Chapter 12
Calloway
The room goes so quiet that the hum of the ventilation becomes a roar.
“Explain,” Thorne says, his voice dangerously soft.
“I seem to have acquired a secret admirer,” I say, taking a slow sip of my bourbon. “One with a flair for the dramatic and terrible aim.”
I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of their collective stare. My fingers find the edge of my coaster, adjusting it exactly parallel to the table edge.
“The dead man at the gallery,” I begin. “I don’t think it was a mob hit. I thought it was, at first. But no one could have known he would be there that evening. He’s not an art fan.”
“Still could be a coincidence,” Lazlo mutters.
“A coincidence,” I repeat, letting the word hang in the air. “I thought so, too. Until this morning.”
I look around the table, meeting each of their gazes.
“They tried again. With a gargoyle. It shattered on the sidewalk a half-step behind me. A second sooner, and you’d be scraping me off the cobblestones.”
Their expressions shift from skepticism to concern.
“This was clearly targeted.” I spread my hands. “But why me? My artistic statements aren’t that controversial.”
“Anyone who’s seen your food photography…” Ambrose quips, though his eyes remain serious.
“Must be related to your night job,” Lazlo says, his voice uncharacteristically quiet.
“Impossible,” I say with confidence. “My work is clean. Perfect. No one connects me to those deaths.”
“No one is perfect.” Thorne’s words land with the weight of stone. “You’re theatrical, Calloway. Your kills have a signature. That’s a liability.”
“Art requires a signature,” I counter.
Thorne leans back, his eyes like chips of ice. “Art gets artists caught.”
“I already agreed to lay low,” I snap, the words sharp with a frustration I can no longer contain. “What more do you want?” Heat rushes to my face. The perfectly aligned coaster in my hand crumples, its crisp edges ruined.
Unwanted images flood my mind. The locked studio door. The careful positioning. The pain. You’re special. Our secret.
“Frost.” Thorne’s voice breaks through, steady and controlled. “Are you alright?”
I blink, the crimson room coming back into focus. The memory retreats, a ghost at the edge of my vision. I will not be a target again. “Fine. Just shaken.”
Xander’s face softens as he rises from his seat. He crosses the room, placing a firm hand on my shoulder.
“We’re not leaving you exposed,” he says, his voice low, meant only for me. “We find who’s doing this. Fast.” His fingers squeeze in a silent promise. “The gallery. You have cameras?”
“Yes,” I say, the fight going out of me. “Full coverage. I installed them after a Basquiat was nearly stolen last year.”
Xander’s gaze shifts from my face to his watch, then back to me with sudden intensity. “Let’s go.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now.” He’s already retrieving his coat from the back of his chair. “Unless you’d prefer to wait for your would-be killer to try again.”
The other members exchange glances around the table. Thorne gives a barely perceptible nod toward Xander, which I interpret as approval.
“Where are we going?” I ask, standing and straightening my jacket.
“To my place,” Xander says, already heading for the door. “I need my equipment.”
Ambrose raises his glass in a mock toast. “Try not to die before our next meeting,” he says with a wry smile. “I hate revising agendas.”
“Your concern is touching,” I respond dryly.
Lazlo leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes gleaming with intensity. “If someone’s hunting our Gallery Killer, I want in.” He turns to Xander. “Keep me updated?”
Xander nods.
“Come on, Pretty Boy,” Xander says, holding the door open. “Time to find out who wants your aesthetic ass dead.”
I follow him out of the room, feeling a curious mix of relief and apprehension. The Hemlock Society protects its own—I know this—but I’ve never needed help before. Having someone else investigate my life feels invasive, even if that someone is Xander.
In the hallway, I catch up to him. “What exactly are we talking about here? I thought you only had cameras.”
“Surveillance toys. Data mining algorithms.” We climb the stairs. “Things that make the NSA nervous.”
“Oh.”
“What did you think I do all day? Watch porn?”
“Well...”
“Don’t answer that.”
The cold night air hits me as we exit through the club’s discreet side entrance. My breath forms small clouds that dissolve into the darkness. The Beacon Hill street is empty.
“You have a car?” Xander asks, fishing his keys from his pocket.
I nod.
He clicks his key, and his car lights flash. “Meet you at my place. We’ll find whoever’s stalking you.”
The word stalking sends an uncomfortable chill through me. I’m supposed to be the hunter, not the hunted. Not again.
