Chapter 18
Eighteen
“Well, if you look at it this way—” Alex rubs my back in slow circles while my knees are spread wide and my head is between them. “—you’ll have access to his financials.”
I can’t answer. Can’t lift my head. Can’t do anything but focus on breathing and not throwing up on the concrete courtyard floor.
My hands shake so badly I have to grip my ankles to keep them still. The tremors started the moment I walked out of Dom’s office. The moment I was alone in the hallway and didn’t have to perform anymore.
The mask cracked. And now I’m breaking.
“Breathe,” Alex murmurs. Her hand never stops that steady rhythm on my back. “In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.”
I try. God, I try. But my lungs won’t cooperate. Every breath feels like I’m drowning.
I just shook hands with a serial killer. Smiled at him. Giggled. Agreed to work with him alone.
And I was good at it.
That’s the part that’s making me want to vomit.
“On the plus side,” Alex says, still rubbing my back, “you didn’t actually vomit on his expensive shoes. So that’s a win.”
“Setting the bar very low there.”
“The bar is currently in hell. We’re adjusting expectations accordingly.”
Despite everything, a strangled laugh escapes. “That’s not comforting.”
“It’s not supposed to be. I’m just acknowledging that not puking on a serial killer is technically a professional achievement.”
How many times can I play this role before I forget who I am underneath?
This is what they don’t tell you about survival—that sometimes the mask fits so well you can’t remember what your real face looked like. That being good at pretending you’re safe is just another way of disappearing.
We’re sitting on one of three concrete picnic tables in the courtyard behind the building. The January air is sharp enough to hurt, but after the suffocating heat of Dom’s office, it feels like mercy.
There were a few other people out here when we first came out—associates from the third floor smoking by the dumpster, a paralegal on her phone pacing near the back door.
But the cold drove them back inside one by one.
Now it’s just us and the January air, sharp enough to hurt but private enough to fall apart.
The concrete is freezing through my slacks.
My coffee from this morning sits forgotten beside me, cold and untouched.
Traffic from the closest intersection—the usual Monday morning chaos of delivery trucks and SEPTA buses grinding past. Someone’s car alarm going off.
The mundane sounds of Philadelphia continuing like nothing happened, like City Hall’s clock tower isn’t keeping time on another woman who won’t make it home.
I sit up too fast. The world tilts. Blood rushes from my head and for a second everything goes spotty.
“This is the worst thing that could have happened,” I hiss, looking around to make sure we’re still alone. The courtyard is empty. Just us and the cold. “I’ll never survive this.”
“You will,” Alex says it with so much conviction I almost believe her. “You’re still here. Still pushing through the concrete. That’s what dandelions do.”
I want to believe it. Want to believe I’m made of something stronger than this trembling, nauseous mess currently holding herself together with duct tape and spite.
But the fact of the matter is—I’ve never been in this position before.
I’ve never had to work one-on-one with a murderer. Never existed in a space where smiling at a predator was part of my job description. Never had nightmares about this specific scenario because it was too outlandish to even imagine.
It’s inconceivable.
And yet somehow, I’m going to do it.
Because not finding out what happened to Dahlia will haunt me if I don’t.
And I know—realistically I know—that’s probably not even her name. It might have been the club. It might have been something he misheard or misremembered in his panic.
But I don’t know what else to call her.
Dahlia.
The woman in the alley. The woman whose ring is around my neck right now. The woman who deserved so much better than what she got.
“You’re right.” My voice cracks. I swipe at the tears on my cheeks, but more keep coming. “She’s one of us now.”
Another tear falls. Then another. I can’t stop them.
Stupid emotions. Stupid body. Stupid breakdown in a courtyard that’s finally, mercifully empty. Even the smokers couldn’t handle this cold.
But I can’t help it.
Because Dahlia—or whoever she was—deserved friends who would have shown up for her. Who would have noticed she was missing. Who would have reported it. Who would have cared enough to make noise.
And she didn’t have that. She had nobody. Just a killer in a fur coat and a paralegal who heard about her death secondhand and couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
“She is, isn’t she,” Alex agrees quietly. Her hand finds mine, squeezes. “So now she’s got us. Two idiots with a murder board and questionable survival instincts.”
“Very questionable.”
“The worst instincts, honestly. Most people would have stopped at overheard murder confession.”
