Chapter 1 #2
“Every situation is a gift situation if you’re optimistic enough.” Her face is dead serious. “Which I’m not, usually, but I’m trying very hard right now for your sake.”
My throat’s still tight, but I almost laugh anyway. “Okay. Fine. Explain the gift.”
“You followed him back like a regular person would. Like a paralegal who just got assigned to a high-profile client and wants to be professional and engaged.” Her voice is steady. Certain. “You look eager. Appropriately friendly. Exactly what he wants.”
I stare at her. “I panicked, and you’re telling me it looks strategic?”
“Yes.”
That should comfort me. It doesn’t. Because I can’t tell the difference anymore either.
“He doesn’t know that.” She releases my face, hands me back my phone. “You look exactly like the kind of young professional who would follow her new client on social media. It’s perfect.”
The ring around my neck is burning. Or maybe that’s just every nerve ending in my body firing at once.
“Don’t reply,” Alex says firmly. “Not tonight. Wait until tomorrow. Keep it professional.”
“What do I even say?”
“Something boring. ‘Looking forward to working together’ or whatever corporate bullshit you’d normally say.” She picks up her wine, takes a long drink. “But Dylan—”
“What?”
“He’s watching you now.” Her eyes are serious. Scared. “He’s going through your profile right now. Looking at your pictures. Your friends. Your life.”
“He can see you in my photos,” I breathe.
Alex goes pale. “He knows about me now.”
My lungs forget how to work again. Second time in five minutes. New record. “I’m sorry. Fuck, Alex, I’m so sorry—”
“Don’t.” She cuts me off, but her voice is shaking. “Don’t apologize for this.”
“But he knows your face now. He knows we’re—” I can’t finish the sentence.
Best friends. Roommates. Inseparable. All the things that make her a target.
“Good,” she says fiercely. Her pupils dilate, jaw tight. “Let him know. Let him know you’re not alone. That if something happens to you, someone will notice. Someone will come looking.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“It’s not supposed to be.” She grabs my hand. Squeezes. “Paréa, remember? Through everything. Even this.”
“Even this,” I whisper.
As if to prove her point, my phone buzzes three times in rapid succession.
MarcusAshfordOfficial liked your photo
MarcusAshfordOfficial liked your photo
MarcusAshfordOfficial liked your photo
I open Instagram with shaking hands. He liked the last six photos I posted. Going back months. A picture of coffee. A sunset from our terrace. Me and Alex at Aegean Dreams. Another sunset. My desk at work. A picture of a dandelion from last spring.
He’s scrolling through my entire feed.
Learning about me.
Learning about us.
“Turn it off.” Alex’s voice cuts through my panic. “Put the phone down. We’ll deal with this tomorrow.”
I set the phone face down on the coffee table. But I can still feel it there. Buzzing occasionally. Each notification is another like. Another comment. Another piece of my life he’s claiming.
That’s dramatic. It’s just Instagram.
Except it’s not. And I know it’s not.
We sit in silence for a moment. The PowerPoint presentation still glowing on the TV. Marcus’s face smiling from the screen. Two million followers. America’s boyfriend. Philadelphia’s most eligible bachelor.
A serial killer sliding into my DMs while I sit here in a dandelion muumuu drinking wine through a straw.
“This is insane,” I finally say.
“Completely insane,” Alex agrees.
“I shook his hand just last week, and now he’s liking my Instagram photos.”
“And tomorrow you have to see him in person and pretend this is normal.”
“Fuck my life.”
“Fuck your life,” she echoes. Then, “But Dylan?”
“Yeah?”
“We have him now.” She gestures to the murder board.
To the TV. To my phone buzzing with notifications.
“He’s engaging with you. Following you. Messaging you.
That’s evidence of contact. Of relationship building.
And if he’s doing this to you, he probably did it to her too. To Dahlia. And maybe to others.”
I look at the murder board. At Elizabeth Short’s face standing in for a woman whose real name we don’t know. At Marcus’s photo pinned under WHO IS THE CRIMINAL?
My phone buzzes again.
We both stare at it.
“Should I look?” I ask.
“Absolutely not,” Alex says. “That is a problem for tomorrow Dylan.”
“Tomorrow Dylan is going to hate us.”
“Tomorrow Dylan always hates us.” She raises her wine glass, then stops. Sets it down. “Dylan.”
“What?”
“I’m scared.” She whispers it. “He’s messaging you. He’s in your phone. He’s learning about us. And tomorrow you have to see him in person and act like it’s fine.”
I set my glass down too. “I know.”
“I don’t know how to protect you from this.” Her voice cracks. “I can trace money and build presentations and make murder boards, but I can’t—” She gestures helplessly at my phone. “I can’t stop him from doing this. From getting inside your head.”
“You’re here.” I grab her hand. “That’s protection enough.”
“Is it?”
“It has to be.” I squeeze her fingers. “Because we’re not stopping. And we’re not running. Right?”
“Right.” She takes a shaky breath. “Dandelions.”
“Dandelions.” I pick up my wine glass again. “Now—to surviving Monday?”
She picks up hers and manages a small smile. “To surviving Monday.”
We clink glasses. Both of us crying a little. Both of us pretending we’re not.
We drink. The phone buzzes twice more, and we let it.
Outside, Philadelphia continues like nothing’s wrong. Like a woman isn’t missing. Like a killer isn’t building a parasocial relationship with his next potential victim.
Two women in muumuus. That’s what stands between Marcus Ashford and whatever he’s planning next.
The murder board watches us from across the room.
Tomorrow, I have to see him in person. Pretend his Instagram follow is normal professional networking.
But tonight—tonight I’m just going to sit here with Alex and drink wine and try not to think about the fact that Marcus Ashford is scrolling through my life right now, learning everything about me, deciding what role I’ll play in his.
Alex shifts closer on the couch. Not saying anything. Just pressing her shoulder against mine. That solid weight that says I’m here, you’re not alone.
I lean into her. Rest my head on her shoulder the way I’ve been doing since we were twelve.
“We’re so fucked,” I whisper.
“Completely fucked,” she agrees. Her hand finds mine, pinkies linking. Fifteen years of that gesture, and it’s never meant more.
The phone buzzes again.
Alex squeezes my pinky tighter. I squeeze back.
We don’t look.
Just two terrified women in matching muumuus, holding onto each other while a serial killer scrolls through our lives.