Page 12 of X Marks the Stalker
“Nice of you to join us, Xander,” he says, checking his vintage watch. “You’re seventeen minutes late.”
“Got caught up in surveillance,” I reply, sliding into my usual chair. “The Gallery Killer case is bringing out all kinds of interesting observers.”
Calloway Frost looks up from his phone at this, his pale blue eyes narrowing. “Is someone jeopardizing my artistic integrity?” he asks, long fingers tapping an agitated rhythm on the table. “The compositions are precise for a reason.”
“Your ego remains intact, Calloway,” I assure him. “Though someone is connecting the dots between your ‘exhibitions’ and the club.”
This gets everyone’s attention. Thorne leans forward, his normally impassive face tightening.
“Elaborate,” he says.
I pull out my phone, swiping to the photos of Oakley’s investigation board. “Crime journalist named Oakley Novak. She’s been surveilling our club for at least four nights. The Beacon Hill Gentlemen’s Association. Tried to infiltrate with a British accent and fake credentials. Her apartment has quite the evidence wall, complete with photos of the murders.” I pause, looking at Calloway.
Thorne's eyes narrow. “You told me there were no complications.”
The accusation hangs in the air like a blade. My throat tightens. “I wanted to make sure first. Confirm the threat level before bringing it to you.”
Lazlo Vega, the youngest of our group, lets out a low whistle as he examines the photos I’m displaying.
“Smart girl.” His eyes gleam with the manic energy that makes him both valuable and unpredictable. “Should I prepare a special cocktail for her? I’ve been experimenting with a new paralytic that?—”
“No,” I interrupt. “I’ve got this handled. I’ve established surveillance in her apartment. Been following her for a few days now. I want to understand what she knows before we make any moves.”
“You want to get under her skirt, period,” drawls Darius Evers from across the table, straightening his knotted tie. “I recognize that look. You like her.”
My jaw tightens. “No.”
“Then you wouldn’t mind if I make a move? She’s hot,” Darius says.
“She’s mine!” I growl, jumping up.
Darius laughs. “Don’t like her much, huh?”
I drop back into my seat. I fell for it.
“Well-played, counselor,” I mutter. “But for the record, that wasn’t my smoothest move.”
Darius’ eyebrows arch above his designer frames. “Oh, we noticed.”
Thorne clears his throat, silencing the room with minimal effort. “Gentlemen, focus. We have a potential security breach, not a dating opportunity.”
I rub my temples, feeling the familiar throb of a headache forming. “Look, I’ve got eyes and ears in her apartment now. I’ll monitor the situation, see what she knows, who she’s talking to.”
“And what exactly is your plan if she gets too close?”Thorne asks, his voice dropping to that particular octave that makes even hardened killers straighten their posture.
I shrug, trying to appear more casual than I feel. “Same approach I always take. Watch. Learn. Adapt.”
“If she’s already connecting victims to the club, she needs to be neutralized,” Thorne says.
My throat tightens. “No. She’s smart, but she’s missing key pieces. Let me handle it.”
“You seem unusually protective of a threat, Xander,” Thorne observes, eyes narrowing. “Is there something you’re not telling us?”
“I’m being practical. A journalist disappearing right after investigating our club would only confirm her suspicions to whoever reads her notes. She’s backed everything up. She has an editor.”
“Xander,” Calloway interrupts, leaning forward, “are you watching her sleep?” He’s pointing to a particular surveillance shot showing Oakley crashed on her couch, hand still clutching a highlighter.
My face heats. “It’s surveillance.”
