Chapter 13
Thirteen
The man on the stoop pinches a cigar between his yellowing teeth.
Same spot. Same nod when he sees me. I used to think he was just some retiree killing time.
Now when his eyes track me to the door, when he nods at precisely the same angle every morning, the possibility settles cold in my stomach—Dom likely pays him to watch.
I nod back. Normal Dylan things.
The revolving door at 17th and Walnut weighs the same as it did Friday night.
That specific corner where Center City bleeds into Rittenhouse, where the buildings still have their original brass fixtures and the partners still summer in the Hamptons.
The same as when I first pushed through it five years ago, twenty-two and stupid enough to think this building would make me something.
Now I know what this building makes people.
11:45 a.m. Monday. Fifteen minutes early because Dylan Wells is always fifteen minutes early.
Dylan Wells who doesn’t know about bodies in alleys or rings tangled with blonde hair.
Dylan Wells who’s spent five years perfecting the performance of not noticing—because women who notice things in male-run law firms don’t last long enough to become senior paralegals.
Let alone a lawyer.
The lobby hasn’t changed. Marble floors that echo every heel click—the same Carrara marble they used in City Hall, back when Philadelphia buildings were built to intimidate.
Lemon polish fighting a losing battle against a hundred forty years of cigar smoke embedded in the wood paneling, the kind of old-money stench that makes Rittenhouse Square law firms feel like colonial courthouses.
The security guard—Vincent—behind his desk.
“Morning, Ms. Wells.”
“Morning, Vincent.”
Sharon bustles in behind me, Tupperware container in hand. Rice Krispie treats. She makes them every Monday for Alex. Never for anyone else. Alex has that effect on people—even Sharon, who hates everyone on principle.
“Dylan.” She says my name like it personally offends her.
“Sharon.”
We wait for the elevator in our usual hostile silence. The doors open. Lunch crowd returning—accounting from the second floor, two junior lawyers arguing about the Eagles game, someone from HR whose name I’ve never learned.
I step in. Press three. Watch floor two pass without stopping. Alex is on two. She’s in there somewhere, digging through financials, committing light felonies for me.
She’s always been the brave one. The first to step up. The first to volunteer.
The Eagles argument continues. “—should’ve gone for it on fourth down—”
Normal Monday sounds. Normal Monday smells—someone’s microwaved fish, Sharon’s perfume, coffee going stale.
Floor three. Paralegal purgatory.
I step out. Follow the familiar path past the copier where Janet’s already printing crochet patterns. Past the break room where someone’s abandoned their yogurt. Past cubicles full of people who have no idea who their boss really represents.
My cubicle looks exactly like I left it Friday—preserved like a crime scene where nothing’s been touched, where the evidence sits waiting for someone to notice what’s missing. Ron Swanson mug empty because Alex isn’t here to fill it. Legal pad squared to the desk edge. Computer monitor dark.
The same desk where I’ve sat for five years. The same chair that costs more than my rent. The same lights that buzz just slightly off-frequency.
Everything is the same.
Except me.
12:00 p.m. exactly when I sit down. Power on my computer. The Windows chime feels too loud. While it boots, I check my phone. Eight texts from Alex about The Golden Girls. Three from my mom about my weight.
I’m deleting the mom texts when Sharon appears at my cubicle.
She’s still holding the Tupperware. Rice Krispie treats swimming in their container like evidence.
“These are for Alexandria. Second floor. Accounting.” She sets them down with a pointed thud. “Since apparently your roommate can’t come up here to collect them herself anymore.”
“I’ll bring them down.” I don’t look up from my screen.
“Hmm.” That sound. The one that catalogues and files away for future use. “Tell her she owes me gossip. The good stuff. Not that surface-level bullshit about who’s sleeping with who in accounting.”
“I’ll let her know.”
Sharon doesn’t leave. Those receptionist eyes bore into me.
“You look terrible.”
“Thank you, Sharon.” I keep my voice flat. Bored.
“I’m serious. You look like you haven’t slept in three days.” She leans in slightly. Lowers her voice to what she probably thinks is subtle. “Dom keeping you late again?”
My hands freeze on the keyboard. Just for a second. Just long enough.
“Discovery work. Patterson case.” The lie comes out smooth. Practiced. Five years of lying to this woman about why I’m here late, why I look tired, why I’m always performing.
“Right.” She straightens. Adjusts the container so it’s perfectly centered on my desk. “Well. I made extra. In case you need some too.” She gestures at the treats. “Sugar helps. Whatever’s going on.”
