Chapter 17 #2
“He tried to take me upstairs.” The words fall out. Flat. Disconnected. “Private dining rooms. 19th floor. No cameras in those hallways. I know because I’ve reviewed the security protocols. I know exactly what he was—”
My voice breaks.
“And then they came. Alaina and Patricia and Maria. The DA’s office, they said.
Ethics violation. But Dylan—” I turn to look at her.
“They never broke character. The whole way out. Even in the service corridor. Even when I asked what I did wrong. They just kept saying Foxglove’s office, confidential investigation, don’t keep the DA waiting. ”
“So you don’t know if—”
“I don’t know anything.” I’m crying now. When did I start crying? “I don’t know if I’m being rescued or investigated. I don’t know if my career is over. I don’t know if Marcus is following us right now. I don’t know—”
The note.
The paper Maria pressed into my palm.
I uncurl my fist. My fingers are shaking so badly I can barely unfold it.
Alex glances over. “What is that?”
Handwritten. Neat script. Three lines.
You’re safe tonight. Use the numbers. We’re watching. —A
I read it twice. Three times.
Then I start sobbing.
“Dylan—” Alex pulls over. Some side street in Center City. “Dylan, what does it say?”
I hand her the note. Can’t speak. Can’t do anything but sit here shaking and crying in a dress that costs more than my rent, wearing a dead woman’s ring, finally understanding.
It was a rescue.
The whole thing. The DA story, the ethics violation, Maria’s official tone, Patricia’s poker face—all of it was performance. Designed to fool Marcus. Designed to give me cover.
They never broke character because they couldn’t. Because Marcus has eyes everywhere. Because one crack in the facade and he’d know. And if he knew—
“Holy shit.” Alex’s voice is barely a whisper. “Dylan. They have protocols for this.”
Protocols.
For rescuing women from fundraisers.
That’s a thing. That exists. Because this happens often enough that they needed to build a system. Emergency contacts and escape routes and politicians who can fake a DA investigation on fifteen minutes’ notice.
“How many women?” I hear myself say. “How many women didn’t have this? Didn’t have the business cards? Didn’t have anyone watching?”
Dahlia didn’t have this.
The thought hits me like a physical blow. No best friend waiting in a blue sedan. No state rep with a cover story. No note pressed into her palm as she walked to her death.
Just Marcus. And that elevator. And whatever waited on the 19th floor.
And a family who still thinks she moved to DC.
“Dylan.” Alex reaches for my face.
I flinch.
Can’t help it. Her hand near my face—any hand near my face—and my body screams NO before my brain catches up.
She pulls back. Hurt flashing across her face before she can hide it.
“Sorry.” I whisper. “I’m sorry, I just—”
“Don’t.” Her voice cracks. Fierce and terrified. “Don’t you dare apologize.”
We sit in silence. The heat blasting. My teeth still chattering.
My hip throbs where Marcus held me. I press my hand against it through the dress. Feel the bruises forming under my palm.
“He’s not supposed to be near me,” I say. “Dom told him. In the stairwell. Do not go near her. Direct order.”
Alex’s hands tighten on the wheel. “And tonight he had his hands on you for three hours.”
“Yeah.”
“So either Dom doesn’t know how bad it’s gotten—”
“Or Dom knows and can’t stop him.”
We sit with that. The heat blasting. My teeth still chattering.
Dom is the only person Marcus is supposed to fear. The man who buries his bodies. The man who’s kept him out of prison for years. The man who said do not go near her like it was a command, not a request.
And Marcus is ignoring him. For me.
“That’s worse,” Alex says quietly. “That’s so much worse.”
“I know.”
Because if Dom can’t control Marcus—if the one person with leverage over a serial killer has lost that leverage—then there’s no leash. No handler. No one standing between Marcus and whatever he wants.
And right now, what he wants is me.
“I think Marcus is out of control,” I say finally. “I think even the people who are supposed to manage him can’t anymore.”
The words hang in the car.
Alex’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. White-knuckled.
“What do we do?”
“I don’t know.”
And that’s the worst part. That’s the part that makes me want to scream.
I can’t go to the police. Marcus’s family built half the department. His grandfather’s portrait hangs in the union hall. Three generations of Ashfords have been buying badges and judgeships since before I was born.
I can’t quit. Too suspicious. Dom would want to know why. And quitting doesn’t make me safe—it just makes me an unemployed woman Marcus can find whenever he wants.
I can’t run. He knows where I live. Where Alex lives.
I can’t tell anyone the whole truth. The stairwell is my only advantage. The fact that they don’t know I know. If I lose that—
“There’s no move,” I say. My voice sounds dead. Hollow. “Every option makes it worse. Every choice closes another door. I’m—”
I stop. Swallow.
“I’m trapped.”
Alex doesn’t argue. Doesn’t try to find the silver lining. Doesn’t tell me it’ll be okay.
She just sits there. Holding the note. Looking at those three handwritten lines.
You’re safe tonight.
Tonight.
Not tomorrow. Not next week. Not when I have to go back to that office and sit across from Marcus and pretend I don’t know what he does. What Dom does. What they’ve been doing for years while women disappeared and families were told their daughters moved to DC.
I got out tonight.
But Monday, I have to go back.
“Okay.” Alex’s voice is quiet. Steady. The voice she uses when she’s made a decision. “Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do.”
She puts the car in drive.
“We’re going to go home. We’re going to lock every door. We’re going to put that note somewhere safe. And tomorrow—” She glances at me. “Tomorrow we’re going to figure out what the fuck we’re actually dealing with.”
“Alex—”
“Those women are watching you.” She holds up the note. “That means they think you’re worth watching. That means they know something. And that means—” Her jaw tightens. “That means we’re not as alone as we thought.”
I want to believe her.
I want to believe that Alaina’s whisper network and Patricia’s business cards and Maria’s fake DA investigation add up to something.
That being watched means being protected.
That the numbers I’ve been collecting all night are more than just evidence of how many women have needed escape routes before me.
But I keep thinking about what Alaina said.
Twelve relocated. Six helped quietly. Four restraining orders that were never filed. And names that never made the news.
They’ve been fighting this war for years.
And Marcus is still hunting.
The car moves through Center City. Past the office where I’ll have to go back on Monday. Past the streets I’ve walked my whole life that suddenly feel like enemy territory.
I press my hand against my hip. Feel the bruises blooming under my palm.
I’ll find you.
He wasn’t lying.
I lean my head against the cold window and watch Philadelphia blur past. This city I’ve loved my whole life. This city that’s been trading women for power since William Penn laid the first stone.
I thought I knew how the world worked.
I thought if you kept your head down and did your job and didn’t make waves, you’d be safe. That’s what my mother always said. That’s what my grandmother still believes. Work hard. Don’t complain. Don’t make yourself a target.
I did everything right.
And I’m still running down service corridors in borrowed dresses, collecting business cards from women who can’t save me, wearing a dead woman’s ring because I was stupid enough to hide in a stairwell at 2 AM.
One decision.
One moment of curiosity.
And now there’s no way out.
Alex’s hand finds mine in the dark. Squeezes.
I squeeze back.
It’s not enough. I know it’s not enough. But right now, in this car, speeding away from a man who promised to find me—
It’s all I have.