Page 86 of X Marks the Stalker
“Nervous? Me? No. I just brought an outsider to a secret location of a murder club against every rule and protocol. I’m not nervous. I’m having a full psychotic break.”
The chime of the security panel cuts through the moment like a blade. Xander’s attention snaps to the screen.
“They’re here.”
Chapter 21
Oakley
The security panel chimes again, more urgent this time. Xander straightens, pulling away from me with visible reluctance.
“Remember,” he says, voice low and tight, “let me handle this.”
I nod, tugging at the oversized sweatpants threatening to slide off my hips. Perfect first impression for a murder club—disheveled journalist in borrowed clothes that scream “we just had sex before fleeing assassins.”
Xander moves to the door, checks the security display once more, then disengages the locks. He opens it just enough to reveal two men standing in the hallway.
The first man vibrates with contained energy. Tall and lean with dirty blond hair styled in an asymmetrical cut that emphasizes razor-sharp cheekbones, he’s dressed in black, the fabric screaming wealth without avisible label. His pale blue eyes sweep over Xander and fix on me with predatory intensity.
He looks like he should be on the cover of Vogue—ethereal, otherworldly beauty that seems wasted on a member of a murder club.
Calloway Frost. The avant-garde photographer whose exhibition at the Beacon Hill Gallery sparked controversy last month for its “disturbing intimate portraits of humanity at its most vulnerable.” His work had struck me as beautiful, but unsettling.
Behind him stands the second man, radiating authority that doesn’t require announcement or validation. Slightly older, with styled dark hair and steel-gray eyes, he wears a tailored charcoal suit that probably costs more than my yearly rent. His expression remains neutral as he steps forward.
“Xander,” he says. “This is unexpected.”
“Thorne,” Xander acknowledges. “Calloway. Thank you for coming.”
My fingers dig into my palms. Thorne Ravencroft, the hotel and hospitality magnate whose face graces Boston Magazine’s society pages at charity galas and building dedications. The man who transformed abandoned warehouses into luxury boutique hotels across three continents.
In person, he commands even more presence than in photographs, an aura of barely leashed danger radiating from him despite his perfect suit. The air in the room shifts with his entrance, molecules rearranging themselves around his gravity.
“As if we had a choice after that cryptic alert,” Callowaysays, brushing past Xander without waiting for an invitation. His shoulder bumps Xander’s—a deliberate gesture that speaks of familiarity. “A ‘situation requiring immediate attention at the Marlborough safe house’? Very dramatic, even for you.”
His gaze doesn’t leave me. “Though I see the situation has curves and apparently raided your closet.” Calloway tilts his head, studying me. “You look familiar. Have I photographed you before? I never forget a face, though sometimes the names blur together like watercolors.”
Thorne follows Calloway inside, his movements measured and deliberate. He closes the door himself, the soft click somehow more threatening than if he’d slammed it. The lock engages with a decisive sound. Trapped.
“Oakley Novak,” I answer, finding my voice. “I interviewed you about your exhibition.”
“Ah, yes,” recognition dawns in his eyes. “The journalist with the incisive questions about my compositional choices. How utterly delightful to see you again in such...unexpected circumstances.”
“I assume,” Thorne says, each word precisely formed, “there’s an excellent explanation for why an outsider breathes the same air as us in one of our facilities.”
“There is,” Xander confirms, positioning himself between me and the others.
Calloway circles around, examining me from different angles like I’m an installation he’s considering for purchase. “Oh, this tie is Armani,” he mutters, running a finger along the silk edge. “You should have warned us we’d be meeting company, Xander. I’d have worn something more photogenic for the inevitable crime scene photos.”
Xander tenses beside me. “There won’t be any crime scene or photos.”
“No?” Thorne’s eyebrow rises a fraction. “You’ve brought an outsider—a journalist, no less—to a Hemlock property. The protocols leave little room for interpretation.”
“Protocols serve normal circumstances,” Xander counters. “This isn’t normal.”
Calloway drops onto the sleek sofa, crossing one leg over the other. “Nothing about this gathering reads as normal, darling.”
“She was compromised,” Xander explains, voice steady. “Blackwell’s men raided her apartment tonight. They found her research on me.”
