“RIGHT?” Alex beams like I’ve just validated her entire existence. “Okay so—” She flips back to the cork side and gestures. “We know what you heard.”
“Overheard a confession,” I add.
She writes it on the whiteboard side with dry-erase marker. “Prices are going up. Like he was discussing dry cleaning prices.”
“Found a ring with blonde hair in it.”
A ring that now sits on a chain around my neck. Alex insisted this morning—something about keeping evidence close, not losing it, and also “if we get murdered at least the cops will find it on your body and have a lead.”
Dark. But practical.
I didn’t argue. Couldn’t argue. Because some part of me needs it there. Needs the weight of it. The reminder.
A woman died. Someone’s daughter. Someone’s best friend, maybe. Maybe someone waited for her to text that she got home safe. Maybe someone filed a missing person report that got buried or dismissed or lost.
And I’m the only one who knows she existed.
The only one who heard her killer confess.
The only one who found the ring with her hair still tangled in it like she fought back, like she grabbed at something, like she tried.
So yeah. I wear it. Against my heart. Where I can feel it. Where I can’t forget what I heard.
“Missing woman,” Alex adds to the whiteboard. “Probably blonde.”
“Mystery client who paid Dom.” I sip my wine, watching her create neat sections with her color-coded system.
“Oh—and this.” Alex adds a photo of The Dahlia—the club—and then one of the alley behind it and another of the alley where we found the ring. “I went during lunch,” she says before I can ask. “Just walked by. Totally casual reconnaissance.”
“Very subtle.”
“I’m basically a spy.” She steps back, admiring her work. “So Saturday we go in. Scope it out. See if anyone remembers a blonde woman. See if the staff acts weird. Look for—I don’t know, vibes? Evidence? A convenient confession?”
“You think someone’s just gonna confess to us?”
“It happens onDatelineall the time.”
“Alex.”
“I’m just saying! People love to talk. Especially if you buy them a drink and act interested.”
I take a long sip of wine through my ridiculous straw. “You’ve thought about this a lot.”
“I’ve thought about nothing else.” She turns to face me, and her expression shifts. Less playful. More serious. “Dylan, you heard something you shouldn’t have. You found evidence. We can’t just... ignore this.”
“I know.”
“And I know you’re scared?—”
“I’m terrified,” I correct. “There’s a difference.”
She nods. Doesn’t argue. “Me too.”
We stand there for a moment, drinking wine, staring at the murder board like it’s going to suddenly make sense.
It doesn’t.
“What else are we putting up?” I ask finally.
