Chapter 17
Seventeen
“Dylan!”
Alaina’s voice cuts through the hallway like a knife.
Marcus’s hand freezes. His jaw tightens.
Alaina strides toward us. Emerald suit. Patricia Joyce flanking her, and Maria Santos behind them. Patricia checking her Apple Watch like she just got an urgent alert.
Not rescue. Something else. Their faces are wrong—tight, professional, concerned in a way I can’t read.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” Alaina says. Not sorry at all. “But there’s been a situation. DA Foxglove’s office is calling for Ms. Wells. Immediately.”
My stomach drops.
Foxglove. The DA. Calling for me.
Is this real?
Did I do something wrong with the transition documents? Miss something in the compliance review? Is there actually an investigation and I’m about to be—
Marcus’s hand is still on my waist. Tighter now. His fingers digging into my hip through the dress.
“The DA’s office? At this hour?”
“Apparently there’s been an ethics violation filed regarding the City Controller transition documentation.” Alaina’s smile is pure political steel. “They need Dylan’s files tonight. You know how Foxglove is about transparency.”
The transition documents. The ones I reviewed. The ones with my name on every signature page.
Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god.
“Dylan and I have plans.” Marcus’s voice is smooth. Conversational. His grip is not.
“The DA’s office doesn’t care about plans.” Maria’s voice is clipped. Professional. “They care about compliance. And right now, Ms. Wells is required to comply.”
Required. Compliance. Legal language. Real legal language.
This isn’t a rescue. This is an actual investigation. I’m being pulled into something and I don’t know what I did wrong but I must have done something—
“I can accompany her—”
“They specified she come alone.” Maria steps forward. “My office got the call. Confidential investigation. I’m sure you understand.”
Confidential investigation.
My career. My bar application. Everything I’ve worked for.
Marcus’s hand tightens. I feel my hip bone shift under the pressure.
“I’ll accompany her,” he says again. Like he didn’t hear. Like her words don’t matter.
“Confidential investigation.” Patricia steps closer. Flanking me. Her face betrays nothing. “You know the rules, Controller Ashford. Subjects can’t bring... interested parties.”
Subject. The word lands like a verdict.
I’m being investigated. Actually investigated. By the DA’s office. At 10 PM on a Friday night. Which means it’s serious. Which means someone found something. Which means—
Do not go near her.
Dom’s voice cuts through my panic. The stairwell. The warning Marcus is ignoring with every touch.
What if this isn’t about the transition documents at all?
What if someone found out about the stairwell? About what I heard? What if Dom realized I was in the building that night and this whole thing is—
“Dylan isn’t a subject.” Marcus’s voice drops. Dangerous. “She’s my—”
He stops. Can’t finish that sentence in public. Can’t claim ownership out loud where people might hear.
But his hand finishes it for him. Pressing into my hip like a brand.
“Marcus! MARCUS!”
James Morrison. Drunk City Council President. Stumbling down the hallway with two aides trying to corral him.
“Marcus, you got to help me out here, buddy.” He’s slurring. Loud. Drawing attention. “The Building Trades are pulling their endorsement! Johnny Doc’s guys are saying you promised—”
“James, not now—”
“NOW! It’s got to be now!” Morrison grabs Marcus’s arm. Desperate drunk energy. People looking. Recording on phones. “They’re threatening to primary me! You said you’d handle the unions!”
Marcus’s head turns. Just for a second.
Alaina’s hand closes around my wrist. Pulls.
His grip breaks.
I stumble backward. Patricia catches me. Maria’s already moving, putting her body between me and Marcus.
“We’ll have Ms. Wells back within the hour,” Alaina says smoothly. “I’m sure this is just a formality.”
Marcus isn’t listening to her. He’s looking at me. At Alaina’s hand on my wrist. At the way I’m being pulled away from him.
His smile doesn’t change. But something behind his eyes does.
“I’ll find you,” he says. Quiet. Just for me. “This isn’t over, Dylan.”
Not a promise. A fact.
Then Morrison is grabbing at him again, making a scene, and Marcus has to turn. Has to deal with the drunk man whose voice is carrying into the ballroom.
Alaina’s hand is firm on my arm.
“Walk,” she says quietly. “Don’t run.”
I walk. My legs feel like they belong to someone else.
Patricia on my other side. Maria ahead, clearing a path.
“What did I do?” My voice comes out wrong. Thin. Terrified. “The transition documents—I reviewed everything twice. I don’t understand what—”
“Keep moving, Ms. Wells.” Maria’s voice is brisk. “DA Foxglove doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
She doesn’t answer my question.
None of them answer my question.