“Nothing’s going on.”
“Sure.” That tone. The one that says I’ve worked here twenty years, I know when something’s going wrong, I know when people are lying.
I just blink at her.
Sharon taps the Tupperware once. Twice. “Tell her to come get these herself next time. I want to look at her face when she lies to me too.”
She’s gone before I can respond.
I shove the container into my desk drawer. Out of sight.
Around me, the third floor hums with normal Monday energy. Janet’s on her phone. Someone laughs in the break room. The copier jams. Regular chaos.
The expensive scent hits my nostrils first, that cologne that costs more than my groceries. The one that lingered in the stacks Friday night.
Tom Ford. Black Orchid.
That feeling—the new one I’m becoming far too familiar with—uncoils at the base of my spine.
Cold shoots up my vertebrae, wraps around the back of my neck.
It’s screaming now.
“Dylan.” His shadow falls across my keyboard.
I take a breath through my nose. Count to three. Turn my chair with the same speed I always do. Not too eager. Not reluctant. Not anything but professional.
Pass the lie detector test.
“Sir.” I look up. Meet his eyes.
They’re the same brown they were Friday. Same crow’s feet.
He’s holding a cream envelope. The expensive paper stock he uses for formal communications.
“Excellent work this weekend.” He sets it on my desk. Precise. Centered. Like everything Dom does. “The Patterson discovery was exemplary.”
“Thank you, sir.” I keep my hands in my lap. Don’t reach for the envelope yet. Wait for permission.
“Open it.”
I do. Carefully. The paper is heavy, expensive. Official letterhead.
Five-thousand-dollar performance bonus for exemplary work on Patterson discovery. HR will process payment within three to five business days.
Five thousand dollars I need. That could help with loans. That could buy time.
Five thousand dollars that might have someone’s blood on it.
My hands start shaking. Just slightly. Enough that the paper trembles.
“That’s very generous, sir.” I set it down flat on my desk before Dom notices. Before he sees what his kindness does to me now—how every bonus feels like thirty pieces of silver, every excellent work sounds like good girl, here’s your treat for not noticing the bodies.
“You’ve earned it.” He glances at my screen. At the nothing I was typing. “How was your weekend? Quiet, I hope?”
My throat closes. I swallow. Taste copper. Bite the inside of my cheek to ground myself in something that isn’t Friday night, isn’t Dom’s voice saying “prices are going up” like he was discussing dry cleaning rates.
“Yes, sir. Very quiet. Spent time with family.”
“Your father?” His eyes hold mine. The pause stretches—one second, two—while his pupils track the micro-movements of my face.
“Yes, sir. He’s doing better. The weekend was... peaceful.”
I meet his eyes. Hold them. Don’t blink first. That’s what Alex taught me—liars blink too much or not at all. I blink normally. Count to three in my head. Blink again.
Pass the lie detector test.
“Good. Family is important.” He straightens slightly. “I need you to close out all your current cases this week.” He adjusts his cuff. Rolex catching the lights. “Everything wrapped up by Friday.”
My stomach drops. When Dom clears your plate, something’s coming. Something big.
The copper taste gets stronger. I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth. Focus on that instead of the way the walls feel like they’re closing in.
“Of course, sir. May I ask—”
“Monday. Nine o’clock sharp. My office.” He glances around the third floor.
Not at anything specific. Just scanning.
Noting who’s here, who’s listening, who might notice.
“After Amber’s unfortunate departure, you’re the only senior paralegal I have left.
The only one I trust with sensitive matters. ”
The only one.
Because he fired Amber. Because Sydney took petty cash for a pedicure and became an example. Because Dom systematically removes anyone who might see too much, know too much, ask too much.
Leaving just me.
The lights buzz louder suddenly. Or maybe that’s the ringing in my ears—that high-pitched hum that sat behind everything Friday night when I heard that confession.
“There’s a client.” Dom’s voice is casual. Too casual. “High profile. Government sector. They need someone with your experience. Your discretion.”
Government sector.
My mind races through the possibilities while my body stays perfectly still. City officials. State representatives. People with enough power to need Dom’s particular services.
People who can afford him.
People who need bodies to disappear.
“I’ll have everything ready, sir.” My voice sounds normal. Steady. The voice of someone who doesn’t know what discretion really means in this building.
He pauses. Looks around the floor again. At all the cubicles. The ones that used to be full.