Page 150 of X Marks the Stalker
I take a breath. “What would you do if you had an optionto join something big, important. But it’s not really who you are? Or who you thought you were?”
“Is this about a job?” Zara asks, eyebrows raised. “Did the Boston Globe finally offer you that crime desk position?”
“No, but something like that.”
“Well,” Zara says, signaling the bartender for another round, “my grandma would say, ‘If yuh born fi hang, yuh can’t drown.’”
“Meaning?”
“Your destiny finds you, no matter what.” She shrugs. “But personally, I think that’s bullshit. We choose who we become.”
The bartender sets fresh drinks before us. I wrap fingers around the cool glass but don’t lift it.
“When I opened my shop,” Zara continues, “everyone said I was crazy to leave a stable job to groom dogs. But it felt right.” She points a French fry at me. “What feels right for you?”
“I don’t know.” I stare into my drink, watching the ice cubes slowly melt.
Thorne’s words echo in my mind. “The question isn’t whether you can kill, Oakley. It’s whether you need to.”
And that’s the crux of it all. Each member of the Hemlock Society has a compulsion—a need that drives them. Calloway transforms murder into art to purify his world. Lazlo chases the adrenaline rush while punishing those who hurt children. Darius creates his meticulous death chambers to balance the scales that the justice system never will. Thorne orchestrates it all.
And Xander... Xander watches.
But me? I killed Blackwell for revenge.
That itch they describe isn’t there. That compulsion crawling beneath their skin.
My phone buzzes again, this time with a photo message. I angle the screen away from Zara’s prying eyes and open it, my breath catching. It’s a close-up of Xander’s hand holding what looks like?—
“What’s he saying that’s making you turn that color?” Zara asks, leaning forward with a grin. “Must be good.”
I lock my screen. “Nothing.”
“Uh-huh. Your face disagrees.” She sips her cocktail, smiling.
My phone buzzes again.
Xander
I can see you from here. That dress is killing me. So glad I bought it for you.
I scan the club again. The dance floor, packed with writhing bodies. The VIP section above us. The shadowy corners where couples press against each other.
Where are you?
Xander
Three o’clock. Behind the column.
I turn slightly, and there he is—leaning against a pillar near the bar, watching me with that intense focus that sends electricity across my skin. Dark jeans and a fitted black Henley showcasing shoulders that should require a permit. Our eyes lock across the room, and he raises his whiskey glass an inch or two.
“He’s here,” I say.
“Who’s—” Zara swivels, following my gaze. “Wait, is that him? Your mystery man?”
I nod, heat climbing up my neck as Xander’s eyes travel slowly down my body, lingering on the hemline of my dress.
“Damn, Acorn.” Zara whistles low. “Now I see why you’ve been distracted. He’s gorgeous. Invite him over.”
