Page 47 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

Oakley

“ W hat?” The word comes out sharp, disbelieving. “I’m supposed to breach the wall alone? Crawl into the panic room by myself and—what—just wait for Blackwell to walk in so I can murder him?”

Five pairs of eyes watch my reaction.

“You’re the only one here who can fit,” Lazlo adds with clinical detachment. “The rest of us would get stuck halfway through. Physics is rather uncompromising that way.”

I look to Xander, expecting support. “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.”

A snort of laughter draws my attention to Calloway, who’s watching this exchange with the delight of someone who just found front-row tickets to their favorite show.

“This is fascinating,” he says, glancing between Xander and me. “Please, continue. I haven’t been this entertained since Thorne discovered someone replaced his hemlock tea with chamomile.”

Xander ignores him. “Oakley, I’m not questioning your ability. I’m saying it would be irresponsible to send anyone—even me—in there alone.”

“So, what’s your solution?” Thorne asks.

Xander steps closer to the display, fingers manipulating the schematics. “I’ll go in with her.”

“How?” Darius asks. “You can’t fit through that space.”

I stare at Xander, waiting for his explanation. He’s transformed in these moments—all that awkward charm fading into something sharp and dangerous, like watching a butterfly reverse into a predatory wasp.

“I can’t fit through the vent,” Xander admits, his eyes meeting mine. “But once Oakley’s inside, she can control the access panel.”

“The internal door controls,” I say, understanding dawning. “ From inside the panic room, I could override the security and let you in.”

Xander nods. “Exactly. The panic room is designed to keep people out, but the occupant can open the door.”

I trace my finger along the narrow vent passage. The thought of shimmying through that tight space makes my chest tighten, but I push the feeling down. “So I crawl in, disable the security, and open the door for you.”

“Getting in is one thing,” Lazlo points out, “but how do you get out after? Once Blackwell enters, you’ll be trapped.”

I look at Xander. “Any ideas?”

Xander’s eyes gleam with that calculated intensity I’ve come to recognize—the look of a man who’s already calculated every risk and accepted them all.

“I’ll have to hide inside until everything clears,” he says, as if he’s suggesting we take a different route to avoid traffic rather than proposing a potential death sentence.

“That’s crazy.” The words burst from me. “They’ll search the panic room. And we don’t even have a visual on what’s inside. You could be walking into a box with nowhere to hide.”

“That’s why I’ll be the only one joining you.” His voice drops. “I’ll be the only one at risk.”

The room falls silent as everyone considers this obvious flaw in the plan. 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.”

My knees burn against the metal as I crawl through the ventilation shaft, inch by excruciating inch. The LED headlamp strapped to my forehead illuminates the narrow metal corridor stretching ahead like a claustrophobic’s nightmare crossed with a tin can fever dream.

My triceps shake with effort. Who knew crawling could be this brutal? Years of sitting at a desk pursuing stories did nothing to prepare me for this physical reality. Every movement forward requires muscles I didn’t know existed, now screaming in protest.

The gloves stick to my sweating hands, squeaking against the metal with each movement. My breathing comes in short, shallow gasps—all the deep yoga breaths in the world wouldn’t help in this suffocating metal tube.

My hair itches beneath the tight black beanie, wisps trying to escape around my neck.

I’d tucked every strand under the hat while Xander watched, his hands steady as he adjusted it, making sure nothing could fall out and leave DNA evidence behind.

The memory of his fingers brushing against my neck sends an inconvenient ripple of heat through me.

“Focus,” I mutter, the word echoing down the metal tunnel. The hat feels too tight now, squeezing my skull with every heartbeat. But I’d rather have the discomfort than risk leaving a single hair behind to connect me to whatever happens in Blackwell’s panic room.

I force myself forward another painful foot. My shoulders scrape the sides of the duct with every movement. Another wave of claustrophobia hits, and I imagine the duct collapsing, crushing me inside. I’d die here, entombed in the walls of Blackwell’s penthouse—the world’s worst poetic justice.

“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.”

“Focus.”

“I am focusing. I’m focusing on not panicking in this metal coffin. You try crawling through a glorified air duct with arms that feel like overcooked spaghetti and see how focused you stay.” I push forward, counting breaths to steady my racing heart.

The vent narrows, and I slide forward until—wait. I’m not sliding anymore. My shoulders wedge against the metal sides like I’m the cork in a wine bottle. Panic claws at my throat.

“Um, Xander?” I wriggle, trying to force myself through. My jacket bunches up around my armpits. “I think I’m stuck.”

“You’re not stuck,” his voice comes through my earpiece, infuriatingly calm.

I push harder, the metal pressing into my sides. “My professional assessment, as the one currently in this hellhole, says otherwise. ”

“Take a deep breath and exhale fully before you push forward.”

I try his suggestion, sucking in what little air I can and then emptying my lungs.

“Why didn’t anyone measure this damn thing properly?

I swear it’s getting narrower.” I strain against the sides again, my arms trembling with fatigue.

“This is what I get for hoarding candy in every pocket. I should’ve gone with the sugar-free options.

I swear on every Snickers in my apartment, if I make it out of here alive, I’m never eating candy again. ”

Xander’s soft laugh tickles my ear. “That might be the least believable thing you’ve ever said.”

“I’m serious!” I push again. A slight give. “Sure, it’ll be hard to say goodbye to peanut butter cups, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.”

“The withdrawal symptoms alone would be alarming. I’ve seen you eat your way through an entire bag of gummy bears during a single stakeout.”

“Not helping, Rhodes.” I twist my shoulders at a different angle and slide forward another inch. “Shouldn’t you be saying encouraging things? Like ‘you’re doing great’ or ‘just a little farther’?”

“You’re doing great,” he says, and I hear the smile in his voice. “Just a little farther.”

“Smartass.”

“I watched you demolish two king-sized Kit Kats for breakfast. Your commitment to candy is the most stable relationship in your life.”

I snort despite myself. “Second most stable now.”

His voice softens. “Thank you, babe. ”

With a final push and what feels like losing a layer of skin from my shoulders, I break free of the tight spot and slide forward. “I’m through. But I stand by what I said. No more candy.”

“I’m setting a timer. Let’s see how long that lasts.”

“Any updates on your end?” I ask, desperate to change the subject as I continue my awkward crawl.

“Security’s holding steady. No movement on the cameras.”

“So what do people talk about while crawling through ventilation systems to murder corrupt billionaires?” I ask, forcing lightness into my voice. “Weather? Sports? Reality TV?”

“I usually go with a murder-themed playlist. ‘Psycho Killer’ is solid vent-crawling music.”

“The Talking Heads’ version or the cover?”

“Please. There is only one version worth acknowledging.”

I smile despite everything. “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.”

I reach the vent opening and peer through the slats into Blackwell’s panic room.

The room below isn’t what I expected. It’s big, with sleek black and chrome furnishings that scream money and masculine ego.

Not just a panic room, but a luxurious bunker.

A king-sized bed dominates one wall. Opposite stands an equipped kitchenette with gleaming appliances and a mini-fridge.

There’s even a small bathroom area concealed behind frosted glass.

Of course, he has a fucking king-sized bed.

Of course, he has a mini-fridge probably stocked with imported water and a bathroom with frosted glass and sleek chrome fixtures.

My parents died choking on their own blood, and this bastard gets silk sheets and a panic button.

My fingers clench around the screwdriver in my pocket.

One way or another, this room is going to serve its purpose.

He’s going to panic.