re just gelatinous spheres. Orbs of goo. Nature’s original surveillance cameras.” I swallow hard, my throat clicking in the silent room. “Oh great, now I’ve made it worse by anthropomorphizing them.”

Now comes the worst part. Waiting. Just me, my thoughts, and a container of human eyeballs. “Somehow, not the worst date I’ve ever had,” I mutter as I pull the vault door closed.

“Operation Rescue Stalker Boy is a go,” Lazlo declares, pulling out vials of theatrical blood. “Now, who wants to be patient zero? The mortality rate is spectacular.”

“Stand by for tactical oversight deployment,” Ambrose announces through our earpieces from his position back at headquarters. “I’m initiating Operation Eagle Talon Wolfpack.” “Is he always like this?” I whisper to Thorne. “Unfortunately,” Thorne mutters.

“Thorne’s working on the vault. How’s it going downstairs?” “I’m running out of symptoms.” Calloway sounds genuinely distressed. “I’ve done the shaking, the vomiting, the convulsions. I’m crawling around the lobby floor making unholy noises, but people are asking questions. There’s only so many ways to interpret ‘mysterious illness’ before it becomes derivative.” “Can you buy us more time?” A sigh hisses through the earpiece. “I suppose I could do seizures next, but it’s so last season. Everyone expects seizures.” “Your artistic integrity will recover,” I assure him. “Just keep it going a little longer.” “Fine,” he huffs. “But I want it noted that I’m compromising my vision. This is the equivalent of selling out and doing commercials.”

I stare at him for a long moment. “I’m in love with a serial killer who color-codes my candy stash.” “If it helps, I’m a very selective serial killer.” “It helps a little.” I smooth my hands over his chest. “But mostly I just like that you can reach the top shelf where I hide the good chocolate.” “Ah, so you’re only with me for my height and my ability to hack financial records?”

“Stay safe,” he whispers against my lips, the words carrying weight beyond their simplicity. I press my palm against his chest, his heart racing beneath my fingers. “You too. Don’t let Calloway drag you into something reckless.” “Says the woman who broke into Blackwell’s panic room.” “That was different. I had you.” His expression softens. “And now I have you.”