Page 89 of X Marks the Stalker
“I could use this portrait of moral ambiguity for my next exhibition,” Calloway muses, examining me with renewed interest.
“She stays with you,” Thorne continues, addressing Xander. “Not here, not at her place. Take her to the Berkshires property. It’s completely off-grid and cannot be traced back to us.”
Xander nods, some unspoken understanding passing between them.
Calloway smiles. “Well! This has been absolutely thrilling. A midnight summons, a damsel in distress, the breaking of sacred murder club protocols... I haven’t been this entertained since we eliminated that art critic who called my installation ‘derivative.’”
Thorne checks his watch. “We have a situation to contain. Blackwell’s men have evidence that could expose Xander, potentially all of us. That must be addressed immediately.”
“We’ll handle it,” Xander assures him.
“See that you do,” Thorne replies, heading for the door. “Full briefing tomorrow. We’ll come to you.” He pauses, turning back. “And Xander? If this ends poorly, it won’t just be her life at stake.”
With that parting comment, he exits the apartment.
Calloway lingers, eyes bright with fascination. “Could you tilt your defiant head about thirty degrees? The lighting is perfect, and this is so going in my portfolio.” His hand brushes my shoulder, the touch fleeting and performative. “Xander never brings his toys to our playgroup. You must be special.”
“Calloway.” Xander’s voice drops an octave, a warning lurking beneath the single word.
“So territorial,” Calloway observes with delight. “I’m just appreciating the aesthetics, darling. Though I’m beginning to see why you’re so invested.” He winks at me, but the gesture doesn’t reach his eyes. “Welcome to our little murder collective, Oakley Novak. Do try not to get blood on the upholstery. I just had everything redecorated.”
With a dramatic flourish worthy of a Broadway exit, he follows Thorne out the door.
As it closes behind them, Xander’s shoulders slump, tension draining from his body.
“That went better than expected,” he murmurs.
“They were going to kill me,” I state, the reality of the situation hitting me.
“They were considering it,” he corrects, moving to reset the security system. “There’s a difference.”
“Not from where I’m standing.”
Xander turns to me, his expression softer than I’ve seen it before. “You did well. Standing up to Thorne like that—most people can’t.”
“Was it stupid?”
“Incredibly,” he admits with a half-smile. “But effective.”
I hesitate, then ask what’s been nagging at me since Calloway swooped in with his theatrical flair. “What happened to him?”
Xander glances up, confusion crossing his features. “What?”
“Calloway. He’s all happy and flirty on the outside, but his eyes...” I trail off, unsure how to articulate what I sensed. “They don’t match the rest of him. Like looking at a cracked mirror.”
Something shifts in Xander’s expression—surprise, followed by a guarded respect. “You noticed that?”
“Journalist, remember? Reading people is part of the job description.”
Xander shakes his head. “Well, if you want to know, you’ll have to ask him.”
“Like that’s going to happen.”
“Smart call. His origin story isn’t exactly bedtime material.” Xander’s expression darkens. “Not unless you want nightmares.”
I lean against the wall, my body suddenly weighing a thousand pounds. “So what now? They’ve given me a stay of execution, but for how long?”
“For as long as you’re valuable to them,” Xander says, his honesty jarring.
