Chapter 4
Four
It’s not bad enough that I have to work with this asshole.
But I have to be seen in public with him.
I have to walk out of this building. With him. Down the street.
Past people who know me.
Past people who will remember seeing us together.
I hate every second.
From the moment he puts on his coat—that fucking fur coat, cream and soft and unmistakable—my stomach turns over.
I force myself to breathe. To move.
He walks past me without even waiting.
Which, fair.
We aren’t dating.
He’s a possible serial killer.
I’m wearing the ring of one of his victims.
I can’t win this right now.
“I’ll just need to gather my things,” I direct this at Dom because Marcus is already at the elevator, jamming the button with his finger over and over again.
Do I tell him it’s out?
Hell no.
“Of course.” Dom shrugs on his suit jacket. “You’ll be working at his office all month, so take what you need.”
“Now hurry up.” Dom practically shoos me away. Dismissive. Done with this conversation.
I walk away. Marcus is still at the elevator, still pressing the button like that will make it magically work.
I slam through the stairwell doors and stomp down to my floor.
“Oh hey, is the elevator out?” I hear him call after me. That amused chuckle like this is all very funny.
“Yep.” I don’t wait for him. Not at all. Just keep going.
Fuck this guy.
I slam through the door to my floor, secretly hoping it smacks him in the face.
Sharon is at my desk. Again.
“Listen, I was thinking about a surprise for Alexandria’s—” She pauses. Sees my face. Then sees Marcus coming down the stairs behind me. “Oh. You’re leaving.”
“Yes.” I grab my messenger bag. Start shoving things in.
“With him?” She’s staring at Marcus. That look on her face. The one she gets when she disapproves of something but is too professional to say it directly.
“Working off-site. City Hall. All month.” The words come out clipped. Mechanical.
“All month?” Her voice goes up. “Dylan, that’s not—”
“Sharon, I have to go. Whatever you’re planning for Alex, just—” I zip the bag. “—count me in. Okay? Whatever it is. I’m in.”
“But—”
“I have to go.” I’m already moving. Past her. Toward the stairs.
I feel her watching. Feel her disapproval. Feel her worry.
But I can’t stop. Can’t explain. Can’t do anything but keep moving before I completely fall apart.
Marcus is right behind me. Too close. I can feel him in my space even though he’s not touching me.
“Damn, you must do cardio,” he says as I take the stairs down two at a time.
I do. On these fucking steps. Every week for five years until one month ago when I heard him confess to murder in this very stairwell.
I continue ignoring him until I burst through the doors to the outside.
The February air hits my face like a slap. Cold. Sharp. Clean.
I take a deep breath. Then another.
I might be having a hot flash. That’s okay. That is perfectly fucking okay. I’m twenty-seven and having a hot flash in the middle of winter because I have to spend a month working alone with a serial killer.
One month.
One. Fucking. Month.
“My car’s right here.” I can feel him stepping up beside me. His energy—sleazy, entitled, predatory—rolling over mine like oil slick on water.
I turn to the street.
This asshole is double-parked.
His red Maserati GranTurismo sits in the middle of the street with hazards on like parking laws are suggestions for poor people.
“Right.” I close my eyes. Take a deep breath. I have to get in that car. In an enclosed space. With this man.
What would Alex do?
Probably play the vixen. Get as much information out of him as possible. Use that superpower she has where men just... tell her things.
Can I do that? Can I copy moves I’ve watched her do a hundred times and make them mine?
I don’t know. But I have to try.
I paste on a smile. Blink up at Marcus with what I hope looks like admiration and not the screaming happening inside my brain.
In the sickly-sweet voice I’ve heard Alex use a hundred times, “Get the door for me.”
He trips over his feet. Damn near trips over that stupid fucking fur coat all the way to his car.
I watch him fumble with his keys. Watch him nearly drop them. He’s preening. Showing off.
“It’s a Maserati GranTurismo,” he says, like I asked. Like I care. “I got it for my birthday.”
So he’s a nepo baby. Honestly, that explains so much.
The wealth. The entitlement. The complete lack of awareness that normal people don’t get $150,000 sports cars as birthday presents.
He gets the door—at least he manages that—and I slide onto cool leather seats. The car is still running. Engine purring. Heated seats already warm.
At least someone didn’t steal it while it sat here double-parked for twenty minutes.
It must show on my face because he leans down into my space. Too close. Invading the car before he’s even in it.