We pass the elevator Marcus wanted to take me to. The one that goes to the 19th floor. Private dining rooms. No cameras.
My body starts shaking and I can’t make it stop.
Is this real? Is there actually an ethics investigation? Did I do something wrong?
Or is this a rescue dressed up as procedure?
I can’t tell. Can’t read their faces. They’re too good at this—years of political masks hiding whatever they’re actually thinking.
Which means if Marcus is watching, he can’t tell either.
Service corridor. The transition from marble to industrial concrete feels like crossing a border. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. The smell of commercial kitchen grease and bleach.
“How much further?” My voice cracks.
“Thirty seconds.” Patricia checks her watch. “There’s a car waiting.”
A car. To take me to the DA’s office. At 10 PM. For a confidential investigation.
Or a car to take me somewhere else entirely.
I don’t know which possibility scares me more.
My hip throbs where Marcus’s fingers dug in. I’ll have bruises tomorrow. Five purple ovals marking where he held me.
If there is a tomorrow.
A door opens somewhere behind us.
We all freeze.
Footsteps. Heavy. Male.
Maria’s hand goes to her clutch. The gesture is automatic. Protective.
The footsteps get closer. Closer.
A kitchen worker rounds the corner. White uniform. Confused look at four women in formal wear standing frozen in the service corridor.
“Ladies? You lost?”
“Chancellor Street exit,” Alaina says smoothly. “Which way?”
He points. We move.
But my heart doesn’t slow down. Won’t slow down.
I hid in a stairwell.
The thought surfaces unbidden.
That’s all I did. I heard footsteps and I hid in a stairwell because I didn’t want to explain why I was in the building at 2 AM.
One decision. One moment of self-preservation.
And now I’m running down a service corridor in a borrowed dress that costs more than my rent, surrounded by politicians who may or may not be saving my life, while a man who has killed before promises he’ll find me.
I’m a paralegal.
I file documents. I make copies. I schedule depositions and organize discovery and make sure the coffee is fresh for client meetings.
I was supposed to help with a routine political transition.
How is this my life?
We burst through the service door. Cold February air hits my bare shoulders like a slap. Chancellor Street. South side of the building. Delivery trucks. Dumpsters. The sound of SEPTA buses on Walnut Street one block over.
I look back.
The corridor stretches behind us. Empty. Fluorescent lights flickering. No one following.
No Marcus in the doorway watching me run.
Somehow that’s worse. If he were there, at least I’d know where he was. But he’s not. He’s back in that ballroom, dealing with Morrison, playing concerned citizen.
Letting me go.
Because he knows where I live. Because he’s been watching me for weeks and he knows—he knows—that I have nowhere to run that he can’t find me.
My eyes fall on a car. The headlight blink once, then twice before the hazards blink on.
A blue sedan. Baby on board sticker on the back window.
Alex.
Oh god. Alex.
She already has the passenger door open. Her face in the window. Pale. Terrified.
Maria guides me toward the car. Professional. Brisk.
“Ms. Wells.” Her voice carries. Loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. “We’ll be in touch about the documentation. Please have your files ready for review.”
Still playing the part.
But as I pass her, she presses something into my palm. Paper. Folded small.
I close my fist around it automatically.
“Drive safe,” Patricia says. Her eyes meet mine for just a second. Something flickers there—concern, warning, I don’t know—and then it’s gone.
I run. Heels on asphalt. Dress hiked up so I can move.
Throw myself into the car. Alex’s hands immediately on me. Checking my face, my arms, my shoulders—
“Drive,” I tell her. “Now. Please. Just drive.”
The car moves. Smooth. Fast. Away from the Bellevue.
And my body finally lets go.
It starts with my hands. Shaking so hard I can’t grip anything. I try to pull the seatbelt across my chest and miss. Again. Again. The metal clasp slipping through my fingers like I’ve never used a seatbelt in my life.
“I got it.” Alex reaches over. Clicks it for me. Her hands are shaking too.
Then my legs. Knees bouncing. Trembling. Like they’re trying to run even though I’m sitting down.
Then my teeth. Chattering. Even though the heat is blasting.
“Dylan.” Alex’s voice is scared. “Dylan, talk to me. What happened?”
“I don’t—” My voice comes out wrong. Broken. “I don’t know if that was real.”
“What?”
“The DA. The investigation. They said there’s an ethics violation. The transition documents.” I’m spiraling. Can hear myself spiraling and can’t stop. “But they never told me what I did. Never explained. They just—they took me and—”
“Okay. Okay.” Alex is trying to stay calm. Failing. “Start from the beginning. What—”