“Me too.”
“Because if you started seeing shit alone, I’d worry about you.”
“Thanks?”
“But if we’re BOTH seeing it?—”
“We’re not seeing anything,” I interrupt. “The board fell. One photo stayed. Weird but explainable.”
“Right. Explainable.”
“Totally explainable.”
We stand there a moment longer.
Alex takes a long sip of wine. “You know what’s fucked up?”
“That we’re investigating a murder with a Pinterest-worthy evidence board?”
“No. That I’m more stressed about the color coordination than the actual murder.” She gestures at the yellow yarn. “Like, I genuinely cannot remember what yellow means and it’s bothering me more than it should.”
“The sunk cost fallacy of murder board decorating.”
“Exactly.” She hands me a magnet—Dom’s photo. “Here. You do this one.”
I take it. Our fingers brush. The ring pulses again, warmer, and I ignore it.
I place Dom’s photo carefully. It sticks.
“There,” I say. “See? All good.”
“All good,” Alex agrees.
We finish our wine standing there. Staring at the board. At Elizabeth Short’s face watching us from the center.
At the evidence of something we can’t prove.
At the murder we’re trying to solve.
At the woman who might be trying to tell us something.
Or might just be a photo on a board that didn’t fall when everything else did.
Physics. Coincidence. Uneven surface.
“Dylan?” Alex’s voice is soft.
“Yeah?”
“I love you. You know that, right?”
My throat closes. “Yeah. I know.”
“Whatever happens Saturday—at the club, or after, or whatever—we’re doing this together.”
“Together,” I agree.
She reaches over and squeezes my hand. Her palm is sweaty. Mine probably matches.