“No one would ever dare to steal from me, Dylan.”
The way he says it. The certainty. The threat underneath.
Then he shuts the door.
Fuck.
I slow my breathing. Do everything I can to ground myself before he gets in. Box breathing. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.
The door opens. Crisp air rushes in—one last moment of freedom—before he slams it shut.
He doesn’t put on his seatbelt.
Just pulls away from the curb without looking. Cuts off a taxi.
The taxi blares its horn. Marcus flips him off.
We’re on Market Street heading west, past Dilworth Park where the Christmas village was just taken down, past the Masonic Temple that looks like it was transported from a different century. Every landmark I know, every street I’ve walked, now contaminated by being in this car with him.
At the next intersection, the light turns yellow. Marcus accelerates through it, the light is definitely red by the time we’re under it.
“Timing,” he says with a grin, like traffic laws are a game.
This is how I die. Not murdered by a serial killer. Just killed in a car accident with one.
“I got to admit,” he says, swerving around a bus, “I was hoping to get to know you a little before we officially start tomorrow.”
“Not today?”
“Nah, today’s just onboarding. Paperwork, badge, tour.” He grins. “The boring stuff. Real work starts tomorrow.”
Which means I have one day to figure out how to survive this.
“I was hoping to get to know you today.” Another aggressive lane change without signaling.
He gives me a side-eye. One of those looks that makes my skin crawl.
“What would you like to know?” I force the words out. Professional. Interested.
“Everything.” Another look. Longer this time. His eyes drop to my chest, then back to the road.
We’re going to crash and I’m going to die and they’ll find me in this Maserati with Marcus Ashford and everyone will think we were dating.
“Well,” he starts, cutting off another car, “I grew up in Gladwyne. You know Gladwyne?”
I know Gladwyne. Main Line old money. The kind of neighborhood where the country clubs still have waiting lists from the 1950s and where Marcus’s kind of wealth comes with a family crest and three generations of men who’ve never been told no.
“My family’s been in Philadelphia politics for three generations. My grandfather was on the City Council. My father was Deputy Mayor under Rendell. Public service is in my blood, you know? It’s like—” He accelerates through another yellow light. “—I was born for this. Destined for it.”
“That’s impressive.” I say it like I mean it. I don’t.
“Yeah, I mean, I could have done anything. Wall Street was interested. Had offers from Goldman, Morgan Stanley. But I wanted to give back. Stay in Philadelphia. This is my city.”
He doesn’t wait for me to respond. Just keeps talking.
“I went to Penn. Wharton School of Business. Full ride—well, my dad donated, but still.” He laughs like this is charming. “Got my MBA there too. Could have gone to Harvard, but why leave when everything I need is here?”
I make a noncommittal sound. He doesn’t notice.
“Do you work out, Dylan?” He glances at me. Too long. The car drifts toward the center line.
“Sometimes.”
“You should try CrossFit. Changed my life. I go six days a week. Morning sessions.” He flexes slightly, like I asked. “Plant-based diet mostly. Keeps me lean. Though I’ll have a steak sometimes because, you know, men need protein.”
Men need protein. As if women don’t.
“The campaign was incredible,” he continues, swerving around a bus. “Totally grassroots. I mean, my family helped with connections and fundraising, but the energy was all organic. Young people just connected with my message, you know? The authenticity.”
I want to text Alex. Want to tell her about this insane drive, about Marcus monologuing, about how I’m not going to survive this.
But she’s not speaking to me. And I’m doing this alone.
“I’m very active on social media. You’ve probably seen my stuff.” He glances at me. Expectant.
“I follow you on Instagram,” I say, because he’s waiting.
“Right! Yeah, I saw that.” His grin widens. “I like to keep it real, you know? Show people the authentic Marcus. Not just the politician. The whole person. That’s why people connect with me. They feel like they know me.”
They don’t know you. They know the performance. Just like I’m performing right now.
“You know what’s funny?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “People recognize me by the coats now. The fur coats. They’ve become my signature.”
My stomach sours.
“I have four of them. Each one has a story.” He’s stroking the collar of the cream one he’s wearing. Petting it. “This one was my grandfather’s. A family heirloom. I had it restored last year. Cost a fortune, but it was worth it.”
The thing Dahlia probably grabbed at while you were strangling her. The thing that might still have her DNA in the fibers if you didn’t have it cleaned well enough.