Chapter 5
Five
Four seconds. That is how long I have to react.
Four fucking seconds.
It’s not a lot of time to calm yourself. Especially when you’ve just overheard something you can’t un-hear.
Adrenaline hits my system hard. I can taste it. Bitter. Sharp. In the sweat on my upper lip.
I slam my head on the nearest book—not hard enough to really hurt, just enough to leave a mark. Proof I was asleep. Contort my body into a sleeping position that looks like I’m about to fall off my chair but haven’t quite.
Then I let myself drool.
Last, because Alex is a reincarnated hippie, I slow my breathing with box breathing.
Four counts in. Hold four. Four counts out. Hold four.
It’s a fucking talent.
My heart is hammering so hard I’m sure Dom will hear it from the stairs. But I force my breathing to slow. Force my hands to relax on the book. Force every muscle to go limp.
By the time Dom’s footsteps enter the stacks, I look half asleep.
When he touches my shoulder, I don’t even flinch. Call it a superpower.
“Dylan,” he whispers, gently nudging my shoulder. “Dylan, wake up.”
I yawn, blinking slowly, but he knows I’m now awake. Bleary-eyed, I turn and smile at him before letting myself register where I am and what I was doing.
Really, I deserve a fucking Emmy for this performance.
“Oh no, sir,” I whine a little. “I drooled all over the folders.” I attempt to wipe off the saliva, but there’s no point.
“Did you finish?” he asks, but his eyes aren’t on the folders. They’re on me. Searching.
“I did.” I gather everything and stack it up for him, finally uncovering my phone with his missed calls. I turn and hand it over. “I’m so sorry I missed your call.”
“You sleep deeply,” he observes. Not a question. A statement. Waiting to see if I’ll contradict it.
I rub my eyes, yawn again. “I was out cold. I don’t even remember sitting down.”
“It’s nothing.” He grabs the folders, grunting to himself when he flips through them. His cold blue eyes flick back to me once more before he nods. “Go home. Get some rest.”
He taps the folders once, twice before adding, “Don’t clean up. I’ll have someone else do it Monday.”
I stand and stretch, gathering my things.
“Do you need a lift home?” he asks, clearly waiting for me to grab the rest of my things and walk with him. “I can call you an Uber.” His phone is already out, the app up.
“I’d love that, actually.” I adjust my messenger bag over my body and follow him to the elevator, which of course now works.
Because he turned it on.
“Oh.” I step in with him. “Can we stop and—” I grab my phone and check Alex’s location. “Still downtown,” I mutter to myself.
“Pick up Alex?” he finishes for me.
My blood runs cold.
He knows where Alex is. He knows she was downtown tonight. He knows she’s blonde.
Does he know she was the target? Did the man tell him?
“You mentioned her earlier,” Dom says smoothly. “When I brought your food.”
I’m spiraling. Dom knows I’m always with Alex.
“Yes, sir. She texted me throughout the night. I should probably check on her.”
“Of course.” He nods. “I’ll make sure the Uber is female.”
Because he’s thoughtful. Because he remembers details. Because he takes care of his employees.
While cleaning up murders.
“I appreciate that, sir.”
The doors close.
Panic hits.
I’m locked in a metal box with a man who just arranged a murder disposal.
Four feet by four feet of enclosed space. No escape. Just me and Dom and the light buzzing overhead.
“Everything okay, Dylan?” Of course he would notice.
Dominic Draven misses nothing. Ever.
I force myself to turn to him. Make eye contact. Smile like my heart isn’t trying to break through my ribs.
“Of course.” I frown, letting confusion show instead of fear. “Aren’t the clubs closed at this hour? It’s weird, right? Why is she still downtown?”
It works. He grunts, nodding slowly. He believes that’s why I’m freaking out.
It’s not.
But I’m a fucking pro.
The doors open, and I step out. Honestly thankful to be out of the stacks. Away from the scene of my greatest performance.
True to his word, an Uber waits at the curb.
Do I rush? Do I run? No. Because that would give something away.
So I walk. Normal pace. Like everything’s fine. Like I’m just tired and ready to go home.
Even though everything in me is saying run run run.
Dom follows me out, and I climb into that Uber like I deserve it and it’s my chariot to freedom. Which it is.
He talks to the driver, hands her a few hundreds.
“Good night, Dylan. See you at noon on Monday.” He smirks, which is mildly disturbing. “You’ll get a bonus for tonight, of course.”
Blood money.
He’s paying me with money he’s charging that man. Money from body disposal. From covering up murder.
I’ve been taking blood money for five years. Every bonus. Every late-night meal. Every puppy gift package for my dead father.
All of it bought with bodies.
“Thank you, sir.” The words stick in my throat. They taste like bile.
He shuts the door and knocks on the hood three times.
The Uber pulls away from the curb.
I watch the building disappear in the rearview mirror. The 1880s limestone. The iron gates. The windows dark except for one light on the fourth floor.
Dom’s office. Where he’s probably making calls right now. Arranging the disposal. Checking alibis. Raising his prices.
Five years I’ve worked there. Five years of thinking I was doing defense work. Building my career. Learning from the best.
And I was helping him cover up murders the whole time.
How many? How many women died while I color-coded timelines and organized witness statements and made Dom’s job easier?
I don’t know. But I’m going to find out.
“He’s got a weird vibe,” the driver says. Her eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. That look women share when they recognize something’s off.
I snort. “Weird doesn’t even begin to cover it.”
But she gets it. She felt it too. I’m not crazy. I’m not paranoid.
Women always know.
As she drives away, I open my phone. My hands are shaking so badly I almost drop it.
I open my journal app. The one with password protection and cloud backup. The one no one knows about. The one that syncs across all my devices.
This is going to trial someday. I don’t know when. I don’t know how. But it will.
And when it does, I’ll have every detail.
I write everything.
Every word he said. Every detail about Dahlia—or was it the club’s name? The blonde hair, blue eyes, tight little body. The fur coat. The cigarette on the stoop. The alley. The assault. The strangulation. Her body dropping.
I did it again.
I don’t know how this keeps happening, Dom.
Serial killer. Multiple victims.
Dom’s cleanup plan. “My guy” for the cameras. The Denny’s alibi. Stay until four. “What I do best.”
Prices are going up.
A criminal enterprise. Body disposal for hire.
Do not go near her.
I write it exactly as it happened. Timestamps—approximately 2:00 a.m., fourth floor, Dom’s office. Dialogue as close as I can remember. The confession. The cover-up. Everything.
Because I have no idea what I’m going to do with this information.
I can’t report it—no body, no crime, and my NDA makes me legally liable for revealing anything I hear at work.
I can’t prove it—attorney-client privilege protects him, and Dom erased all the evidence.
But I can document it.
It’s the only thing I have left. The only power in this powerless situation.
I can’t stop him. Can’t save her. Can’t undo what happened.
But I can bear witness.
Because maybe, someday, this will matter.
Maybe someday, someone will be able to use this.
I save the entry. Back it up. Lock it with biometrics.
My phone buzzes.
Alex: Where are you??? I’m at Woody’s and it’s closing. Need rescue.
The relief is physical. My chest unclenches. I can breathe again.
She’s alive. She’s safe. He didn’t find her.
Me: On my way. Stay inside until you see the car.
I need to tell her everything.
I need to make sure she stays away from clubs. Away from downtown. Away from men in fur coats who smile too much and wear their wealth like armor.
Because he is still out there.
And he’s going to hunt again.