Chapter 13 #2
“It’s unfortunate about Amber. And Sydney.” His eyes find mine. Hold them. “But sometimes we have to make difficult decisions to protect the firm’s interests.”
Translation?
You’re only here because I allow it.
You’re still here because you’re useful.
Keep being useful or join them.
This is how men like Dom operate—they don’t fire you for knowing too much. They just make you the only one left who does.
My mouth goes dry.
That taste—adrenaline, the same metallic tang from Friday night when I ran down four flights of stairs in darkness, when my heart hammered so hard I thought Dom would hear it through the stacks’ door.
“This client values stability. Family people.” He adjusts his cuff again. “The kind of person who takes care of their father.”
“I understand, sir.”
“I thought you might.” He picks up the bonus letter. Folds it once. Hands it back to me. “Don’t spend it all in one place.”
Then he’s gone, leaving only cologne and dread in his wake.
I sit there. The letter in my hands. Cream paper. Dom’s signature. Five thousand dollars that won’t hit my account for days. Money I can’t use yet to fund any investigation. Money that burns through the paper.
I slip it into my desk drawer next to Sharon’s Rice Krispie treats. Close it.
Around me, the third floor continues. Janet’s still printing. Someone microwaves something that smells like feet. The copier finally unjams.
Normal.
Everything normal.
Except I just got assigned to a government sector client who needs Dom’s discretion and I have six days to figure out what that means before I’m alone in a room with both of them.
My desk phone rings.
The landline. Nobody calls the landline except Dom.
I stare at it for two rings. Three.
Pick up. “Dylan Wells.”
“Oh good, you’re using your sexy professional voice.” Alex’s voice crackles through the ancient receiver. “Did you get the bonus?”
My whole body relaxes and tenses simultaneously. “I did.”
“Okay but how much does murder cost? Because I’m picturing us with one of those true crime podcast evidence boards. Red string everywhere. Except we’re funding it with blood money which feels very White Lotus season two.”
“Alex—”
“What? I’m processing. This is how I process. We’re literally living a Dateline episode except Keith Morrison isn’t here to do the voice-over.”
“Fair.” I keep my voice even. Bored. Like we’re discussing lunch plans. “Five thousand.”
Silence on the line. I can hear the accounting department in the background—phones ringing, someone laughing, the hum of fluorescent lights and office life. Normal sounds.
Then, “Damn. That’s—okay so, blood money silver lining, we can fund the investigation with murder money which feels very poetic. Wait.” Her voice drops. That quality when she knows something without being told. “Dom was just there. Wasn’t he?”
How does she always know?
“Yes, briefly.” I click through files on my screen. Make it look like I’m working.
“Fuck. Dylan. What did he want?”
I glance around. Janet’s on her phone now. Someone’s at the printer. Normal Monday morning. No one’s paying attention to me.
“New project. Starting Monday. We can discuss the details later.”
“Why is my gut screaming at me right now? Like literally my stomach just dropped.”
“Mine too.” I say it like I’m confirming a filing deadline. Flat. Professional.
“He isolated you. That’s what he did. All those firings. Amber, Sydney, all of them. He’s been removing people until you’re the only one left. You see that right?”
The empty desks surround me. I count them again. Six. Six desks that used to hold people. Six colleagues who could have taken this client instead of me.
All gone.
“I’m beginning to understand the full scope, yes.”
“Dylan, stop talking like a fucking paralegal and—” She cuts herself off. Someone must have walked by her desk. Then quieter, almost whispering: “Six days.”
“I know.”
“No. Listen to me.” That fierce quality enters her voice. The one from when we were twelve and she promised to be my dandelion. The one that means she’s scared but refusing to show it. “Six days until you’re alone in a room with him. Six days to figure out what this means. Six days to—”
“I understand the timeline.” My voice stays level. Calm. Even though my heart is hammering.
“Twilight Wednesday night?”
“Yes.”
“I’m bringing the good wine. The one we’re saving for something special.”
“That’s not necess—”
“We’re drinking it. Because if your boss is assigning you to a potential murder client, and you have to see that is who it is, we’re drinking the good wine. The expensive wine. The wine we said we’d only open when one of us got married or died and honestly this feels closer to the death option.”
I almost laugh. Almost. “Understood.”
“Dylan?”
“Yes?”
“I love you. And we’re going to figure this out. I promise. We’re going to—”
My throat closes. I have to force the words out professionally, like she just confirmed a meeting time. Like she didn’t just promise to save me. “Acknowledged. Thank you.”
Silence. Then softer: “You’re killing me with the paralegal voice.”
“Noted.”
The line clicks dead.
I set the receiver back carefully. Precisely. The way Dylan Wells would. Not too fast, not too slow. Normal movements. Professional movements.
Around me, the third floor hums. Janet laughs at something on her phone. The printer jams again. Someone swears. Normal Monday sounds.
I pull up my texts. She’s already sent one.
Alex: That was torture having to hear your robot voice
Me: Sorry
Alex: Don’t be sorry. Be safe. Six days.
Me: Six days
I minimize the texts. Look around the third floor with new eyes. Really look.
Half the cubicles are empty.
The walls feel closer suddenly. The lights too bright. My cubicle that used to feel safe now feels like a cage I didn’t see being built around me.
One bar at a time.
One firing at a time.
Until I was the only one left—which is how you know you’re not the favorite, you’re the final girl.