Chapter 26
Jiya
“Calloway, open up! I know you’re in there.” A man’s voice filters through the door, followed by more knocking. “Unless someone finally murdered you, in which case, my bad!”
“Who the hell visits people at dawn?” I mutter, my voice still rough with sleep.
Calloway pulls on his pants with remarkable speed. “Shit,” he mutters, tossing me my dress from where it landed on his dresser. “It’s Xander.”
“Is he from your murder club, too?” I whisper, scrambling to make myself presentable.
“We don’t call it that,” Calloway says, buttoning his shirt halfway. “Stay here.”
I press my ear against the bedroom door after Calloway closes it behind him, straining to hear.
“What the hell are you doing here, Xander?” Calloway’s voice has an edge I haven’t heard before.
“Well, hello to you, too, Sunshine.” Xander’s voice is casual, almost amused. “Sorry to interrupt. Judging by the decibel level and rhythmic frequency of the last hour, I’m guessing it was a very productive…photography session? No judging.”
“It’s too early for this shit.”
“Is it? Huh.” A pause. “Aren’t you going to invite me in? Or should I just keep discussing your extracurricular activities in the hallway where Mrs. Abernathy can hear everything?”
A muffled curse from Calloway, footsteps, and the door closing.
“You still haven’t told me why you’re here,” Calloway says.
“Oh, right. I came for your girlfriend. I’m guessing she’s here? Unless you’ve developed a habit of talking to yourself during sex, which, honestly, wouldn’t be the weirdest thing about you.”
My cheeks burn. I smooth down my hair, check my reflection in Calloway’s mirror, and decide I can’t hide forever. I push open the bedroom door and step into the living room.
Xander is taller than I expected, and handsome in a way that’s clean cut and disarming. His eyes, a clear, intelligent green, move over me. Not in a lingering or suggestive way, but with a quick, focused curiosity. Then they meet mine, and a smile spreads across his face.
“Ah, there she is.” Xander grins, turning to Calloway.
Calloway sighs. “Jiya, this is Xander. He specializes in surveillance and inappropriate timing.”
“What he means is, I’m the most charming member of our little book club.
” Xander extends his hand to me. “A pleasure to meet the woman who’s tried to kill our friend here at least three times.
The lighting rig was very creative. I would have gone with something less theatrical, but I respect the vision. ”
I shake his hand. “Thanks... I think?”
“Don’t mention it.” Xander glances around the apartment.
Calloway pinches the bridge of his nose. “Xander. Why. Are. You. Here.”
Xander reaches into Calloway’s fridge without asking and pulls out a bottled of water. “I came to pick you up. Thorne wants us to play a little game.”
“A game?” I ask, exchanging a glance with Calloway, who seems less surprised than I’d expect.
Xander just shrugs. “Yeah, I think he said something about bowling.”
I wait for the punchline. It doesn’t come. My brow furrows. “Bowling,” I echo, my voice flat with disbelief. “You came here at six in the morning to invite us bowling?”
“I’m just the messenger,” Xander says, hands raised. “And designated driver, I suppose.”
Calloway glances at me, then back at Xander. “Can it wait until later?”
“Thorne was pretty insistent,” Xander replies, dropping onto Calloway’s pristine white couch with the comfort of someone who’s been here many times. “Something about an opening. You know how he gets with his schedules.”
I don’t miss the careful way he says the last word. “Thorne wants me there, too?”
“Yes. He made that very clear.” Xander pulls out his phone, scrolls through something, then stops. “The whole thing is for you, actually.”
“For me?”
“Yep.” Xander pockets his phone, his gaze analytical. “Thorne’s a big believer in practical exams. This is yours.”
I stand in the middle of Calloway’s living room, barefoot and confused. “Wait. So, bowling is the initiation test? It doesn’t sound that bad.”
Xander snorts, a half-laugh that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
“What?” I ask.
“You’ll see when we get there.”
The world outside Xander’s car is a blur of green and shadow. He drives not with speed, but with a focused, unnerving precision, taking the winding roads out of Boston as if he were plotting geometric angles rather than turning a wheel.
The cityscape fades behind us, replaced by the dense cover of old trees. After twenty more minutes of driving, we approach massive iron gates with an ornate “R” worked into the metalwork.
“Let me guess,” I mutter. “The ‘R’ stands for ‘Ridiculously Wealthy’?”
“Ravencroft. Thorne’s family estate.”
“Family as in...?”
“Just Thorne now,” Calloway says. “Has been for years.”
He lives here alone? That’s… lonely.
