Page 160 of X Marks the Stalker
He moves behind me, warm chest pressing against my back as he reaches around to steal a piece of bacon from the pan. His tattooed arm encircles my waist.
“It wasn’t for your story. It was to verify the background of a potential target. The fact that you might find certain financial discrepancies in the 2016 to 2018 records is purely coincidental.”
I try to maintain my stern expression, but a laugh bubbles up instead as I lean back against him. “You’re impossible.”
“I prefer ‘resourceful.’” His lips brush my ear. “And you’re welcome.”
His phone buzzes with that distinct tone that signals Hemlock Society business. The peaceful bubble of our morning trembles slightly.
Xander picks up his phone, expression shifting as he reads the message. Then it rings, Calloway's name flashing on the screen.
“What?” Xander answers.
Even from across the room, I can hear Calloway's voice, but it's strangely flat, devoid of his usual dramatic flair.
“There's a dead body in my gallery,” Calloway says simply.
Xander groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Not now, Calloway. I’m in the middle of something. Clean up your own mess.”
“You don't understand.” Calloway's voice carries genuine confusion. “I didn't kill him.”
That gets Xander's attention. His posture straightens, eyes sharpening with interest. “Huh?”
“It's a guest. At the exhibit.”
“And you didn’t kill him? Are you sure he's dead, then?” Xander asks, his tone shifting.
There's a pause. “Well,” Calloway says, his usual sardonic wit creeping back, “his head is on the other side of the room from his body. Think I should check for a pulse?”
Despite the grisly circumstances, I catch Xander's lips twitching slightly.
“Someone is trying to kill me,” Calloway continues, the levity fading from his voice. “And I don’t think it was the first time.”
The implications hang in the air between us. Someone’s targeting Calloway—possibly all of them. The careful masks they wear in public could be slipping.
“I need help to handle this.”
“On my way.”
I pull out some clothes. “I’m coming with you.”
“Oak—”
“Don’t even start that protective bullshit. I’m the investigative journalist. Pattern recognition is literally my job.”
He pauses, watching me dress with that intensity that still makes my skin prickle—half predator, half lover, completely focused.
“Your self-preservation instincts have been questionable since day one.” He grabs his phone, keys, and a sleek black case I know contains tools no civilian should possess. “You invited a stalker into your bed.”
“After he made an extremely compelling case for himself.” I snatch my emergency bag from beside the nightstand—now stocked with both snacks and lock picks. “Besides, you’remystalker. That makes it romantic.”
His laugh—sharp and genuine—cuts through the tension. “Your definition of romance needs serious recalibration.”
This is what my life has become. Casual conversations about hacking and killing over breakfast, with interludes of desire that still take my breath away. The strangest part is how right it feels.
“You can’t come,” he says. “You need to go to work. Act normal. You can't raise suspicion by changing your routine.”
I want to argue, but he's right. My value to them—to him—lies partly in maintaining my cover as a legitimate journalist with no obvious connection to their activities.
