Page 87 of X Marks the Stalker
“That’s it, work the knife,” Calloway comments with a dramatic flick of his wrist. “This death scene is giving me very much Renaissance painting vibes.”
Thorne’s expression remains unchanged, but something dangerous flashes in his eyes. “And your solution was to bring her here? Rather than handling the situation in the usual manner?”
The weight of that euphemism settles on my shoulders. “Handling” clearly doesn’t involve a polite conversation. Three killers and me. The odds couldn’t be worse.
“She’s different,” Xander insists.
“Different how?” Thorne asks.
“She’s one of us.”
The statement crashes through the room like a wrecking ball. Calloway laughs.
“One of us? This death pose is giving basic bitch energy, not killer chic.”
“She’s after the same thing we are—justice for those the system has failed.”
I find my voice at last. “My parents were killed because my father was getting too close to Elliott Blackwell’s operation. The police wrote it off as murder-suicide, but it was a hit.”
The temperature drops several degrees as Thorne’s gaze pins me like a butterfly to a corkboard.
“So it’s personal,” he observes. “How does that make you different from any other revenge-seeker?”
Xander moves closer, his shoulder almost touching mine. “She helped with Wendell,” he says.
Calloway’s perpetual motion ceases, his eyes widening with genuine surprise. Thorne’s expression shifts.
I swallow hard at the memory. The clinical precision of Xander’s setup. The tools laid out. The blood. The scalpel in my hand. My failure at the crucial moment. And then that kiss amid the carnage.
“I suggested removing his tongue,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “For lying about the people he’d harmed, for falsifying records. It seemed fitting.”
“Oh my,” Calloway breathes. “The juxtaposition of your journalist ethics against your darker impulses is...chef’s kiss. Literally my favorite ethical conflict right now.”
“Did you do it?” Thorne asks bluntly. “Cut out his tongue?”
I meet his gaze. “I tried. I couldn’t finish it.” The admission burns like acid, but there’s no point lying to men who breathe deception for a living. “Xander completed the job. More cleanly than I could have.”
“Oh, the ethical struggle. The moral ambiguity. I adoreit. It’s like a living tableau of conflicted humanity. Tragic.” Calloway claps his hands together, but I notice something else. A flicker behind those pale blue eyes, a shadow that doesn’t match his exuberant exterior.
Thorne studies me with a new assessment in his eyes. “An attempt shows commitment. And you’re honest.”
“She’s been investigating the kind of people we target,” Xander adds, pressing his advantage. “And I can teach her our ways.”
“You two have become quite the team,” Thorne observes, moving to the window to gaze out at the city lights.
A realization crashes through my fog. Xander isn’t just protecting me. He’s positioning me as a potential asset to their group.
“She knows about us.” Thorne’s voice remains calm, but the words carry the weight of a blade at my throat. “That cannot stand.”
“If she wanted to expose us, she could have done it already,” Xander argues. “She figured out who I was weeks ago. She had evidence, connections—enough to identify me—but she didn’t go public.”
I take a step forward. “I’ve been a journalist long enough to know when a story serves justice and when it just creates chaos. Exposing you would do nothing to help the victims of people like Blackwell.”
Thorne turns back to face us. “Lazlo and Ambrose would vote for elimination. You know that.”
“Then it’s fortunate they’re not here,” Xander responds, his voice hardening. “And it’s equally fortunate this isn’t a democracy.”
The two men lock eyes, unspoken communication crackling between them.
