Chapter 14
Fourteen
Twilight spreads across the sky in bruised purples tonight, darker than usual. Ominous.
Maybe it’s how the days are shorter and the light is sadder.
Maybe it’s the murder investigation we’re running out of our living room like we’re cosplaying FBI agents on a true crime podcast.
Alex color-coded our murder board. Because apparently when you’re hunting a killer, you need the yarn to match the pushpins or the feng shui gets fucked.
On the pinboard side, she has a collection of pins in red with—yes—red yarn connecting them. Green pins with green yarn. Yellow pins with yellow yarn.
She’s made it a traffic light of murder investigation.
On the board itself: photos printed and laminated like we’re building a vision board for crime solving. Dom. The Dahlia club. The alley behind it and nearby.
And our mystery woman—the one we’ve been calling Dahlia, though we have no idea if that’s her name—represented by a stock photo of Elizabeth Short because Alex said we “needed a face to anchor the investigation to.”
A morbid choice. A woman murdered decades ago. Still unsolved. Still haunting.
But it’s not like we have an actual photo of our victim.
We don’t even know for sure there is a victim, and that’s the paradox.
“I found a stash of red and white!” Alex emerges from the hallway, hair in a messy top bun, wearing her cozy Halloween pajama set—the one with tarot cards printed all over it.
Mine is less flashy. Dandelion tufts scattered across navy blue. The ones she got me for my birthday because “you’re my dandelion wish, Dylan.”
I’m never getting rid of these pajamas.
“Red.” I hold out my hand, wiggling my fingers.
“Oh!” She squeals, shoving both bottles into my chest before skipping off to grab a package by the door. She rips it open with her teeth, pulling out two extremely long straws. “Wine straws!”
“Is that their actual purpose?” I tease, heading into the kitchen for an opener.
“Of course.” She says it with such conviction I genuinely cannot tell if she’s being serious.
With a satisfying pop, I get the first cork out. White first. I hand it over.
Alex plops a straw into the wine bottle, takes a sip, then immediately gets it caught in her hair when she turns too fast.
“Professional investigators,” I mutter, helping untangle her while trying not to spill my own wine.
“We’re very sophisticated.” She frees herself and strikes a pose before her murder board. “Okay so I’ve been thinking about this all day.”
I open the red while she contemplates her masterpiece.
“This side—” She taps the corkboard with the photos and yarn.
“—is what we know. And THIS side—” She flips it around to reveal a whiteboard.
“—is magnetic for theories and questions we need to answer.” She grabs one of the dozen magnets sitting in a bowl and chucks it at the board where it sticks with a satisfying thwap. “I’m obsessed with this board.”
“You gonna marry that board?”
“I might.”
Wine open, I use my absurdly long straw and sip. Not too sweet, not too bitter. Honestly just right. “The magnet feature is genuinely impressive.”
“RIGHT?” Alex beams like I’ve just validated her entire existence. “Okay so—” She flips back to the cork side and gestures. “We know what you heard.”
“Overheard a confession,” I add.
She writes it on the whiteboard side with dry-erase marker. “Prices are going up. Like he was discussing dry cleaning prices.”
“Found a ring with blonde hair in it.”
A ring that now sits on a chain around my neck. Alex insisted this morning—something about keeping evidence close, not losing it, and also “if we get murdered at least the cops will find it on your body and have a lead.”
Dark. But practical.
I didn’t argue. Couldn’t argue. Because some part of me needs it there. Needs the weight of it. The reminder.
A woman died. Someone’s daughter. Someone’s best friend, maybe. Maybe someone waited for her to text that she got home safe. Maybe someone filed a missing person report that got buried or dismissed or lost.
And I’m the only one who knows she existed.
The only one who heard her killer confess.
The only one who found the ring with her hair still tangled in it like she fought back, like she grabbed at something, like she tried.
So yeah. I wear it. Against my heart. Where I can feel it. Where I can’t forget what I heard.
“Missing woman,” Alex adds to the whiteboard. “Probably blonde.”
“Mystery client who paid Dom.” I sip my wine, watching her create neat sections with her color-coded system.
“Oh—and this.” Alex adds a photo of The Dahlia—the club—and then one of the alley behind it and another of the alley where we found the ring. “I went during lunch,” she says before I can ask. “Just walked by. Totally casual reconnaissance.”