“Most people are smarter than us.”
“Significantly smarter.” She bumps my shoulder. “But they’re not her friends. We are.”
I can breathe again. Just barely. But it’s something.
“I believed the facts, by the way. But I should have believed your fear earlier. When you said you couldn’t survive this—I should have understood that was real too.”
Something in my chest cracks. She heard me. Really heard me.
Because she’s right—I’ve been scared this entire time, but I kept performing like I wasn’t. Even with her.
“I didn’t believe my own fear either,” I admit quietly. “I kept thinking if I just stayed logical, if I just kept moving forward, the fear would go away. But it didn’t.”
“No.” She squeezes my hand. “It doesn’t go away when the danger is real.”
“You believe me now though. About all of it. The confession, the ring, the—” I swallow hard. “The supernatural stuff.”
“I believe you,” she says it firmly. No hesitation. “All of it. Even the parts that don’t make sense yet.”
I lean into her, resting my head on her shoulder. The way I’ve been doing since we were twelve. Since dandelions and wishes and playground promises. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For being scared with me instead of for me.”
We sit like that for a moment. Just breathing. Just being.
“I wanted you to be wrong,” she admits, pulling back just enough to look at me. “I wanted you to eventually shake your head and say no, I’m crazy, I misheard, it was nothing.”
I can hear the emotion cracking through her voice. The fear she’s been carrying.
“But we found that ring and I knew. I just knew.” She sniffles, shaking her head. Tears drip off her chin. “It was obvious what it meant. And I didn’t know how to handle that because you being right meant that everything we knew was wrong.”
I stay quiet. Let her get it out.
“Dom was supposed to be—” Her voice breaks. “He was supposed to be one of the good ones. The lawyer who actually gave a shit. Who mentored you. Who was going to help you pass the bar and build your career and—”
“I know.”
“Then the VIP lounge happened. And you came back and told me about the bartender and the warnings and I still—” She wipes her face with her sleeve. “I still hoped maybe you were wrong that this mystery guy was just that. Maybe Dom was watching television. Or listening to a podcast—”
“And then today,” I finish for her.
“Today.” She looks toward the door that leads back into the office building. Back into the place where we work. Where Dom is. Where Marcus will be coming back. “I didn’t want Dom to be a shit human.” Her voice is small. Broken. “But he is, isn’t he?”
“I think so.” And that fact hurts more than I expected.
“He remembers my Thai order,” I say quietly. “Asks about my fake dad every week. Gives me bonuses and mentors me and acts like he cares.”
“Maybe he does care.” Alex stares at nothing. “Maybe that’s what makes him dangerous. Men who are only monsters are easy to spot. It’s the ones who are kind to you while covering up murders—those are the ones who make you doubt yourself until it’s too late.”
We sit in silence for a moment. Both of us crying. Both of us grieving the man we thought Dom was. The career path I thought I was on. The simple world where defense attorneys were flawed but fundamentally decent.
Alex wipes her face one more time. “Okay. I can’t change what Dom is. But I can help you survive this.”
“How?” I ask weakly.
“What does working with Marcus actually mean?” she asks, turning to face me fully. Invested. Strategic. Switching into problem-solving mode because that’s how we survive. “Like day-to-day, what will you be doing?”
I think about Dom’s words. The assignment he handed me like a gift.
“Administrative law research. Document prep. Compliance filings for his new office.” I tick them off on my fingers. “I’ll be his primary point of contact for all legal matters. Dom said several times a week. Marcus mentioned evening work.”
Alex’s expression darkens. “Evening work. Alone.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s—” She stops herself. Takes a breath. “Okay. Okay, we can work with this.”
“How?” My voice comes out sharper than I intend. “How is any of this workable?”
“Because—” Alex grabs my hands. Forces me to look at her. “—you’ll have access to everything. His office documents. His financial disclosures—”
“He’s a City Controller. Those are public—”
“But you’ll have the originals. Chain of custody. His calendar. His communications. His meetings. The kind of proof that could actually survive a trial—if we live long enough to bring one.”
I hadn’t thought of it that way.
“You’ll be inside his operation,” she continues, talking faster now. That manic energy when she’s onto something. “Setting up his office means you see how he structures things. Who he meets with. How he handles money—”
“Whether he’s paying Dom directly or through shell companies.”