Chapter 18
Eighteen
Dawn creeps across the window.
Orange beams that streak across my bedroom, discoloring the furniture in shades of rust and amber.
I’m staring at the business card in my hand.
ALAINA DUPREE Former Speaker, Pennsylvania House of Representatives
Two phone numbers. One printed. One handwritten on the back.
I’ve been staring at this for three hours. Very productive. Very healthy. This is fine.
Except it’s not fine.
Because the Former Speaker of the Pennsylvania House gave me her personal number. After rescuing me from a serial killer’s elevator. Using a drunk city councilman as a distraction.
That’s not normal networking.
A weight settles on my chest. Someone’s slowly stacking bricks on my sternum one at a time.
My breath comes shorter. Shallower. Hands ice cold but face burning—blood pooling wrong, body confused about whether to fight or faint.
This is panic.
Not the dramatic gulping-for-air shit.
The slow burn. The kind that creeps up from the pit in your soul—that same place where the serpent lives—and roots itself there like a parasite.
Tendrils weaving outward, wrapping around organs and pulling everything down until your stomach is somewhere near your feet and your lungs have forgotten how to expand properly.
This started the moment Marcus’s hand left my waist. The moment I got in Nikko’s car and couldn’t speak. Building all night—through the silent drive home, through pretending to sleep while Alex checked on me twice, through dawn arriving without me ever closing my eyes.
I set the card on my nightstand with the others. Next to Dahlia’s ring. Next to Maria’s note, still creased from my fist.
You’re safe tonight. Use the numbers. We’re watching. —A
Evidence and escape routes, side by side.
Neither one enough.
My feet hit the floor. Cold hardwood.
I catch my reflection in the mirror as I reach for my robe. Stop.
Five bruises bloom across my left hip. Purple-black ovals, perfectly spaced. Finger marks.
I press one. Pain flares—sharp, undeniable.
Evidence. My body is evidence now.
I pull the robe closed—the soft grey one Alex got me for Christmas. Tie it tight. Don’t look again.
I pad into the kitchen.
Bypass the cozy sectional, heading straight for the coffee pot.
Filter. Grounds. Water. Press the button. Watch it drip.
My brain won’t stop replaying Alaina’s words.
Some of us have been watching for a very long time.
Knowing and proving are different things.
We can save who we can, when we can.
The coffee pot gurgles.
“Hey.”
Alex’s voice—sleep-rough and soft—makes me turn.
She’s shuffling out in a sleep set covered in little witches riding brooms. Black silk kimono over it, moons and stars embroidered on the back. Hair in a messy bun held up with what looks like a chopstick.
“You’re up early.” I grab two mugs.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Alex says.
She settles onto a kitchen island stool. Alex comes online. From tired to wide awake in seconds.
Her superpower. I’ve never understood it.
I pour our coffee not waiting for it to finish brewing. Set a cup before her, grab the creamer.
She’s watching me. That look. Reading me.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.” But her hand shakes slightly when she reaches for the mug. Just a tremor. Gone before I can be sure I saw it.
She wraps both hands around the cup. Holding on tight.
We’re both performing a normal Saturday morning. Coffee and conversation and plants hanging from the ceiling like nothing happened last night.
“Oh my god.” Her eyes go huge. “Oh my god, I did a thing last night.”
She gasps. Almost horrified.
“I think—” She licks her lips. Nervous. Not her usual morning chaos energy.
She’s serious.
“What happened?” Adrenaline floods my system.
Alex licks her lips again. Whispers like someone else is listening.
“I might have committed a felony.”
The coffee pot beeps. Done brewing. I don’t move.
My stomach drops. Not because of the legal implications—though those are serious.
“Stop.” I hold up my hand. Voice rougher than I mean. “Don’t tell me specifics yet. I’m not barred yet. Anything you tell me now, I could be compelled to testify about.”
“Oh, I knew you would say that.” She thunks her forehead on the counter. Heavy exhale. Comes up fast. “Okay. So. Hypothetically. If someone gave me financial records to audit. And I didn’t sign a new NDA. And I maybe took photos of everything with my phone—”
“Alex.” My voice cracks on her name.
She stops. Really looks at me.
“You planned this,” I say quietly.
“Yeah.” No hesitation.
“You could lose your job. Your license. Everything.”
“I know.”
“Alex—”
“Dylan.” She cuts me off. “I watched you walk into that building last night. I sat in that car for ninety minutes knowing what he is. So yeah. I committed a felony. And I’d do it again.”
