Page 40 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

Oakley

T he police cruiser’s lights paint the interior of our car in alternating flashes of red and blue, and my heart pounds so hard I swear it’s trying to claw its way out of my chest.

“Oh my God,” I whisper. “We have a body in the trunk.”

“I’m aware,” Xander says, his voice calm but his right eye twitching. He pulls the car to the shoulder with deliberate precision and puts it in park. “Let me do the talking. Don’t volunteer information. Keep your answers short.”

“What if he wants to search the car?” I whisper, gripping the edges of my seat.

“Then we’ll cross that bridge while it’s collapsing beneath us.” He adjusts the rearview mirror and rolls his shoulders back. “Calm down. You’re not guilty of anything?—”

“I killed someone!”

“Technically, yes,” Xander replies. “But the key here is acting like you didn’t. Breathe.”

The officer approaches, each deliberate crunch of gravel underfoot magnified by my racing pulse. 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.”

Xander lowers his window. “Good evening, Officer.”

The cop leans down, flashlight beam jumping from Xander to me. Middle-aged, with the weathered face of someone who’s cataloged too many poor decisions on rural highways.

“License and registration,” he says.

Xander reaches into the glove compartment, pulling out the requested documents. I try not to twitch as the flashlight sweeps over me again, illuminating every bead of sweat on my forehead.

“Is everything alright, Officer?” Xander asks.

“You’ve got a taillight out. Passenger side.”

Relief floods through me. A taillight. That’s all. He doesn’t know about our trunk passenger.

“Apologies for that,” Xander says. “We weren’t aware. I’ll get it fixed first thing in the morning.”

The officer nods but doesn’t step away. His flashlight lingers on me, and I realize I’ve been staring at him for too long. My face must look like guilt personified.

“Ma’am,” he says, his tone shifting. “You alright? You seem a little pale.”

“I’m fine.” I dig into my bag and pull out a half-eaten package of Red Vines. “Long drive. Red Vines? ”

Xander shoots me a look that clearly says, What are you doing?

I thrust the bag of candy toward the officer.

“Would you like one, Officer? They’re cherry.

Or maybe just red flavor? Honestly, I don’t know what they’re supposed to taste like.

Do you? People are weirdly divided about Red Vines versus Twizzlers—like, who cares?

They’re both just tubes of sugar, right?

Anyway, I find sugar helps when I’m stressed.

Not that I’m stressed! Why would I be stressed? ”

The officer blinks, then tilts his head. “Ma’am, are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah! Totally fine. Just excited about candy. And road trips. And?—”

Xander cuts in. “She’s fine, Officer.”

The officer’s flashlight sweeps toward the back of the car, and my breath catches.

“Sir, I need you to step out of the vehicle,” the officer says to Xander.

“What?”

“Step out of the vehicle now,” the officer repeats. He shifts the flashlight back to me. “Ma’am, is this man taking you somewhere against your will?”

“What? No!” I exclaim.

“It’s alright, you can tell me,” the officer says in what passes as reassuring in hostage situations. “You’re safe now.”

“She’s not in danger,” Xander says, voice tight. “We’re just driving to?—”

“Sir, I did not ask you to speak,” the officer cuts him off. “Put your hands where I can see them.”

“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.

“Those are very specific details,” the officer admits, looking less certain.

“I know all about him because he’s my boyfriend. Xander doesn’t let many people into his life, on account of the emotional trauma from his childhood hamster’s death.”

The officer doesn’t seem convinced, his flashlight beam sweeping close to the trunk.

“Nice night for a drive,” the officer remarks, running his hand along the trunk lid. “Mind if I take a peek in here?”

“It’s just baggage and camping gear,” Xander says, voice perfectly level. “You’re welcome to look if you’d like.”

I stare at him in horror. Is he seriously inviting the cop to find a dead body?

The officer’s hand is on the trunk, and any second now, he’ll find a dead man inside. A man I killed. Everything I’ve worked for will disappear in an instant. My vision narrows to a pinprick, my ears filling with static. I’m going to jail. Forever.

“I—” I gasp. “I can’t?—”

The officer steps back, his focus shifting to me. “Ma’am? Are you alright?”

Xander glances at me.

“She has panic attacks,” Xander says, leaning toward the officer but keeping his tone measured. “The flashing lights—they trigger her. Her father was a cop. Died in the line of duty. It’s...rough on her.”

The officer’s flashlight dips. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he says, his voice softening.

I cover my face, leaning forward as though I’m on the verge of hyperventilating. “It’s the lights,” I say. “They remind me of...of when it happened.”

“Breathe,” the officer says, crouching beside the window. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. Nice and slow.”

I follow his instructions, my breaths stuttering but gradually evening out.

“Take your time,” he says, setting his flashlight on the ground so the beam isn’t in my face. “What department was your dad in?”

“Boston PD,” I manage. “Homicide.”

The officer nods. “I’m from a long line of cops myself. Lost my partner a few years back. I get it. Trauma sticks with you.”

It’s the genuine kindness in his voice that almost cracks me. I’m lying to this man, manipulating his sympathy to cover up a murder.

“Thank you,” I whisper. “I’m sorry. I just need a minute.”

“Take all the time you need.” He glances at Xander. “She good with water? I’ve got some in the cruiser if it’ll help.”

Xander nods. “That would be great, thank you.”

As the officer walks back to his car, I lock eyes with Xander .

“What the fuck?” he whispers.

“I panicked!” I whisper-shout back.

“That much was obvious.”

“It’s working, isn’t it?”

The officer returns with a water bottle and crouches beside my window. His expression has softened from suspicious to sympathetic, which just churns the guilt deeper in my stomach.

“Here you go, ma’am.” He passes me the water.

I take a long swig, buying time. “Thank you.”

“You said you’re heading up to a cabin?” he asks.

Xander steps in. “Yes, sir. To my family’s place in the Berkshires. Thought some time away from the city might help with her anxiety.”

“Well, that’s thoughtful.” The officer straightens up. “There’s a garage in Millfield, about ten miles up. They open at seven.” The officer steps back from the car. “I’ll let you two continue on your way. Just be careful out here at night. Had some reports of unusual activity.”

“Unusual activity?” I repeat, my voice cracking.

“Nothing to worry about. Probably just kids.” He taps the roof of our car. “You take care of yourself. And get that taillight fixed tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” Xander says. “Thank you for your understanding.”

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.

My heartbeat won’t slow down, hammering against my ribs. Every nerve ending sparks and crackles. My skin prickles everywhere—too sensitive, like I’ve been rubbed raw and exposed to the air. I squirm in my seat, crossing and uncrossing my legs. Like someone hooked jumper cables to my spine.

“I feel weird,” I say, staring straight ahead at the dark road.

Xander pulls the car over, tires crunching on gravel. The headlights illuminate the empty stretch of highway, nothing but trees and darkness surrounding us.

“What is it?” His voice is tense, alert. He scans the mirrors, probably checking for the return of our police friend or other threats. “Are you injured? Did something happen during the stop that I missed? ”

I turn to face him, aware of how ridiculous what I’m about to say will sound.

“There’s something wrong with me,” I whisper, my voice tight.

My cheeks burn hot while everything lower tightens and pulses.

“I shouldn’t—this is so messed up, but—” I squeeze my thighs together, unable to meet his eyes.

“I want you. Right now. Like I’ve never wanted anything.

” 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!”