“Very subtle.”
“I’m basically a spy.” She steps back, admiring her work. “So Saturday we go in. Scope it out. See if anyone remembers a blonde woman. See if the staff acts weird. Look for—I don’t know, vibes? Evidence? A convenient confession?”
“You think someone’s just gonna confess to us?”
“It happens on Dateline all the time.”
“Alex.”
“I’m just saying! People love to talk. Especially if you buy them a drink and act interested.”
I take a long sip of wine through my ridiculous straw. “You’ve thought about this a lot.”
“I’ve thought about nothing else.” She turns to face me, and her expression shifts. Less playful. More serious. “Dylan, you heard something you shouldn’t have. You found evidence. We can’t just... ignore this.”
“I know.”
“And I know you’re scared—”
“I’m terrified,” I correct. “There’s a difference.”
She nods. Doesn’t argue. “Me too.”
We stand there for a moment, drinking wine, staring at the murder board like it’s going to suddenly make sense.
It doesn’t.
“What else are we putting up?” I ask finally.
“Timeline.” She grabs the dry-erase marker again. “Friday night—you heard the confession. Saturday morning—you found the ring. Now this Saturday—we’re going to the club.”
“Very organized for someone who claims Mercury is in retrograde.”
“Mercury being in retrograde is EXACTLY why we need to be organized.” She says this like it’s obvious. “When the universe is in chaos, we create structure. It’s witchcraft 101.”
“Is it though?”
“I’m manifesting justice, Dylan. Let me have this.”
I almost laugh. Almost. “Okay but seriously—what’s the yellow yarn for?”
She pauses. Looks at the board. “...I genuinely don’t remember. I was very confident about it at 2 a.m. though.”
“Should we pick a meaning now or just commit to the mystery?”
“Commit to the mystery. It feels more authentic to our investigative skills.”
“Which are?”
“Enthusiastic but underdeveloped.”
“Like a true crime podcast in human form.”
“Exactly.”
We clink our wine bottles together. It should feel ridiculous—two women in pajamas, drinking wine through straws, staring at a murder board in our living room.
But it doesn’t feel ridiculous.
It feels like the only thing we can do.
THUMP.
We both freeze mid-sip, straws still in our mouths.
Something clattered down the hall. Not a subtle sound. A full crash.
“Did you—” Alex starts.
“Yeah.”
We stare at each other. Her eyes are wide. Mine probably match.
“Could be something falling in my room,” I offer.
“Could be.”
Neither of us moves.
“One of us should check,” Alex says.
“Yep.”
Still neither of us moves.
“Okay on three,” she says. “One... two...”
“Three,” I finish, and we both shuffle toward the hallway like the world’s least coordinated SWAT team.
The hallway sits empty. Both bedroom doors are open, exactly how we left them. Nothing’s out of place in my room. Nothing’s fallen in Alex’s.
“See?” I say, already turning back. “Nothing.”
“Old building,” Alex agrees, but her voice is tight. “Pipes or whatever.”
“Exactly. Pipes.”
We walk back into the living room and stop dead.
The murder board.
Half the photos are on the floor. Magnets scattered across the rug. The dry-erase marker rolled under the couch.
But not everything fell.
Elizabeth Short’s photo—our stand-in for the woman we’re calling Dahlia—is still there. Dead center. Perfectly level. Like someone straightened it while everything else clattered down.
My stomach drops.
“Okay,” Alex says slowly. “So that’s weird.”
“That’s weird,” I agree.
We stand there, staring at it.
“Dylan?” Alex’s voice sounds far away even though she’s right next to me.
“Yeah?”
“How did only her photo stay up?”
“I don’t know.”
“Like... physically. How?”
I force myself to think logically. Rationally. “We didn’t secure the magnets properly. Or we bumped the board when we were moving around. Or—”
“Dylan.” Alex cuts me off gently. “Look at it.”
I look.
Everything scattered except the dead woman. Perfectly centered. Perfectly level.
“Coincidence,” I say. My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
“Yeah,” Alex agrees. But she doesn’t sound convinced.
Neither am I.
