My heart pounds as I back away from the door. My hand finds the railing.
Then Irun.
No counting steps now. No careful descent. Just hands gripping railings and feet flying and complete darkness and Dom is coming. Dom is coming. Dom is coming.
One flight down. I slam into the wall on the turn, shoulder hitting concrete. Don’t slow down.
Two flights. My breathing is too loud. Can they hear me? Did the door make noise when I closed it?
Keep moving. Don’t think. Just move.
Three flights. The folders are still clutched against my chest. My heels dangle from my other hand, banging against my leg with each step.
The lights flicker on above me.
Dom turned them back on.
He’s coming.
I can see now—the concrete walls, the metal railing, the endless stairs spiraling down. But I don’t slow.
Four flights. My legs burn. My lungs scream. Sweat trickles down my spine.
The stacks. I see the door.
I crash through.
Fluorescent lights buzz above me. My mess is spread across the table exactly as I left it. The folders I organized. The timeline I created. My bag on the chair where I left it.
I grab my phone from the floor. Dark screen. Silent.
I can’t breathe. Can’t think. My hands won’t stop shaking. My heart won’t slow down.
My mind won’t stop replaying it.
The details. What he did to her. The way Dom asked questions like he was taking a grocery list.
The woman’s name. Dahlia. Maybe.
Her body. Somewhere. Disposed of like trash.
Seventeen texts from Alex on my phone. Safe. Drunk and alive.
And I’m the only person who knows.
The only person who heard.
A serial killer confessed.
Dom has been covering for him.
And I can’t tell anyone. The NDA. The privilege. I’m trapped.
And I just witnessed?—
The elevator dings.
He’s coming.
