Chapter 4
Four
I should leave. Close the door. Go back down the stairs. Pretend I never heard.
But I can’t move.
Through the crack in the door, I can see a sliver of light from Dom’s office down the hall. Hear every word.
“Calm down.” Dom’s voice. I hear the clink of glasses. “Drink this and tell me everything.”
I shouldn’t be hearing this.
But I can’t stop myself.
There’s a pause. A glass hitting a surface. A heavy breath.
“I don’t know what happened, Dom. I swear to God, I don’t know.” The client—whoever he is—is spiraling. His voice cracks. “One second I was in control and then—”
I try to memorize the voice. The timbre. The way panic makes it spike.
But my brain won’t work. That sensation from before—the ice-heat at my spine—it hasn’t stopped. If anything, it’s gotten worse. Spreading. My whole back feels like it’s been plunged in ice water. Goosebumps ripple across my skin in waves.
The ringing in my ears is louder now. High-pitched and constant. I have to focus to hear him over it.
“Take it from the top.” Dom’s reply comes easy. Too easy.
He’s done this before.
“We were at this club.” The squeak of a chair tells me he must have sat down. “Fuck, there was this girl, and oh my God, I wanted nothing more than to—”
“Focus.” Dom cuts him off.
My heart stops.
Alex. Alex is at a club right now. This very moment. Seventeen texts about her night. Bob & Barbara’s. Franky Bradley’s. Woody’s.
“Blond hair, blue eyes, this tight little body.” The man carries on despite Dom’s warning.
Oh God.
Alex.
He’s describing Alex.
I grip the door harder, trying to steady my trembling hands.
“Anyway, I lost her in the crowd.”
Oh thank God.
He lost her. Alex is safe. Alex is alive.
She was his target. He was hunting her.
And he couldn’t find her, so he found someone else. Someone blonde. Someone with blue eyes. Someone who looked enough like her.
Someone who’s dead now.
Someone else’s daughter. Someone else’s best friend. Someone who had people waiting for her texts.
She just happened to have blonde hair and blue eyes and be in the wrong place.
“Anyway. Dahlia. I think her name was. Beautiful and she was so eager, you know.”
“That was her name or the club?” Dom asks.
“Fuck, I don’t know.”
“Who saw you together?”
“I met her on my way out.” Another clink. He must have refilled his drink. “So I don’t know.”
“Specific. I need specifics. Otherwise I can’t clean this up.” Dom demands.
Clean this up. Not defend. Clean up.
“The stoop. I was lighting a cigarette and started walking. I didn’t see her until she asked for a smoke. She was alone.”
“Good. That’s good.”
“What are you doing?” the man asks.
“Getting my guy to grab the cameras by the club.”
His guy.
Dom has a guy for this. For grabbing security footage. For erasing evidence.
This isn’t improvised. This is a system.
“Oh, that’s smart. Very smart.” The client blabbers. “Right, so I was like yeah, I have a smoke for you. And that’s when she took the one I had out of my hand.”
There’s a pause and I hear Dom very quietly, but I can’t make out what he’s saying.
“Go on.” Dom demands.
“Is anyone else here?” the man asks.
“Dylan. She’s in the stacks.” He pauses. “Let me call her.”
I freeze, my whole body flooding with adrenaline.
Only my phone doesn’t go off. I left it on the floor in the stacks.
“No answer. Guarantee she fell asleep.” Dom supplies, but my heart pounds harder. “Go on. I’ve already shut off everything. Cameras, all of it.”
That explains the elevator.
“Right, so she took the cigarette and walked down this alley. And I followed because I needed to follow. I couldn’t help myself.” He says it like he’s making his case. Like he’s explaining why this isn’t his fault.
“Get to the point.” Dom’s voice is hard.
“Okay, so we’re in this alley and she’s smoking my cigarette and I was wearing one of my fur coats, you know the ones.”
My whole body goes cold.
I’ve seen those coats. On Instagram. On the news. Someone famous. Someone I should know.
But my brain won’t work. Fear has shut down everything except survival. The name is there, just out of reach, and I can’t—
“I’m infamous for the fur coat. People recognize me because of it. It’s like my whole thing, you know?” He pauses. “Shit. People will remember the coat.”
Someone with power. Money. Connections. Someone untouchable.
Someone people trust.
“Right, anyway. So she drops to her knees. My lucky day, right? Only. I don’t want my dick sucked. I want to fuck her against the dirty wall like the dirty whore she is.”
No.
He said he murdered her. And now he’s—
“So I yank her up by her hair. She was wearing this little black skirt and and and something came over me, Dom.” His voice breaks. Is that real? Or is he performing?
I can’t tell anymore.
“You have to understand. It’s like—I’ve been doing the work, you know? Therapy. All of it. And I thought I had this handled. But something just—”
He’s putting on a show.
