Chapter 15
Fifteen
The Grand Ballroom sprawls before me—those famous Baccarat crystal chandeliers throwing light across white linens, contribution cards at every place setting announcing this as a Leadership PAC fundraiser. Five thousand per plate, judging by the Platinum Sponsor signs at the central tables.
About a hundred people. Mostly men in expensive suits.
I catalog them automatically—it’s what paralegals do. We organize. We index. We notice which faces appear in which configurations.
IBEW Local 98 guys by the windows—those distinctive yellow and blue pins, Johnny Doc’s crew even though he’s gone now.
Building Trades Council near the central tables—quieter, calculating.
Politicians threading between both groups, bridging gaps.
Even a few Committee of Seventy members, the irony is not lost on me that Philadelphia’s government watchdog group drinks with the wolves.
And on the far wall, a portrait I almost miss. An older man in judicial robes. Weak chin. Sparse facial hair. Brass plaque beneath: Hon. Richard Ashford Sr., City Council 1962-1978.
Marcus’s grandfather. Watching over the room like a saint in a church.
Three generations. That’s what Marcus said in the car. Grandfather on City Council. Father Deputy Mayor under Rendell. And now Marcus, Controller of the city’s money, hosting fundraisers in rooms decorated with his family’s legacy.
The view through the floor-to-ceiling windows faces north toward City Hall, lit up like a birthday cake five blocks away. Where I’ll be working Monday. Where Marcus’s office waits.
I go straight to the bar. White wine. Something to hold, something to do with my hands while I work.
“Sauvignon Blanc,” I tell the bartender.
While he pours, I pull out my phone. Pretend to check a text. Actually open my notes app.
Morrison - City Council Pres - by windows Brennan - Port Authority - red faced, drinking heavy Ward leaders NE - Marcus’s base? Ashford portrait - grandfather - 1962-1978
Evidence. I’m here for evidence. Even if I don’t know what it will prove yet.
“You’re new.”
The voice comes from my left. Emerald suit. Natural hair in a perfect twist. She stands at the bar with the kind of presence that commands space without demanding it.
I know her from the news. Former Speaker of the Pennsylvania House of Representatives, Alaina Dupree.
“Madame Speaker.”
“Just Alaina.” She extends her hand. Firm shake. “And you’re the famous Dylan Wells.”
Famous. The word lands wrong.
“Marcus mentioned you.” Something flickers in her expression. Gone before I can identify it. “His... date for the evening.”
The pause before date is deliberate. A door opening. An invitation to correct her.
“I’m here representing Draven & Associates,” I say carefully.
“Of course.” She takes her whiskey from the bartender. Neat whiskey, no water. Studies me over the rim. “First fundraiser?”
“First of Marcus’s events, yes.”
“These second-Friday fundraisers are tradition now. Three years running.” She pauses, and the pause has weight. “They can be... overwhelming.”
Three years. I file that away.
“I’m finding my footing.”
“I noticed.” She turns to face the room, standing beside me. Casual. Two professional women surveying the landscape.
But I notice how she’s positioned her body between me and the rest of the ballroom.
“Would you like a tour?” Alaina asks. “These things are easier with a guide.”
“I wouldn’t want to impose—”
“Nonsense.” She links her arm through mine. Light. Friendly. Protective. “Besides, you look like someone who knows how to listen.”
She guides me into the crowd. Smooth. Natural. Like we’ve known each other for years.
“James Morrison,” she says quietly, indicating the loud man by the windows. “City Council President. Owns half the construction contracts in the city through shell LLCs.” Her voice drops lower. “Very generous after his fifth drink. Signs anything. Marcus knows this.”
I add it to my mental file. Fifth drink. Signs anything.
“Tommy Brennan there—Port Authority. Lost his wife last year. Sudden. Tragic.” Another pause. Longer this time. “Marcus helped with the funeral expenses.”
“That was kind of him.”
“Marcus is very kind.” Alaina’s voice goes flat. “When it serves him.”
She steers me toward a cluster of women near the windows. Older. Sharp-eyed. Watching the room the way I’m watching it—cataloging, assessing, surviving.
“Patricia, this is Dylan Wells,” Alaina says. “She’s handling the City Controller transition.”
Patricia Joyce. State Senator from the Northeast. I recognize her from the news—women’s safety legislation, domestic violence reform. Sharp eyes that miss nothing.
She takes in my dress, my positioning with Alaina. Something passes between the two women silently.
“Ms. Wells.” Patricia shakes my hand. Holds it. “Alaina’s giving you the tour?”
“She’s been very generous.”
