How many? How many women has this man killed?
And Dom—Dom is asking questions like he’s heard this story before. Calm. Practiced. Efficient.
How many times has Dom cleaned up these murders?
I’ve been working for him for five years. Organizing his files. Building his cases. Making it possible.
How many women are dead because I was good at my job?
How many bodies did I help disappear with my perfect witness folders and my color-coded timelines?
I thought I was doing defense work. Everyone deserves representation.
But this isn’t defense. This is disposal.
“Stop looking at your hands. Look at me. Focus.” Dom’s voice cuts through. “This is what is going to happen. You are going to head down to Denny’s.”
An alibi. Dom is establishing an alibi. Receipts. Timestamps.
While Dom disposes of the body.
“Denny’s?”
“Yes, fucking Denny’s.” Dom snaps. “They’ll establish an alibi. Stay there until four. Then call an Uber and head home.”
“What are you going to do?”
“What I do best.” Dom mutters. There’s a pause. Papers shuffling. “And prices are going up.”
Prices.
Dom is charging him. This is a paid service. A business transaction.
Women are dying and Dom is raising his rates.
This isn’t a lawyer defending a client in court. This is a criminal enterprise. Body disposal.
“Whatever it costs,” the man says quickly. “I’ll pay whatever you need.”
“You will,” Dom confirms.
“Okay.” He sounds calmer now. The crying has stopped. The show is over.
“What about the girl?” he asks.
Me. He’s talking about me.
My stomach lurches.
“I’m going to check on Dylan. Send her home.” Dom says. “Do not go near her. Do you understand?”
Dom is warning a serial killer to stay away from me. Which means Dom thinks he might?—
“Good. Now get to Denny’s. Stay until four.” I hear Dom’s chair scrape against the floor. “I’m turning everything back on. Then I’m checking on Dylan.”
Fuck.
I let the door close without a sound, blanketing me in absolute darkness.
