Alex stares at the new spreadsheet. “The others.”
“Unsolved murders. Strangulations. Blonde women found in alleys. Philadelphia, last two years.”
I turn the laptop fully toward her. Let her see what I’ve built.
Seventeen cases. Names. Photos. Dates. Locations. Status.
“How many?” Her voice is barely a whisper.
“Seventeen unsolved strangulations of women in Philadelphia County since 2023.”
Seventeen.
Worse than the eighty-seven. Because these women didn’t just disappear.
They were found.
“Seventeen women strangled and their killers never caught.” I scroll through the cases. “Seven were blonde. Four were found in alleys. Two in Center City near clubs.”
“You think he?—”
“I think Dom has been doing this for a long time.” My hands are shaking now. “And I think that guy isn’t his only client.Prices are going up.That’s not just inflation, Alex. That’s demand. But didhekill them?” I shrug, deflated. “I don’t know.”
She stares at the screen. At the photos. Seventeen women who looked like her. Like me. Like anyone.
“I did it again,” she whispers. “That’s what he said. NotI killed someone.NotI made a mistake.He saidI did it again.”
“He’s done this before. Multiple times.” I pull up my notes. The exact words from the confession. “I don’t know how this keeps happening, Dom.Those were his exact words. How this KEEPS HAPPENING.”
“So we’re looking at?—”
“A serial killer. With a body disposal service.” I gesture at the seventeen cases. “These are just the ones where bodies were found. Where Dom’s cleanup wasn’t perfect. Where something went wrong and a jogger found remains or a dog dug something up or the dumpster got checked.”
“And the woman from Friday—Dahlia?—”
“Won’t be found. Because Dom learned from these mistakes.” I close the laptop before I throw it across the room. “That’s what I’ve been learning. That’s what these databases teach you. How many women disappear. How rarely they’re found. How completely someone can vanish. I could be wrong, but my gut is telling me I’m not.”
Alex is quiet for a long moment. Processing. That quality she gets when she’s reading energy—except this time she’s reading data.
“So when will she be reported?” she asks finally.
“I don’t know.” I press my palms against my eyes. “Maybe tomorrow when she doesn’t show up for work. Maybe next week when her rent is due. Maybe never if she was alone enough. Some women disappear and no one files a report. No one looks. No one cares enough.”
“That’s what Dom counts on.”
“Exactly. That’s why his business works.” I pull up the eighty-seven again. “This many women go missing every month. The system is already overwhelmed. Police are already drowning incases. One more blonde woman who went to a club and didn’t come home? She’s just a statistic.”
“Unless we make her more than that.”
“How?” My voice breaks. “We don’t know her name. I’m only calling her Dahlia because it’s all I have. Don’t know where she lived. Don’t know who would miss her. We have a ring with hair that’s degrading in a Ziploc bag and a confession we can’t report because of an NDA and absolutely no way to prove any of this happened.”
Alex stands. Starts pacing. Hands moving. Gesturing. That manic energy.
“So we build the case anyway,” she says.
“Alex—”
“No, listen.” She’s talking faster now. “We can’t find her yet. Fine. But we can find the pattern. We can track Dom’s operation. We can connect the victims. We can build evidence that when she IS reported—when someone finally notices she’s gone—we have something to give them.”
