Page 84 of X Marks the Stalker
His eyes lock onto mine with laser focus. “We don’t use that name.” He drops the bags, one hand scrubbing over his face—a rare display of human fatigue. “Not outside. I’ve shattered about a dozen protocols bringing you here.”
I venture deeper into the apartment, absorbing the expensive minimalism. “This belongs to your... associates? What exactly are they?”
“It’s a club,” Xander says, his back to me as he gazes out at the city lights.
I stare at him, processing these words against our luxurious surroundings. The museum-quality artwork. The security.
“A club?”
“Some people join country clubs to network. Same concept, just with more murder and fewer golf carts. Though the socializing part never came naturally to me—turns out watching people through cameras doesn’t translate to actual conversation skills.”
The pieces click into place. My mind races, possibilities multiplying faster than I can process them.
“How many are there?” I ask, circling the room like it might hold visual clues. “Is it just here in Boston, or—” I stop, a new thought forming. “Oh my God, is this international? Do you have branches? Like Murderers Without Borders?”
Xander turns, eyebrow raised.
“Is there a secret handshake?” I continue, questions spilling out faster than I can filter them. “Do you haveannual conventions? ‘Best Dismemberment Technique’ awards? Is there a newsletter? ‘Killer Monthly: Ten Tips for Removing Blood from Suede’?”
“Oakley—”
“Wait, what about recruitment? Is there an application process? Essay questions? ‘Describe your first kill in five hundred words or less, focusing on methodology and clean-up efficiency’?”
“Oakley,” Xander says more firmly, but I can’t stop now.
“How deep does this go? Are there hundreds of you? Thousands? Is this some illuminati-level conspiracy with tentacles in every major city? Am I standing in the actual center of the universe of organized killing?”
Xander crosses the room in three swift strides and places his hands on my shoulders. “Take a breath.”
I inhale, suddenly aware I’d been spiraling.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
I glance at Xander, standing calm and composed, as if discussing dinner plans instead of a society of murderers. My stomach churns, but I force the nausea down. Whatever this is, I’ve crossed too many lines to retreat.
“You risked yourself bringing me here, didn’t you?”
Xander moves to the kitchen, opening cabinets with the familiarity of previous visits. “I made a calculation.”
“What calculation?” I press, following him.
He extracts two glasses, filling them with soda. “That keeping you safe outweighed potential consequences.”
The simple statement hits with unexpected force. Xander Rhodes, the stalker, the meticulous planner, has sacrificed his precious protocols for me.
“They’ll be angry,” I deduce. “Your...associates.”
He hands me water, his fingers brushing mine. “Probably.”
“Are they going to kill me?” The question emerges calmer than I feel.
Something flashes in his eyes—dark, determined, deadly. “Not if I have anything to do with it.”
“Why risk it?” My voice comes out softer than intended.
Xander’s gaze holds mine for a long moment before he looks away, scanning the apartment with professional assessment.
“I’ve spent my entire adult life observing people,” he says. “Collecting their secrets, documenting their sins, cataloging their weaknesses.” His voice drops lower. “I’ve watched hundreds of subjects. Followed them. Studied them.”
