Page 52 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

Oakley

M y spoon clinks against the ceramic as I stir my fourth cup of coffee in the upscale restaurant. The server glides past our table, eyeing my still-full plate of untouched eggs Benedict.

My knife slips from my fingers, clattering against the plate.

“Perhaps the smoked salmon isn’t to your liking, Ms. Novak?” Darius cuts his steak, his fork and knife never touching the tablecloth. “The chef here trained in Paris.”

I push the plate away. “Have they opened the room yet?”

Darius dabs his mouth with his napkin, eyes scanning the restaurant before answering. “The security manager hasn’t even arrived with the override codes. These things take time.” He takes a sip of water. “We will know when they do.”

The words Xander whispered in my ear earlier echo in my head. “ I love you .” Three words said as we parted ways. Three words I didn’t answer because I was not prepared. Now they ricochet inside my skull, demanding acknowledgment.

I twist the silver locket around my neck—the one Xander recovered for me—and another realization hits me with startling clarity. I love him too. The words sit unspoken on my tongue, useless now with him trapped in that room.

My phone screen lights up. Lazlo’s name flashes on the screen. I snatch it up.

“Hang on.” I fumble with my earpiece, digging it from my jacket pocket. My fingers won’t cooperate. The tiny device almost drops into my coffee. I duck my head, pretending to look at the menu.

Across the table, Darius reaches into his suit jacket like he’s retrieving a business card, producing his own earpiece with infuriating calm. Not a single worry line creases his forehead while my whole world hangs in the balance.

I wedge the device into my ear, the connection crackling to life. Every second stretches into eternity. All I can think is, Xander might already be in handcuffs. Or worse.

“—can’t believe this shit,” Lazlo’s voice cuts in mid-sentence, words tight with adrenaline. “Building’s crawling with cops now.”

Darius taps his earpiece. “Status update on the panic room.”

“That’s what I was trying to tell you,” Lazlo hisses, voice dropping. “Security manager just walked in. The one with the override codes.”

My stomach plummets. “How long until they get in?”

“Fifteen minutes, max,” Lazlo replies. “They’re assembling some kind of response team before they breach. Manager’s talking to the police captain now. Shit, hold on.”

The comms go silent. I glance at Darius, whose composed expression now sports the slightest furrow between his brows.

Lazlo’s breath rushes through the earpiece as he returns. “They’re gathering outside the penthouse door. Got thermal imaging equipment. Trying to see if anyone’s inside before they go in.”

“Will they be able to detect Xander?” My voice barely clears a whisper.

“Yes.”

I reach for my coffee cup, desperate for something to occupy my hands. “Can you get a message to him?”

Lazlo’s frustrated sigh crackles through the earpiece. “I tried. No response.”

I try Xander’s number anyway, watching the spinning wheel as my phone struggles to connect. The call fails before it even rings. I try again. Same result.

“What if something’s wrong?” The question escapes before I can trap it. “What if he’s hurt? What if they’ve already?—”

“Ms. Novak,” Darius interrupts, voice low but firm. “Perhaps you’d like another coffee?”

I stare at him blankly until I catch the slight head tilt toward the couple at the next table, who’ve begun glancing our way with curious expressions. I force a smile .

“Sorry. I just get carried away with these scenarios sometimes.” I lift my half-empty cup with shaky fingers and take a deliberate sip of the cold coffee. “You’re right. I need a refill.”

Darius waits until the couple returns to their own conversation before leaning forward. “There’s nothing we can do right now except wait it out.”

“I hate this,” I admit. “I hate not knowing.”

Lazlo’s voice cuts through again. “Guys, they’re starting the override sequence. Whatever’s going to happen, we’ll know in about two minutes.”

My nails dig half-moons into my palms as I listen to Lazlo’s ragged breathing through the earpiece.

“They’re inputting the final override code,” he whispers. “Ten seconds.”

I close my eyes, as if that might somehow help Xander, wherever he is in that panic room. The restaurant hums with oblivious morning chatter around us.

“They’re in.” Lazlo’s voice drops even lower. “Five officers, weapons drawn. Security manager standing back.”