“Alaina’s good at identifying who needs... guidance.” Patricia’s eyes hold mine. Steady. Knowing. “My daughter would have been about your age.”
The words land somewhere behind my ribs. Sharp. Final.
“I lost her five years ago.” Patricia’s voice doesn’t waver. “Domestic violence. The ex walked.”
Six words. No softening. No euphemism. Just fact, delivered like testimony.
I think of my father. How I haven’t visited his grave since I was twelve. How I still can’t make myself walk through those cemetery gates because standing at his headstone means admitting he’s really gone.
Patricia Joyce visits her daughter’s grave. Has to. Because her daughter is dead and the man who killed her walks free.
My throat closes. That automatic response—the one I’ve had since the stairwell, since my body learned that some truths are too big to speak.
“I’m sorry,” I manage. The words feel small. Pathetic.
“Don’t be sorry.” Patricia’s hand tightens on mine. Brief. Fierce. “Be smart.”
She presses something into my palm. A business card.
“My direct line. Not the office.” A pause. “Day or night.”
Before I can respond, Patricia is guiding me toward a younger woman in a sharp black suit. Alert eyes. Already reaching into her pocket.
“Maria, this is the young woman I mentioned.”
Maria Santos shakes my hand and presses two cards into my palm in the same motion. Practiced. Seamless.
“My direct line and my clerk’s. Evenings and weekends.” She holds my gaze. “Very discreet.”
And then I’m being passed again. A touch on my elbow from a woman I don’t recognize—councilwoman, Third District, according to her murmured introduction—who leans in close.
“The Kimmel Center has a valet tunnel exit. Staff entrance on the south side. Most people don’t know.”
A card presses into my hand.
Another woman. Union rep’s wife. Firm handshake.
“The Wawa on Broad and Walnut. Twenty-four hours. Well-lit. Security cameras everywhere.”
No card this time. Just information. I memorize it.
“Judge Patterson,” Alaina murmurs as we pass a silver-haired woman deep in conversation. “Saturday dockets are always light. Especially for emergency orders. She knows to expect unusual requests.”
I’m being handed through a network.
Each woman adding something to my arsenal. Cards and phone numbers and escape routes accumulating in my clutch like ammunition.
“The bathroom attendant,” Alaina mentions as we pass the restroom. “Ms. Ruth. Twenty years at the Bellevue. She keeps phone chargers and cab fare in the attendant closet. For emergencies.”
Twenty years. Ms. Ruth has been here twenty years, keeping emergency supplies for women who might need to run.
How many times has that closet been needed?
My paralegal brain is cataloging without meaning to.
Patricia Joyce—lost daughter, domestic violence, ex walked. Maria Santos—Deputy DA, emergency injunctions, after-hours availability. Judge Patterson—Saturday dockets.
It’s a witness list. A resource document. The kind of file I’d build for a client.
Except I’m the client. And these women are preparing my case before I even know I need one.
“Alaina.” My voice comes out wrong. Too quiet. “What is this?”
She doesn’t answer directly. Just guides me toward a quieter corner, away from the crowd.
“Did you know,” she says, “that Marcus holds these fundraisers monthly? Always here. Always the same crowd.” Her voice drops to barely audible. “The dresses are always beautiful. The women wearing them are always so young.”
Monthly fundraisers. Beautiful dresses. Young women.
The joke I might have made five minutes ago is gone. Dead. Rotting in my throat.
“What happened to them?” I whisper. “The other women?”
“Some transfer to DC. Some take jobs out of state. Some just...” She takes a long drink of her whiskey. “Disappear from the scene.”
But her tone says something different. Says they didn’t transfer or move or disappear voluntarily.
“How many?”
“I stopped counting after the third confirmed. There may be more.” She pauses. “There are probably more. Women who weren’t connected. Weren’t in our circles. Women we didn’t know to count.”
The third.
“If you know—” My voice comes out smaller than I want. “If you’ve been watching—why didn’t anyone—”
“Prove it?” Alaina’s smile is bitter. Exhausted.
The smile of a woman who’s been fighting a war no one else can see.
“With what evidence? Young women who conveniently accept promotions in other cities? Families who are told their daughters simply moved on? Police reports that never get filed because the girl’s phone pinged in Virginia a week after she disappeared? ”
“But you’re the Speaker of the House. You have power—”
“I have power.” She says it like a diagnosis.
Like a disease. “I have power in a system that was built to protect men like Marcus. You know how many people decide bail, warrants, and motions on Monday mornings? How many city contracts flow through his office now that he’s Controller?
How many developers need his audits to come back clean? ”