Chapter 23
Jiya
Calloway’s body stiffens against mine.
“Is this part of the disposal protocol I missed?” The voice isn’t loud, but it lands in the space between us like a shard of glass. It’s rich, cultured, and dripping with an amusement so cold it burns.
I freeze at the sound, my body still half-wrapped around Calloway. Whipping my head around, I lock eyes with a tall, imposing man standing in the kitchen doorway.
“Shit!” I scramble off the steel prep table, a clumsy, graceless slide that sends a sharp pain up my hip where it connects with the metal edge.
I clutch the silk robe closed, a hot flush of embarrassment crawling up my neck as I try to regain some dignity.
I put three feet of distance between myself and Calloway.
He pushes himself off the table with a quiet sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Thorne. Didn’t expect you in person.”
“Clearly.”
The man makes my breath catch. Six-foot-something of tailored perfection, with steel-gray eyes that take in everything and reveal nothing. His dark hair is styled despite the late hour, and his stance radiates authority without trying.
So this is the mysterious Thorne.
“Where’s Lazlo?” Thorne asks, his gaze sweeping the kitchen.
“He left,” Calloway answers. “To deal with his arm.”
“Ah. After she stabbed him,” Thorne says, turning those piercing eyes toward me.
“I thought he was attacking me.” I cross my arms. “Maybe try teaching your people basic social skills before sending them out to lurk in shadows.”
A corner of Thorne’s mouth quirks up. He walks to the counter, running a finger along the stainless steel, checking for dust that isn’t there.
“Lazlo’s social skills are the least of our concerns.” He picks up a small jar of saffron, turning it in his fingers. “It’s his timing that needs work. Along with his chemical knowledge, apparently.”
“The drain cleaner was a disaster,” Calloway admits.
“So I heard.” Thorne sets the saffron down with a soft, definitive click.
He recites the list of failures not with anger, but with the cold, precise tone of a coroner reading a report.
“It melted a high-density polyethylene bin, created a toxic gas cloud, and almost incapacitated two of my most valuable assets.” He finally looks up, his gaze settling on Calloway, and the disappointment in his eyes is sharper than any blade.
“All while failing to dispose of a body that was never supposed to exist in the first place.”
“Marcel was—”
“Marcel was supposed to be left alone,” Thorne says, his voice cutting through Calloway’s defense. “That was the directive. Maintain a low profile.”
I take a step forward, planting myself between them. “Marcel was a rapist who deserved what he got.”
“I have no doubt he was a disgraceful human being. His character is irrelevant,” Thorne says. “The issue is that my associate was ordered to be a ghost, not to collaborate on an impromptu execution with an unknown civilian. A civilian who is now a catastrophic security risk.”
“She’s not going to tell anyone,” Calloway says.
“She’s standing right here,” I snap, my eyes locked on Thorne. “And she can speak for herself.”
He gives me his full attention. It feels like being pinned under a microscope.
“Can she? Because from my perspective, ‘she’ has just learned of the existence of this organization, took part in an unsanctioned kill, and witnessed a disposal method that could implicate everyone here if she ever shared.”
“I will not turn you in,” I say. “It would mean turning myself in as well.”
“Forgive me if I don’t find mutual assured destruction a sound basis for trust,” Thorne replies, his voice soft. “I don’t know you. Your background, your motivations, your psychological stability. For all I know, you’re an undercover federal agent playing a long game.”
A raw, incredulous laugh escapes me. “I just fed a man, piece by piece, into a garbage disposal. Do I look like a federal agent?”
“The good ones never do.” Thorne moves to examine the garbage disposal with the intensity of a crime scene investigator. “These people are my responsibility. I brought them into this. I built this society. If one of them is compromised because Calloway couldn’t follow a simple instruction—”
“Nothing is going to happen to them.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. His voice has lost its polished, icy edge. It’s frayed, roughened by something that sounds less like anger and more like raw, guarded fear.