The words land between us. Heavy. Final.
She’s not asking for permission. She’s telling me what she’s already done.
“Screen by screen. Hundreds of photos. Then ran them through OCR software at home to convert to searchable files.” She’s talking fast now. “Using my phone’s hotspot, not our WIFI. Can’t have it traced back.”
I pour more coffee. Silent.
“The files,” I say carefully. “What kind of files?”
“Everything. Campaign finance reports, City Controller transition budget, vendor payments.” That dangerous Alex excitement when she’s onto something. “The vendor codes match the shell company structures I found before. Same LLC naming patterns.”
“I met Alaina Dupree last night,” I blurt out.
Alex freezes, coffee halfway to her mouth. “What?”
“Yeah. And it’s not—I mean, yes, I love her, she’s the most underrated politician in Pennsylvania, but that’s not—”
“Dylan. Focus.”
“Right. Okay.” I take a breath. Talk faster. “So Marcus tried to take me upstairs to the XIX restaurant’s private rooms and my whole body was screaming not to go and then Alaina just appeared—”
“Appeared?”
“With Patricia Joyce and Maria Santos and they made up this thing about Foxglove’s office needing me immediately—”
“The DA?”
“—and then James Morrison showed up completely wasted making this huge scene about union endorsements and Marcus had to deal with him and they got me out through the service exit—”
“Wait, slow down—”
“Can’t slow down, need to tell you everything before I—” I’m talking at full speed now, words tripping over each other. “Alaina said this wasn’t the first time. There have been other women. They watch and they save who they can but they can’t stop him.”
“The Former House Speaker can’t stop him?”
“She knows what he is. They all know.” I’m pacing now, unable to stand still. “This whole network of women—judges, DAs, politicians—handing out emergency numbers and hoping someone survives long enough to use them and—”
“Dylan.”
“—and they gave me so many cards, Alex. So many numbers. The bathroom attendant has cab fare. There’s a separate elevator bank on the 19th floor. The Wawa on Broad Street has good security cameras—”
“Dylan, breathe.”
“I am breathing. I’m also panicking. Can I do both?”
“You’re doing both very well.”
I stop pacing. Look at her.
Alex’s face has gone pale. Her hands are shaking again—not hiding it anymore, just trembling around her coffee mug.
“And Marcus—” I stop. Catch myself.
Do not go near her.
I almost say it.
“Marcus what?” Alex prompts.
“Marcus is escalating,” I say instead. “Beyond what anyone expected.”
My chest burns.
“Before we left,” I say, pushing past the guilt, “Alaina gave me her card. Two numbers. When I took it, she held onto it for a second longer. Looked me right in the eyes.”
“The girl code look,” Alex whispers.
“The girl code look.”
Alex goes still. Not her usual fidgeting, always-moving energy. Just... still.
“A state representative,” she says slowly. “Gave you the girl code look. About a city controller. At his own fundraiser.”
“Yeah.”
“The look we give each other about guys at bars. The look that means don’t go to the bathroom alone and I’ll say you have a boyfriend and text me when you get home.”
“Yeah.”
“Except this isn’t a bar. This is the Pennsylvania Former House Speaker warning you about a man whose grandfather’s portrait hangs in City Hall.”
The coffee maker ticks as it cools. Outside, the bread truck for Sarcone’s backs up—same time every morning. KYW News Radio drifts up from below—”Traffic and weather on the twos.”
Normal Saturday sounds.
“Fuck,” Alex finally says. “This is real.”
“That’s what I was sitting with this morning. This isn’t just Dom covering up one murder. This is—”
“Systemic.” Her voice is flat. “The system protecting him. Has been for years.”
“Yeah.”
She shakes her head slowly. “What do you want to do?”
The question I’ve been avoiding all morning.
“I have no idea.” I press my hand to my chest. “Part of me wants to walk away. I have this weight. Like if we keep going, something terrible is going to happen.”
“I know,” Alex says softly.
“But then I feel like I’m giving up on her. On Dahlia. On all of them.”
One tear escapes. Then another. I swipe at them angrily.
“She was alone. When it happened. When he—” I can’t say it. “She was alone and scared and she died in an alley and nobody even knows her real name. Nobody filed a missing persons report.”
My voice cracks.
“And I heard it. I have her ring. I have evidence. And it’s still not enough.”
I’m crying now. The ugly kind. No sound, just heat and salt.
“What chance do we have? Two twenty-seven-year-olds with a ring and some financial records against whatever this is.”
