Page 34 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

Oakley

T he security panel chimes again, more urgent this time. Xander straightens, pulling away from me with visible reluctance.

“Remember,” he says, voice low and tight, “let me handle this.”

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.”

Xander moves to the door, checks the security display once more, then disengages the locks. He opens it just enough to reveal two men standing in the hallway.

The first man vibrates with contained energy.

Tall and lean with dirty blond hair styled in an asymmetrical cut that emphasizes razor-sharp cheekbones, he’s dressed in black, the fabric screaming wealth without a visible label.

His pale blue eyes sweep over Xander and fix on me with predatory intensity.

He looks like he should be on the cover of Vogue—ethereal, otherworldly beauty that seems wasted on a member of a murder club.

Calloway Frost. The avant-garde photographer whose exhibition at the Beacon Hill Gallery sparked controversy last month for its “disturbing intimate portraits of humanity at its most vulnerable.” His work had struck me as beautiful, but unsettling.

Behind him stands the second man, radiating authority that doesn’t require announcement or validation. Slightly older, with styled dark hair and steel-gray eyes, he wears a tailored charcoal suit that probably costs more than my yearly rent. His expression remains neutral as he steps forward.

“Xander,” he says. “This is unexpected.”

“Thorne,” Xander acknowledges. “Calloway. Thank you for coming.”

My fingers dig into my palms. Thorne Ravencroft, the hotel and hospitality magnate whose face graces Boston Magazine’s society pages at charity galas and building dedications. The man who transformed abandoned warehouses into luxury boutique hotels across three continents.

In person, he commands even more presence than in photographs, an aura of barely leashed danger radiating from him despite his perfect suit. The air in the room shifts with his entrance, molecules rearranging themselves around his gravity.

“As if we had a choice after that cryptic alert,” Calloway says, brushing past Xander without waiting for an invitation.

His shoulder bumps Xander’s—a deliberate gesture that speaks of familiarity.

“A ‘situation requiring immediate attention at the Marlborough safe house’? Very dramatic, even for you.”

His gaze doesn’t leave me. “Though I see the situation has curves and apparently raided your closet.” Calloway tilts his head, studying me. “You look familiar. Have I photographed you before? I never forget a face, though sometimes the names blur together like watercolors.”

Thorne follows Calloway inside, his movements measured and deliberate. He closes the door himself, the soft click somehow more threatening than if he’d slammed it. The lock engages with a decisive sound. Trapped.

“Oakley Novak,” I answer, finding my voice. “I interviewed you about your exhibition.”

“Ah, yes,” recognition dawns in his eyes. “The journalist with the incisive questions about my compositional choices. How utterly delightful to see you again in such...unexpected circumstances.”

“I assume,” Thorne says, each word precisely formed, “there’s an excellent explanation for why an outsider breathes the same air as us in one of our facilities.”

“There is,” Xander confirms, positioning himself between me and the others.

Calloway circles around, examining me from different angles like I’m an installation he’s considering for purchase.

“Oh, this tie is Armani,” he mutters, running a finger along the silk edge.

“You should have warned us we’d be meeting company, Xander.

I’d have worn something more photogenic for the inevitable crime scene photos. ”

Xander tenses beside me. “There won’t be any crime scene or photos.”

“No?” Thorne’s eyebrow rises a fraction. “You’ve brought an outsider—a journalist, no less—to a Hemlock property. The protocols leave little room for interpretation.”

“Protocols serve normal circumstances,” Xander counters. “This isn’t normal.”

Calloway drops onto the sleek sofa, crossing one leg over the other. “Nothing about this gathering reads as normal, darling.”

“She was compromised,” Xander explains, voice steady. “Blackwell’s men raided her apartment tonight. They found her research on me.”

“That’s it, work the knife,” Calloway comments with a dramatic flick of his wrist. “This death scene is giving me very much Renaissance painting vibes.”

Thorne’s expression remains unchanged, but something dangerous flashes in his eyes. “And your solution was to bring her here? Rather than handling the situation in the usual manner?”

The weight of that euphemism settles on my shoulders. “Handling” clearly doesn’t involve a polite conversation. Three killers and me. The odds couldn’t be worse.

“She’s different,” Xander insists.

“Different how?” Thorne asks.

“She’s one of us.”

The statement crashes through the room like a wrecking ball. Calloway laughs.

“One of us? This death pose is giving basic bitch energy, not killer chic. ”

“She’s after the same thing we are—justice for those the system has failed.”

I find my voice at last. “My parents were killed because my father was getting too close to Elliott Blackwell’s operation. The police wrote it off as murder-suicide, but it was a hit.”

The temperature drops several degrees as Thorne’s gaze pins me like a butterfly to a corkboard.

“So it’s personal,” he observes. “How does that make you different from any other revenge-seeker?”

Xander moves closer, his shoulder almost touching mine. “She helped with Wendell,” he says.

Calloway’s perpetual motion ceases, his eyes widening with genuine surprise. Thorne’s expression shifts.

I swallow hard at the memory. The clinical precision of Xander’s setup. The tools laid out. The blood. The scalpel in my hand. My failure at the crucial moment. And then that kiss amid the carnage.

“I suggested removing his tongue,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “For lying about the people he’d harmed, for falsifying records. It seemed fitting.”

“Oh my,” Calloway breathes. “The juxtaposition of your journalist ethics against your darker impulses is...chef’s kiss. Literally my favorite ethical conflict right now.”

“Did you do it?” Thorne asks bluntly. “Cut out his tongue?”

I meet his gaze. “I tried. I couldn’t finish it.” The admission burns like acid, but there’s no point lying to men who breathe deception for a living. “Xander completed the job. More cleanly than I could have.”

“Oh, the ethical struggle. The moral ambiguity. I adore it. It’s like a living tableau of conflicted humanity. Tragic.” Calloway claps his hands together, but I notice something else. A flicker behind those pale blue eyes, a shadow that doesn’t match his exuberant exterior.

Thorne studies me with a new assessment in his eyes. “An attempt shows commitment. And you’re honest.”

“She’s been investigating the kind of people we target,” Xander adds, pressing his advantage. “And I can teach her our ways.”

“You two have become quite the team,” Thorne observes, moving to the window to gaze out at the city lights.

A realization crashes through my fog. Xander isn’t just protecting me. He’s positioning me as a potential asset to their group.

“She knows about us.” Thorne’s voice remains calm, but the words carry the weight of a blade at my throat. “That cannot stand.”

“If she wanted to expose us, she could have done it already,” Xander argues. “She figured out who I was weeks ago. She had evidence, connections—enough to identify me—but she didn’t go public.”

I take a step forward. “I’ve been a journalist long enough to know when a story serves justice and when it just creates chaos. Exposing you would do nothing to help the victims of people like Blackwell.”

Thorne turns back to face us. “Lazlo and Ambrose would vote for elimination. You know that.”

“Then it’s fortunate they’re not here,” Xander responds, his voice hardening. “And it’s equally fortunate this isn’t a democracy. ”

The two men lock eyes, unspoken communication crackling between them.

“You’re willing to stake your membership on this,” Thorne observes. Not a question.

“I’m willing to stake more than that,” Xander replies, and I realize with a jolt that he’s offering his life for mine.

Warmth floods through me at the gesture.

“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.” He moves closer, studying me with renewed interest. “Tell me, what was your favorite detail?”

“That’s enough,” Xander cuts in, stepping between us, his jaw clenched.