“Hey,” I call as he opens his car door. “What if this isn’t about me? What if I’m just collateral in a war against The Society?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “We’ll find them.” He gets in his car, then looks back at me through the open door, his eyes dark.
“Just be prepared, Calloway. When the person hunting you is this good, this personal...the face you find on the other side of the screen is rarely a stranger’s.”
Xander’s new apartment building stands like a sentinel against the Boston skyline. It’s one of those renovated industrial spaces with exposed brick and pipes. The kind of place I’d photograph for an architectural magazine.
The door swings open before my knuckles make contact.
“How did you—”
“Camera in the hallway.” Xander gestures toward the ceiling. “You’ve been standing there for forty-three seconds looking constipated.”
“I don’t look constipated.”
“You absolutely do.” He steps back to let me in. “It’s your thinking face.”
He just moved in here a few months ago with Oakley. While his previous apartment was more of a tech cave, this place is surprisingly...adult. Her influence, no doubt.
Warm blend of mid-century modern and bohemian touches. Colorful throw pillows brighten a gray sectional. Plants—actual living things requiring care—populate various corners. Art that isn’t black and white hangs on the walls.
“Your place got...domesticated,” I say.
“Improved is the word.”
A woman’s voice calls from somewhere inside. “Is that Calloway?”
“In the flesh,” Xander calls back.
Oakley Novak emerges from what must be the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She’s pulled her dark, wavy hair into a messy bun, and she’s wearing an oversized sweater that definitely belongs to Xander.
“The elusive Gallery God graces our humble home,” she says, her blue eyes bright.
“I’ve been busy,” I say, sounding more defensive than intended.
“Too busy for friends, not too busy for murder,” Xander mutters under his breath.
Oakley crosses to him, rising on tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips. It’s casual, automatic. Intimacy that comes from complete comfort with another person.
Something unfamiliar twists in my chest.
She catches me watching and smiles. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to make you talk about feelings or anything terrifying like that.”
“Thank God,” I say, forcing a lightness into my voice. “I only brought enough emotional capacity for one crisis today.”
The ease with which they move around each other—Xander’s hand finding the small of her back, her body making space for him as he passes—hits me like a physical ache.
Oakley interrupts my thoughts by wrapping me in a fierce hug. She smells of cinnamon and something floral.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” she says against my chest. “Xander’s been worried.”
“I haven’t been worried,” Xander protests.
“He checks the police scanner for your name at least three times a day,” Oakley stage-whispers.
“That’s standard protocol for all society members,” Xander says, but there’s warmth in his eyes.
Oakley releases me and digs into the pocket of her jeans, producing a packet of sour gummy worms. “Here. Emergency sugar. You look like you need it.”
I take the candy, bemused. “You just...carry these around?”
“You never know when someone might experience a snack emergency.” She produces another packet from a different pocket and offers it to Xander, who rolls his eyes.
“She has them hidden everywhere,” he explains. “Check under any cushion in this place, you’ll find a chocolate bar.”
“That’s not true,” Oakley protests. “Some of them have protein bars.”
Xander moves toward the kitchen. “I made coq au vin before I left for the meeting. We might as well eat while we work.”
“You cook?” I ask, following him.
“He stress-cooks,” Oakley explains, trailing behind us. “The fancier the food, the more stressed he is.” She pats his back. “Yesterday, it was beef Wellington. This morning it was eggs Benedict. I’m surprised we’re not having a seven-course tasting menu.”
The kitchen smells incredible. A pot simmers on the stove, and a bottle of what looks like very expensive red wine stands open on the counter. There’s fresh bread on a cutting board, and some kind of salad already plated.
“Before we were together, he used to mysteriously leave containers of actual food in my fridge,” Oakley adds with a fond smile. “I’d come home to find homemade lasagna where my leftover pizza should be. It was very romantic stalking.”
Xander’s ears turn slightly red. “Your diet consisted entirely of energy bars and takeout containers.”
“It was one of the things that made me fall for him,” she continues. “Well, that and the fact that he’s always ready to protect me.”
Xander shrugs, focusing intently on the pot.
I’m struck by how domestic it all is. The comfortable intimacy. The shared jokes. The home-cooked meal. It’s a world away from my sterile apartment with its perfect aesthetics.
“Want some wine?” Oakley asks, already reaching for glasses. “Or are you more of a whiskey guy? Xander keeps the good stuff hidden behind the cheap novels on the top shelf.”
“Those aren’t cheap novels,” Xander protests. “They’re first editions.”
“Of airport thrillers.”
“Of modern classics.”