The voice breaking. The therapy language.
He’s convinced himself he’s the victim.
“Continue.” Dom’s voice is cold. Unimpressed by the show.
“Right, so I fucked her against the wall, right? And I had my hand around her throat. You know.” He says it like he’s sharing dating advice.
Like he’s on a podcast explaining relationships.
That performer’s voice making assault sound like mutual pleasure.
“You know how women like that. They love to be choked while getting their pussy split open.”
My stomach turns.
Women don’t—that’s not—
He’s justifying it. Making it her fault. Like she wanted to be strangled.
My throat closes. That ice-heat crawls up my neck, wraps around my throat like hands.
I realize I’m holding my breath. I force myself to breathe. Quiet. Shallow. Don’t let them hear.
“I just... I didn’t mean to, Dom.” And now he’s crying. Actually crying. “I’m trying, Dom. I’m really trying.”
“How long ago?” Dom asks. Flat. Business-like. Completely unmoved by his tears.
“I finished and she just dropped, you know. She didn’t have a pulse. And all I could think was, oh my God I did it again.”
Again.
This isn’t his first. Dahlia isn’t the first woman he’s killed.
And Dom has known. Has been helping. Has been charging him.
The man starts crying harder. “I don’t know how this keeps happening, Dom.”
Keeps happening.
How many? How many women has this man killed?
And Dom—Dom is asking questions like he’s heard this story before. Calm. Practiced. Efficient.
How many times has Dom cleaned up these murders?
I’ve been working for him for five years. Organizing his files. Building his cases. Making it possible.
How many women are dead because I was good at my job?
How many bodies did I help disappear with my perfect witness folders and my color-coded timelines?
I thought I was doing defense work. Everyone deserves representation.
But this isn’t defense. This is disposal.
“Stop looking at your hands. Look at me. Focus.” Dom’s voice cuts through. “This is what is going to happen. You are going to head down to Denny’s.”
An alibi. Dom is establishing an alibi. Receipts. Timestamps.
While Dom disposes of the body.
“Denny’s?”
“Yes, fucking Denny’s.” Dom snaps. “They’ll establish an alibi. Stay there until four. Then call an Uber and head home.”
“What are you going to do?”
“What I do best.” Dom mutters. There’s a pause. Papers shuffling. “And prices are going up.”
Prices.
Dom is charging him. This is a paid service. A business transaction.
Women are dying and Dom is raising his rates.
This isn’t a lawyer defending a client in court. This is a criminal enterprise. Body disposal.
“Whatever it costs,” the man says quickly. “I’ll pay whatever you need.”
“You will,” Dom confirms.
“Okay.” He sounds calmer now. The crying has stopped. The show is over.
“What about the girl?” he asks.
Me. He’s talking about me.
My stomach lurches.
“I’m going to check on Dylan. Send her home.” Dom says. “Do not go near her. Do you understand?”
Dom is warning a serial killer to stay away from me. Which means Dom thinks he might—
“Good. Now get to Denny’s. Stay until four.” I hear Dom’s chair scrape against the floor. “I’m turning everything back on. Then I’m checking on Dylan.”
Fuck.
I let the door close without a sound, blanketing me in absolute darkness.
My heart pounds as I back away from the door. My hand finds the railing.
Then I run.
No counting steps now. No careful descent. Just hands gripping railings and feet flying and complete darkness and Dom is coming. Dom is coming. Dom is coming.
One flight down. I slam into the wall on the turn, shoulder hitting concrete. Don’t slow down.
Two flights. My breathing is too loud. Can they hear me? Did the door make noise when I closed it?
Keep moving. Don’t think. Just move.
Three flights. The folders are still clutched against my chest. My heels dangle from my other hand, banging against my leg with each step.
The lights flicker on above me.
Dom turned them back on.
He’s coming.
I can see now—the concrete walls, the metal railing, the endless stairs spiraling down. But I don’t slow.
Four flights. My legs burn. My lungs scream. Sweat trickles down my spine.
The stacks. I see the door.
I crash through.
Fluorescent lights buzz above me. My mess is spread across the table exactly as I left it. The folders I organized. The timeline I created. My bag on the chair where I left it.
I grab my phone from the floor. Dark screen. Silent.
I can’t breathe. Can’t think. My hands won’t stop shaking. My heart won’t slow down.
My mind won’t stop replaying it.
The details. What he did to her. The way Dom asked questions like he was taking a grocery list.
The woman’s name. Dahlia. Maybe.
Her body. Somewhere. Disposed of like trash.
Seventeen texts from Alex on my phone. Safe. Drunk and alive.
And I’m the only person who knows.
The only person who heard.
A serial killer confessed.
Dom has been covering for him.
And I can’t tell anyone. The NDA. The privilege. I’m trapped.
And I just witnessed—
The elevator dings.
He’s coming.