We’re terrified.
But we’re terrified together.
And somehow that makes it bearable.
I don’t say anything.
Neither does Alex.
We just stand there, holding hands, staring at a murder board in our living room, drinking wine through absurdly long straws, pretending everything that just happened has a rational explanation.
Maybe it does.
Maybe it doesn’t.
Either way, we’re going to that club Saturday.
Either way, we’re going to find out what happened to the woman Dom helped disappear.
Either way, we’re not stopping now.
The ring burns.
I ignore it.
Except I don’t.
Not really.
Fuck.
Fifteen
I spendthe rest of the week pretending Wednesday never happened.
Closing files like Dom asked. Avoiding Sharon’s suspicious glares. Texting Alex every hour because if I don’t, the ring around my neck starts to feel like a noose.
By Saturday, I’ve refreshed the missing persons database forty-seven times.
Fourteen blonde women missing in Philadelphia County.
Three in their twenties.
One who worked downtown.
None reported missing the exact night of the murder—they all vanished weeks or months ago.
Our Dahlia’s either not reported yet, or she’s someone no one’s looking for.
And now we’re here. Outside the place where she stopped existing.
Alex has an actual joint in her hand this time.
“You sure about this?”
“Absolutely not.” She takes a hit, holds it, passes it to me. “But we’re doing it anyway because we’re idiots with a murder board and a death wish.”
I take the joint. Inhale. Try not to cough. “Very on brand for us.”
