Page 82 of X Marks the Stalker
“Everything I suspected.” I meet his gaze. “Surveillance photos I took following you. Your name. My theories about your...extracurricular activities. No hard evidence of actual killings, but enough to identify you. Connect the dots.”
For three heartbeats, he turns to stone.
“We need to leave. Now. They’ll be here in minutes.”
He rises in one fluid motion, grabbing a phone and typing rapid-fire commands. “How detailed is your research?”
“Detailed enough to expose you,” I say, conscious of wearing nothing but his shirt as he moves through the house with lethal purpose. “Theories, methods, connections—it’s all there.”
“Fuck,” he breathes, the rare profanity revealing the severity more than shouting ever could. “We have minutes. Maybe less.”
Xander freezes mid-stride, pivoting toward me with burning intensity.
“Does your research mention the Hemlock Society?” His voice tightens like a garrote.
I blink, confusion fogging my brain.
“What? What is that?”
His shoulders release tension, a controlled exhale escaping. “You don’t know. Good. So we can use their hidden location.”
The confusion must broadcast across my face because he crosses back to me, hands gripping my shoulders.
“The Hemlock Society. You didn’t uncover that connection?”
“No, I... I tracked you. Your movements, your identity.” I shake my head, frustration mounting at this detour when we should be running. “What the hell is the Hemlock Society?”
“It’s where we’re going,” he says, releasing me and resuming preparations with calculated efficiency. “Somewhere even Blackwell can’t reach.”
He extracts a pre-packed bag from a hidden compartment in his closet and tosses it on the bed. “Dress. Quickly.”
“My clothes—” I glance around for our discarded garments.
“No time.” He throws me a pair of sweatpants from a drawer. “These will work. Too big, but better than nothing.”
I yank on the sweatpants, rolling the waistband multiple times while he inventories his bag’s contents. Even in crisis, his movements remain precise, mathematical.
He checks his watch. “Five minutes, tops, before they find my address and head here.”
I’m tying my sneakers when his phone buzzes with another alert. He stiffens, muscles locking as he reads the screen.
“What now?” I ask, recognizing the shift in his posture.
He turns the phone toward me. A similar black SUV from my apartment now idles outside his building.
“They found you,” I whisper, stomach plummeting. “How did they get here so fast?”
“Multiple teams,” he says. “We move now.”
Xander tosses me a leather jacket that swallows me whole as he shoves a sleek laptop into a black duffel. His movements remain economical despite the urgency, selecting only essentials.
“What about clothes? Food?” I ask, my journalist brain still cataloging details despite my thundering heartbeat.
“We’ll have everything we need where we’re going.” He zips the bag and slings it over his shoulder, extracting two more bags from beneath the bed. “Take this.”
The bag lands heavier than expected in my arms. I peek inside—bundles of cash, a metal case, and a handgun nestled at the bottom.
“Jesus,” I mutter.