The gates swing open as we approach. No security guard, no intercom, just cameras tracking our movement with tiny red lights blinking in the darkness.
“Charming,” I say.
The driveway seems to stretch for miles, curving through perfectly manicured gardens before revealing the house. A sprawling compound of dark stone.
“Holy shit,” I breathe. “This isn’t a house. It’s a small country.”
“Thorne appreciates his privacy,” Xander says, parking at the base of sweeping marble steps. “And his dramatic architecture.”
The massive front door swings open before we even reach it. Thorne stands silhouetted in the doorway, dressed in a crisp button-down and tailored slacks, as if he’s been waiting for us all morning.
“You’re late,” is all he says, stepping aside.
The foyer is a cavernous space of dark wood and cold marble. A chandelier dripping with crystals hangs from the two-story ceiling, each one a frozen tear. Oil paintings of stern-faced men and women line the walls, their dead eyes seeming to follow our every move.
“Nice place,” I say. “Very ‘Addams Family meets Downton Abbey.’”
A flicker of something—amusement, maybe—crosses Thorne’s lips. “Thank you. Architectural Digest featured the east wing in 1997. They called it ‘imposingly elegant.’”
“I was thinking more ‘elegantly imposing,’ but sure.”
He leads us through a series of formal, soulless rooms before stopping at what appears to be a blank, paneled wall. He presses his palm against a section of dark wood, and a hidden seam appears. The panel slides back with a whisper of hydraulics, revealing a steel elevator.
“After you,” he says.
I glance at Calloway. He gives me a subtle, almost imperceptible nod. The elevator is small, forcing the four of us into uncomfortable proximity. There is only one button, a black square marked ‘B3.’
“B3?” I ask. “How many basements does one Bond villain need?”
“Enough,” Thorne replies.
Calloway must sense my unease, because his hand finds the small of my back, a small, solid point of warmth in the chilled steel box. I lean into his touch, hating the part of me that needs the reassurance, but grateful for it all the same.
When the doors slide open, the sterile steel box gives way to a living room.
Not a corridor, not a bunker, but a large, open-plan space that looks like it was pulled from the pages of a design magazine.
Plush, cream-colored sofas are arranged on a thick, soft rug.
Bookshelves filled with actual books line the walls, their spines a warm, colorful tapestry.
The light is soft and indirect, coming from hidden sources that give the room a gentle, welcoming glow.
It’s beautiful. It’s calming. And it’s completely wrong.
“Welcome to The Hemlock Society,” Thorne says, leading us down the hallway.
He stops by one bookshelf, turning to face me. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small memory card, holding it between his thumb and forefinger.
“Before we begin,” he says, his voice calm, “a matter of insurance.”
“What is that?” I ask, though the sinking feeling in my stomach suggests I already know.
“This,” he says, “is a high-definition recording of you and Calloway in the Concord kitchen. The part with the garbage disposal is quite…vivid.”
My blood runs cold. “You said the cameras were off.”
“They were,” Thorne confirms. “To everyone else.” He slips the card back into his pocket.
“That wasn’t part of the deal, Thorne,” Calloway says, his voice dropping to a low growl. He takes a half-step forward, a clear move to put himself between me and Thorne.
Thorne doesn't even flinch. He just raises a single, unimpressed eyebrow. “My dear Calloway, a deal with me always comes with fine print.” He taps the memory card against his chin thoughtfully. “You’ve been in this family long enough to know I don’t leave the back door unlocked.
Did you really think I wouldn’t take out a policy on such a volatile new asset? ”
Calloway’s hands clench into fists at his sides. “I won’t allow you to hurt her.”
Thorne’s expression shifts into a smile. It’s a slow, chilling curve of the lips that doesn't touch his eyes. “Hurt her?” He lets out a soft, incredulous chuckle. “Calloway, I’m not a monster. Nothing will happen to her.”
Calloway growls, but stays still.
Thorne turns back to me. “This is Rule Zero, Jiya. The one that comes before all the others. The Society is a living thing. You endanger it, it will defend itself. And you will lose.”
He gestures for us to follow, our footsteps muffled by the thick rug.
I stare at Thorne, the reality of my situation sinking in. The memory card in his pocket feels like an axe hanging over my head.
“What are you going to do with that video?” I ask.
“You have a choice to make, Jiya. I will not force you to join us. But you have seen behind the curtain. That knowledge is permanent, and our secrecy is absolute.”
He lets that sink in before continuing. “That video now has two potential functions. If you join, it becomes your application. Your proof of entry. It unlocks a world where you are understood, protected, and empowered. A family. Resources beyond your imagination.”