The lobby hasn’t changed. Marble floors that echo every heel click—the same Carrara marble they used in City Hall, back when Philadelphia buildings were built to intimidate. Lemon polish fighting a losing battle against a hundred forty years of cigar smoke embedded in the wood paneling, the kind of old-money stench that makes Rittenhouse Square law firms feel like colonial courthouses. The security guard—Vincent—behind his desk.
“Morning, Ms. Wells.”
“Morning, Vincent.”
Sharon bustles in behind me, Tupperware container in hand. Rice Krispie treats. She makes them every Monday for Alex. Never for anyone else. Alex has that effect on people—even Sharon, who hates everyone on principle.
“Dylan.” She says my name like it personally offends her.
“Sharon.”
We wait for the elevator in our usual hostile silence. The doors open. Lunch crowd returning—accounting from the second floor, two junior lawyers arguing about the Eagles game, someone from HR whose name I’ve never learned.
I step in. Press three. Watch floor two pass without stopping. Alex is on two. She’s in there somewhere, digging through financials, committing light felonies for me.
She’s always been the brave one. The first to step up. The first to volunteer.
The Eagles argument continues. “—should’ve gone for it on fourth down?—”
Normal Monday sounds. Normal Monday smells—someone’s microwaved fish, Sharon’s perfume, coffee going stale.
Floor three. Paralegal purgatory.
I step out. Follow the familiar path past the copier where Janet’s already printing crochet patterns. Past the break room where someone’s abandoned their yogurt. Past cubicles full of people who have no idea who their boss really represents.
My cubicle looks exactly like I left it Friday—preserved like a crime scene where nothing’s been touched, where the evidence sits waiting for someone to notice what’s missing. Ron Swanson mug empty because Alex isn’t here to fill it. Legal pad squared to the desk edge. Computer monitor dark.
The same desk where I’ve sat for five years. The same chair that costs more than my rent. The same lights that buzz just slightly off-frequency.
Everything is the same.
Except me.
12:00 p.m. exactly when I sit down. Power on my computer. The Windows chime feels too loud. While it boots, I check my phone. Eight texts from Alex about The Golden Girls. Three from my mom about my weight.
I’m deleting the mom texts when Sharon appears at my cubicle.
She’s still holding the Tupperware. Rice Krispie treats swimming in their container like evidence.
“These are for Alexandria. Second floor. Accounting.” She sets them down with a pointed thud. “Since apparently your roommate can’t come up here to collect them herself anymore.”
“I’ll bring them down.” I don’t look up from my screen.
“Hmm.” That sound. The one that catalogues and files away for future use. “Tell her she owes me gossip. The good stuff.Not that surface-level bullshit about who’s sleeping with who in accounting.”
“I’ll let her know.”
Sharon doesn’t leave. Those receptionist eyes bore into me.
“You look terrible.”
“Thank you, Sharon.” I keep my voice flat. Bored.
“I’m serious. You look like you haven’t slept in three days.” She leans in slightly. Lowers her voice to what she probably thinks is subtle. “Dom keeping you late again?”
My hands freeze on the keyboard. Just for a second. Just long enough.
“Discovery work. Patterson case.” The lie comes out smooth. Practiced. Five years of lying to this woman about why I’m here late, why I look tired, why I’m always performing.