Darius lifts his espresso to his lips, face betraying nothing. Under the table, his leg presses against mine—the slightest pressure, a silent reminder to keep my expression neutral.

“They’ve found Blackwell.”

My eyes dart to Darius, whose lips tighten almost imperceptibly.

“They’re calling for forensics,” Lazlo continues. “Captain’s on his radio... They’re implementing a full building lockdown. Nobody in or out.”

I lean forward. “And Xander? ”

Lazlo doesn’t respond immediately. I hear muffled voices through his comm, the crackle of police radios.

“No mention of Xander,” Lazlo says. “They keep talking about the evidence. Something about files all over the desk. One officer just threw up.”

“I need more details,” Darius murmurs, sliding his empty espresso cup aside. “Specifics.”

“Hold on.” Lazlo’s breath quickens. “Captain’s calling for additional units. They mention the nails, the strings. He’s saying it’s ‘some sick murder board brought to life.’”

I touch my locket, remembering how we planned it all—the evidence nailed to living flesh, the red strings connecting Blackwell to his crimes. My crimes now, too.

“Still no mention of anyone else,” Lazlo says. “Just Blackwell and the evidence.”

Relief floods through me, my muscles unclenching one by one. I sink back into my chair, exhaling.

“Wait—they’re talking about something else now. Weird.”

Darius raises an eyebrow, somehow conveying intense interest through minimal movement. “Define weird.”

“The captain’s saying something about the victim’s eyes being removed,” Lazlo says, his voice dropping. “I can’t hear exactly what—oh shit, I need to move. Someone’s coming this way.”

The comm goes silent. I pick up my cold coffee, the liquid tastes bitter and wrong, but I force it down anyway.

When Lazlo’s voice returns, it’s even more hushed. “Had to duck into a maintenance closet. Some rookie almost spotted me.”

“The eyes,” Darius prompts .

“Right. So they’re saying Blackwell’s eyes are missing.” Lazlo makes a sound between a cough and a laugh. “Holy shit, Novak. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“What?” I blink in confusion.

“You took out his eyes? That’s next level.” Lazlo sounds impressed.

“We didn’t take out his eyes,” I insist, shooting a worried glance at Darius. “Xander must have done it after I left.”

“No way,” Lazlo counters. “Xander doesn’t like dealing with eyes. He thinks they’re all squishy and gross and keep looking at you.”

“He has an eye phobia?” A surprised laugh bubbles out of me. “Seriously?” The man who planned a neurosurgeon’s death is squeamish about eyeballs?

Lazlo continues. “Captain’s theory is that whoever killed Blackwell took his eyes to access the safe.”

“He’s in the vault,” Darius and I say in unison.

“That explains why they didn’t find him, and the no reception,” I whisper, relief washing over me before new worry floods in. “But how big is this vault? How much air does he have in there?”

Darius sets down his espresso cup. “Blackwell’s vault would be cutting-edge. Designed for surviving disasters.”

“But not designed for hiding a wanted man,” I press, my fingers twisting my locket chain tighter. “Oxygen-wise, I mean. Are we talking hours? Days?”

“Hard to say without the specs.” Darius checks his watch. “Depending on the size...”

My mind races through terrible scenarios. “What if it’s tiny? What if it’s just a glorified safe deposit box?” I remember the confined space of the ventilation shaft, the way my breath echoed in the metal tunnel. “I can’t believe I left him in there.”

“Your departure was essential to maintaining the timeline,” Darius reminds me, his voice lowered as the barista passes our table. “And it appears Mr. Rhodes improvised quite effectively.”

“But how long can he last in there?” My coffee cup trembles in my hand, cold liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

“They’re bringing in a safe specialist. Talking about drilling the vault if necessary.”

“How long?” I demand.

“They’re arguing about jurisdiction. FBI wants in before they breach. Something about national security concerns with Blackwell’s files.”

“That could buy hours, maybe days of bureaucratic red tape,” Darius murmurs, a hint of approval in his voice.

I picture Xander trapped in darkness, air growing stale, waiting. My chest tightens. “We need to get him out of there.”