Page 83 of X Marks the Stalker
Xander pauses at his bedroom window, scanning through a gap in the blinds. “Garage exit. Now.”
He guides me down a narrow service stairwell. The sweatpants slip from my hips, requiring one hand to keep them from pooling at my ankles.
“Car’s here,” he murmurs.
We emerge into an underground garage, and Xanderstrides toward a nondescript gray sedan. Not the sleek black vehicle from before.
“Get in,” he orders, tossing both bags into the backseat.
I slide into the passenger seat as he starts the engine. The car awakens with barely a whisper.
“This isn’t your car,” I say.
“Not on record,” he confirms with grim satisfaction, pulling from the space. “But one of several clean vehicles I maintain.”
His attention divides between the rearview mirror and the exit ramp as we climb toward street level. My pulse hammers in my throat as we approach the gate, expecting Blackwell’s men to materialize.
Instead, the gate rises, and we merge into empty pre-dawn streets.
Xander drives with surgical focus, executing random turns through residential neighborhoods.
I twist to scan through the rear window. “Are we being followed?”
“I don’t think so, but we assume yes until proven otherwise. Healthy paranoia is basically my love language.” His hands remain steady on the wheel, knuckles white with tension. “Check the glove compartment.”
Inside sits a metal box containing several burner phones.
“Take one,” he instructs. “Power off your real phone and remove the SIM card.”
I comply, feeling calm despite circumstances. Perhaps shock, or perhaps acceptance that I’ve crossed into Xander’s world now.
We drive nearly an hour, zigzagging through the citybefore heading toward an upscale neighborhood lined with modern high-rises.
“Where are we?” I ask as he parks between two luxury SUVs.
“Somewhere secure,” he replies, collecting our bags. “A place known only to certain people. This building is owned by someone I know.”
He guides me to a private elevator requiring a key card. The doors part to reveal a mirrored interior.
“Nineteenth floor,” he says as we step inside. “No surveillance in the elevator or hallways. The building’s security operates on a closed network.”
The elevator ascends, and my reflection stares back at me from mirrored walls—hair wild, face pale, drowning in Xander’s clothes. I look like a fugitive.
I guess I am a fugitive.
When the doors open, Xander scans the hallway before motioning me forward. The corridor gleams with understated wealth—polished concrete floors, recessed lighting, numbered doors without nameplates.
He stops at 1902 and unlocks the door.
“Inside,” he murmurs, ushering me through with a hand at the small of my back.
The apartment radiates immaculate perfection and absolute sterility. No photos, no personal touches. The furniture serves function over comfort, and the artwork reads as investment rather than passion. In the corner stands a black cabinet without visible handles, projecting an aura of secrecy and danger.
“What is this place?”
Xander secures the door, activating what appears to betop-grade security. “A safe house. One of several maintained by my associates.”
“The Hemlock Society,” I say, testing the words. That’s the name he mentioned before.
