My whole body goes cold.
I’ve seen those coats. On Instagram. On the news. Someone famous. Someone I should know.
But my brain won’t work. Fear has shut down everything except survival. The name is there, just out of reach, and I can’t?—
“I’m infamous for the fur coat. People recognize me because of it. It’s like my whole thing, you know?” He pauses. “Shit. People will remember the coat.”
Someone with power. Money. Connections. Someone untouchable.
Someone people trust.
“Right, anyway. So she drops to her knees. My lucky day, right? Only. I don’t want my dick sucked. I want to fuck her against the dirty wall like the dirty whore she is.”
No.
He said he murdered her. And now he’s?—
“So I yank her up by her hair. She was wearing this little black skirt and and and something came over me, Dom.” His voice breaks. Is that real? Or is he performing?
I can’t tell anymore.
“You have to understand. It’s like—I’ve been doing the work, you know? Therapy. All of it. And I thought I had this handled. But something just?—”
He’s putting on a show.
The voice breaking. The therapy language.
He’s convinced himself he’s the victim.
“Continue.” Dom’s voice is cold. Unimpressed by the show.
“Right, so I fucked her against the wall, right? And I had my hand around her throat. You know.” He says it like he’s sharing dating advice. Like he’s on a podcast explainingrelationships. That performer’s voice making assault sound like mutual pleasure. “You know how women like that. They love to be choked while getting their pussy split open.”
My stomach turns.
Women don’t—that’s not?—
He’s justifying it. Making it her fault. Like she wanted to be strangled.
My throat closes. That ice-heat crawls up my neck, wraps around my throat like hands.
I realize I’m holding my breath. I force myself to breathe. Quiet. Shallow. Don’t let them hear.
“I just... I didn’t mean to, Dom.” And now he’s crying. Actually crying. “I’m trying, Dom. I’m really trying.”
“How long ago?” Dom asks. Flat. Business-like. Completely unmoved by his tears.
“I finished and she just dropped, you know. She didn’t have a pulse. And all I could think was, oh my God I did it again.”
Again.
This isn’t his first. Dahlia isn’t the first woman he’s killed.
And Dom has known. Has been helping. Has been charging him.
The man starts crying harder. “I don’t know how this keeps happening, Dom.”
Keeps happening.