There’s a moment of silence.
And I see it. Not with my eyes, but with a sudden, gut-level clarity.
This isn’t about the murder. It’s not about me, not really.
It’s about the exposure. The risk. The dominoes that could fall and crush the people he has sworn to protect.
He’s not worried about himself; he’s worried about the others.
“You can get caught,” Thorne says. “You’ve survived this long through luck and the fact that your victims were already suspected of crimes, making their deaths convenient closures rather than mysteries.”
“I’ve never left evidence,” I insist.
“You left the evidence of methodology,” Thorne corrects. “Far more damning in the long run. Each new body increases the statistical probability that someone will connect them. That someone is already connecting them. Just like our Gallery Killer over here.”
Calloway slides his hand over mine, a silent show of support.
“So what would you do differently?” I challenge.
“I wouldn’t have a signature at all,” Thorne says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “A rock climber’s equipment fails. A swimmer has a cramp. A driver’s brakes malfunction. The method should fit the target, not the killer.”
“That’s complicated. Poison is clean.”
“Poison creates toxicology reports,” he counters. “Reports create databases. Databases create patterns.”
“Listen, you walking Brooks Brothers catalog—”
“Oh, we’re resorting to insults now?” Thorne’s eyebrow arches. “How very…pedestrian.”
“Maybe we should—”
“Not now,” Thorne and I snap in unison at Calloway’s interjection.
I take a step closer, invading Thorne’s personal space. “You know what your problem is? You’re so obsessed with the intellectual exercise of it all that you forget the point. This is about justice.”
Thorne’s lips curl into a sneer. “Is that what you tell yourself while you’re mixing your bargain-basement poisons? At least have the decency to use quality toxins.”
“My monkshood derivative is perfect. I worked hard on it.”
Thorne freezes. The condescension in his eyes vanishes, replaced by a sharp, sudden focus. “Monkshood? You’re using an Aconitum derivative?”
“A synthetic I developed,” I say, leaning forward. “It mimics a natural cardiac event.”
Something shifts in his expression. A flicker of genuine, academic interest. “You’ve masked the alkaloids?”
“By adjusting the extraction method. The standard process leaves too many markers.”
“And the half-life is all wrong for practical application,” he finishes, his eyes alight with understanding.
We’re standing inches apart now, the words tumbling over each other in a rush of shared obsession.
Calloway looks between us, his expression a mask of utter bewilderment. “Are you two seriously bonding over—”
“Not now,” we say together, waving a dismissive hand in his direction without breaking eye contact.
“I’ve been working with ricin-based compounds,” Thorne continues, his voice low and conspiratorial, “but the protein markers are a nightmare to mask.”
I nod, a thrill of understanding shooting through me. “Winterberry extract. It binds to the lectin.”
Thorne’s eyes widen. He looks at me as if seeing me for the first time. “Winterberry. That’s…genius.” He runs a hand through his perfect hair, messing it up. “You know, most people don’t appreciate the artistry. The delicate balance.”
“Tell me about it,” I say, rolling my eyes. “It’s not just about killing someone—it’s about—”
“Precision,” we say in perfect sync.
Thorne’s eyes soften. A slow, deliberate smile touches his lips. “I like her.”
I lean back against the steel counter, crossing my arms. “Good. So I don’t have to kill you.”
A deep, genuine laugh escapes Thorne, a sound so unexpected I flinch. It cracks the cold marble of his composure, and for a moment, the man in the bespoke suit is replaced by someone else entirely, someone with warmth in his eyes.
I’ve only known him for five minutes, but I think there’s a lot more to this guy than meets the eye.
He picks up the small jar of saffron again, turning it over in his fingers as he studies me. “You haven’t met many people you couldn’t kill, have you?”
I lift my chin. “Not many worth keeping alive.”
I glance over at Calloway. The tension has bled out of his shoulders, and the hard line of his jaw has softened. He watches us, not with the anxiety of a subordinate, but with the quiet relief of a man who has just watched two of his worlds collide without exploding.
