Page 115 of X Marks the Stalker
Ten minutes later, our board has transformed from a chaotic obsession to a methodical investigation.
Blackwell’s face stares out from the center, surrounded by his empire of corruption. Twelve years of my life, distilled into one damning display. I hope it’s enough.
I tidy the rest of the cabin, gathering discarded clothes, washing dishes, wiping down counters. I’m not sure why I care what serial killers think of my housekeeping, but I do.
“Two minutes,” Xander says, checking his phone.
I dash to the bedroom, changing from pajamas into jeans and a black sweater. Professional, but not trying too hard. I catch my reflection in the mirror and take a deep breath. This isn’t just about impressing Xander’s murder friends—it’s about finally getting justice for my parents.
“You ready?” Xander appears in the doorway.
“As I’ll ever be,” I adjust my mother’s locket, centering it perfectly.
The security system chimes, announcing our visitors.
Thorne Ravencroft strides in like he owns the place—which he probably does. He’s immaculate in tailored pants and a charcoal button-down with rolled sleeves. His steel-gray eyes scan the cabin, cataloging everything before landing on me.
Thank God I cleaned up.
Behind him, Calloway Frost saunters in with deliberate grace, his asymmetrical blond hair artfully tousled. He wears all black again, the fabric draping his lean frame like it were liquid.
Calloway’s pale blue eyes light up. “You again. Still alive.”
“I’ll live longer than you,” I say.
“Oh, she’s spicy,” Calloway laughs. “I love that.”
The door opens again, admitting a man whose presence immediately shifts the energy in the room. Tall, with rich, dark skin and penetrating amber eyes, he moves with the controlled power of someone who navigates different worlds daily. Something about him feels both completely put-together and slightly dangerous, like he knows exactly who he is and doesn’t care if that works for anyone else.
“Ms. Novak,” he says, his voice like smooth bourbon. “Darius Evers. I tracked your coverage of the Westfield corruption case. Impressive work.”
“You’re an attorney,” I blurt, recognition dawning. “You represented the mayor during that scandal.”
“I represent many people.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Some deserve it more than others.”
“He’s our legal contingency plan,” Xander explains.
“And fantasy football champion three years running,” Darius adds, checking his phone. “Which reminds me—Thorne, you still owe me fifty bucks from last season.”
Thorne’s expression remains unchanged. “I dispute the validity of that last touchdown.”
“The commissioner ruled. Accept your loss with dignity.”
The final arrival strides through the door with calmpurpose, carrying a medical bag. He scans the room with intelligent, golden-brown eyes before they land on me.
“Sorry I’m late. Thought I was developing symptoms of Bolivian hemorrhagic fever, but turns out it was just heartburn from those gas station taquitos.” He spots me and breaks into a wide grin. “You must be the journalist who’s turned our resident shadow into a lovesick teenager,” he says with a smile that could melt ice. “Lazlo Vega. I’m the one they call when things get messy.”
“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.”
Thorne moves to the center of the room, commanding attention without effort. “Let’s be clear, if we’re doing this, this operation will need to be impeccable.”
“I’ve already started surveillance on his medical facility,” Xander says, pulling out his phone. “Building security is primarily focused on patient privacy, not intrusion prevention.”
“I can bring supplies for various cardiac scenarios,” Lazlo says, patting his medical bag.