We kneel down together, gathering the photos and magnets in silence. Dom’s photo is crumpled. The Dahlia club photo landed face-down. The alley photo is under the couch.
But Elizabeth Short’s face stares down at us from the board. Untouched. Watching.
My hands shake slightly as I smooth out Dom’s photo. The ring feels heavier around my neck. Warmer.
Body heat.
Has to be.
“Maybe the board isn’t level,” Alex offers, repositioning a magnet carefully. Testing it. It holds. “See? If we just—”
The magnet falls again. Hits the floor with a soft clink.
We both stare at it.
“Okay that’s also weird,” I say.
“That’s very weird.”
Alex tries again. Same spot. The magnet holds for a second, then slides down like it’s been pushed.
“What the fuck,” she whispers.
I reach for it. My hand is shaking now. Place the magnet carefully. Hold my breath.
It sticks.
“There,” I say. “See? It’s fine. We just—”
I pull my hand back. The magnet stays.
“Body heat,” I say out loud. “Metal warms up against skin. That’s just—that’s physics.”
“Dylan—”
“It’s physics, Alex. It’s not—it’s not anything else.”
She looks at me for a long moment. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay.” She repositions another photo. “Physics. Uneven board. We bumped it. All very normal explanations.”
“Exactly.”
We keep rebuilding in silence. When everything’s back in place—Dom, the ring photo, The Dahlia, and yes, Elizabeth Short still dead center where she never fell—we both step back.
The board looks exactly like it did before.
Except now we’re both thinking about how it fell.
And how one photo didn’t.
“So,” Alex says finally, her voice determinedly light. “Saturday at the club.”
“Saturday at the club,” I echo.
“Just two girls having a fun night out.”
“Super normal. Very regular.”
“Definitely not investigating a murder.”
“That would be crazy.”
Alex bumps her shoulder against mine. We stand there, looking at the murder board, drinking wine through ridiculous straws, pretending we’re not both a little freaked out.
“For the record,” Alex says quietly, her eyes fixed on Elizabeth Short’s face. “If something weird is happening—like actually weird—I’m glad it’s happening to both of us.”
“Me too.”
“Because if you started seeing shit alone, I’d worry about you.”
“Thanks?”
“But if we’re BOTH seeing it—”
“We’re not seeing anything,” I interrupt. “The board fell. One photo stayed. Weird but explainable.”
“Right. Explainable.”
“Totally explainable.”
We stand there a moment longer.
Alex takes a long sip of wine. “You know what’s fucked up?”
“That we’re investigating a murder with a Pinterest-worthy evidence board?”
“No. That I’m more stressed about the color coordination than the actual murder.” She gestures at the yellow yarn. “Like, I genuinely cannot remember what yellow means and it’s bothering me more than it should.”
“The sunk cost fallacy of murder board decorating.”
“Exactly.” She hands me a magnet—Dom’s photo. “Here. You do this one.”
I take it. Our fingers brush. The ring pulses again, warmer, and I ignore it.
I place Dom’s photo carefully. It sticks.
“There,” I say. “See? All good.”
“All good,” Alex agrees.
We finish our wine standing there. Staring at the board. At Elizabeth Short’s face watching us from the center.
At the evidence of something we can’t prove.
At the murder we’re trying to solve.
At the woman who might be trying to tell us something.
Or might just be a photo on a board that didn’t fall when everything else did.
Physics. Coincidence. Uneven surface.
“Dylan?” Alex’s voice is soft.
“Yeah?”
“I love you. You know that, right?”
My throat closes. “Yeah. I know.”
“Whatever happens Saturday—at the club, or after, or whatever—we’re doing this together.”
“Together,” I agree.
She reaches over and squeezes my hand. Her palm is sweaty. Mine probably matches.
We’re terrified.
But we’re terrified together.
And somehow that makes it bearable.
I don’t say anything.
Neither does Alex.
We just stand there, holding hands, staring at a murder board in our living room, drinking wine through absurdly long straws, pretending everything that just happened has a rational explanation.
Maybe it does.
Maybe it doesn’t.
Either way, we’re going to that club Saturday.
Either way, we’re going to find out what happened to the woman Dom helped disappear.
Either way, we’re not stopping now.
The ring burns.
I ignore it.
Except I don’t.
Not really.
Fuck.