Thorne glances at his watch. “We should go. The cleaning crew arrives at four-thirty.”
“So that’s it?” I ask. “We shake hands and go our separate ways after murdering and liquefying a man together?”
“Actually,” Thorne says, adjusting his cufflinks, “I was thinking of offering you something more permanent.”
“Permanent?”
“You’ve already met half the team,” he continues. “Calloway seems quite...attached.” His eyes flick between Calloway and me. “And your chemical knowledge would be a valuable asset.”
I cross my arms. “You’re offering me a job?”
“I’m offering you membership,” Thorne corrects. “In The Hemlock Society.”
“Your little murder club?”
“Our very selective justice organization,” he counters, without a flicker of irony.
Calloway closes the distance between us, his shoulder a warm, solid presence against mine. “It’s a good offer, Jiya. Resources, protection, intelligence. You wouldn’t be alone anymore.”
I ignore him, my gaze locked on Thorne. I search his face for the tell, the flicker of deception behind the mask of control. “What’s in it for you? Why invite a stranger into your secret society?”
Thorne’s gaze softens, just for a fraction of a second.
“Everyone is a stranger before you get to know them. Being in this line of work can get lonely,” Thorne says.
For a moment, a wave of loneliness crashes over me, and I remember college days with Amber.
The late-night study sessions that turned into wine-fueled debates about ethics and philosophy.
How she’d drag me to campus parties I pretended to hate but secretly enjoyed because she made everything fun.
The way she’d steal my fries and replace them with her onion rings without asking.
Her laugh—loud and unrestrained—and how she never cared who heard it. How we promised to be roommates after graduation, already planning our apartment décor. The way she looked out for me when I had too much to drink, and how I held her hair back when she did the same.
All gone after she was murdered. One date with the wrong guy, and she was gone.
The loneliness that followed has been a constant companion these past five years. The bar is always full of people who know “Jiya the bartender,” but nobody knows me.
My apartment is just a place to sleep between shifts and hunting. I have casual acquaintances and regular customers, but no one I can call at 3 AM when I have a nightmare. No one I can tell about the blood on my hands or the justice I deliver. No one who understands why I do what I do.
He’s right. God, he’s right. I am so completely, utterly alone.
“Everyone needs to be with their equals,” Thorne says, his gray eyes meeting mine, and I see past the chess master to the man. I see the same isolation I feel reflected there.
“When was the last time you could speak about what you do?” he continues when I haven’t yet responded. “About the satisfaction of it? About the chemistry of it, without watching the other person’s eyes glaze over in horror?”
All the nights I’ve spent alone after a kill, with no one to share the weight of what I’ve done. The burden of secrets. The isolation that comes with this calling.
“What do you want from me in return?” I ask, my voice echoing in the empty kitchen. “Nobody offers something without a price.”
“No price,” he says.
I raise an eyebrow. “Nothing?”
“Only that you respect our rules.” Thorne straightens his already immaculate tie, the businessman returning.
“They are not suggestions. They are requirements for membership.” He shifts his gaze to Calloway, and his eyes narrow, the warmth gone, replaced by cold, hard steel.
“And that you protect The Society. At all costs.”
Calloway’s jaw tightens.
“Our existence depends on absolute discretion,” Thorne continues, his voice a low, dangerous hum. “No exceptions. No compromises.”
“You need insurance that I won’t expose you,” I translate.
“I need assurance that you understand what is at stake,” Thorne corrects. “This is bigger than any of us.”
This is insane. This breaks every rule of self-preservation I have lived by for five years. But as I look from Calloway’s quiet, hopeful gaze to Thorne’s intense, calculating one, a current pulls me forward. Something I haven’t felt since Amber died. The possibility of belonging.
“Is there an application form?” I ask.
“Nothing so bureaucratic,” Thorne says, a faint smile touching his lips. “But there is a small initiation.”