Alex slides off her stool. Comes around the island.
She pauses for half a second—remembering last night, when I flinched from her touch in the car.
Then she wraps her arms around me. Slow. Giving me space to pull away.
I don’t.
I fold into her. My best friend. My dandelion.
Her arms are safe. Not like his hands last night. Not possessive or claiming or testing boundaries. Just... safe.
Warm. Solid. Real.
“We aren’t walking away,” she says fiercely. Voice steady even as her hands tremble slightly against my back. “We are putting a pin in it. For a week. To think.”
“Pausing is walking away.” Muffled against her shoulder.
“No it’s not.”
“Feels like it.”
“Well, feelings are data. And the data says we’re exhausted and terrified.” Her voice cracks on the last part. “So we’re pausing.”
I pull back slightly. “You’re scared.”
“Terrified,” she admits. Voice dropping. “I sat in that car and watched the minutes tick by and kept thinking—what if I don’t get to you in time? What if—”
She stops. Breathes. Her hands are definitely shaking now.
“So yeah. I’m fucking terrified. And I need a week to figure out how to do this without losing you.”
“We could take up a hobby,” I try. “Knitting. Or extreme couponing.”
“Or yoga.”
I wrinkle my nose. “I hate yoga.”
“I know. But you hate spiral thinking more.” She squeezes my shoulders. “Listen to me. You just found out there’s a network of powerful women who’ve been trying to stop Marcus for years and can’t. That’s not failure, Dylan. That’s intelligence we didn’t have before.”
“Intelligence that says we’re fucked.”
“Intelligence that says we need to be smarter.” She’s using her firm voice now. The one that means she’s made a decision. “And I just photographed files that might connect him to multiple crimes. Files I need time to actually go through. So we need to strategize.”
“Strategize,” I repeat.
“Let me work through the files while you process what you learned.”
“Process. Right. I’ll just process the fact that I almost became victim number four. Easy. Or maybe number twenty four. I don’t actually know and that’s the problem. We don’t know what we are up against.”
“Dylan—”
“Sorry. I’m trying to joke and it’s not working.”
“I know.” Her voice is soft. “It’s okay that it’s not working.”
We stand there for a moment. Her hands on my shoulders. Both of us shaking slightly.
“Okay,” I finally say. “We put a pin in it.”
The decision settles strange. Uncomfortable.
This is Alex’s approach. Trust the gut, pause when it says pause.
“For a week,” Alex confirms.
“A week.”
“Let me dig through the financials. Quietly. Carefully.”
“And I’ll...” What? Process? Figure out how to function knowing Marcus almost got me alone?
“You’ll take care of yourself,” Alex says firmly. “Sleep. Eat actual food. Maybe call your mom.”
“Call my mom,” I repeat flatly.
“Sunday dinner and check-in. Miss it, she assumes you’re dead in a ditch off I-95.”
She’s right.
“A week,” I say again. Testing the words.
“Not forever. Just... a breath.”
“A breath.” I try to smile. “Very yogic of you.”
“I’m evolving.”
“Into what, a wellness influencer?”
“God no. I’d have to start drinking green juice.” She makes a face. “Could you imagine me trying to be sincere about kale?”
“The horror.”
We’re trying. Both of us. Reaching for our usual rhythm even though it keeps breaking.
But we’re trying.
“Dylan.” Alex pulls me back into a hug. “You’re spiraling again.”
“What if we become them?” The words come out muffled against her shoulder. “What if in three years I’m the one handing out my business card to the next paralegal in a beautiful dress?”
“Then we’ll deal with that in three years.” She squeezes tighter. “But right now we’re two exhausted twenty-seven-year-olds. Right now we survive the next week.”
“Survive the week,” I repeat. “Very inspirational. You should put that on a t-shirt.”
“Would you buy it?”
“No.”
“Honest. I appreciate that.”
She squeezes my shoulders one more time. “Survive the week, Dylan. Then we figure out the rest.”
I nod. Because what else can I do?
Monday. Twenty-four hours from now. I’ll walk into City Hall. Sit at my desk like nothing happened.
My hip throbs. Five purple bruises I’ll have to hide under my clothes.
“Though for the record,” I add, “if we’re pausing to do yoga, I’m going to be very bad at it.”
“You’re bad at everything that requires you to stop thinking.”
“Rude. But accurate.”
“I contain multitudes.”
And just like that—for half a second—we’re us again. Fast and familiar and finishing each other’s sentences.
For now.