Alex presses two fingers to his lips. Gentle. Devastating.
“That’s not what this is about.”
Then she pinches his lips shut.
Alex’s jaw tightens for just a second before she deploysThe Look. Only I would notice. Only I know the cost.
His pupils actually dilate. It’s like watching a nature documentary on human mating rituals, except the gazelle is very into being eaten by the lion.
“We need to get inside,” Alex says, and David would probably walk through fire for her at this point.
I step away to give them space—not far, never far enough to lose sight of her. Not here. Not in this building where a woman died weeks ago because some man decided her body belonged to him.
David finally releases the door wider, gesturing us through with this little bow that would be charming if it wasn’t so pathetic.
The hallway hits me like a wall. Long. Exposed brick that’s probably original to the building. Industrial lighting that flickers just enough to be ominous without being a fire hazard. The air smells like grease and bleach and something else—cologne, maybe, or just the accumulated scent of a thousand Saturday nights.
My brain goes into that awful survival mode Mom always worried about—the one that got me through Dad’s funeral by counting ceiling tiles.
Emergency exit to the left. Could Dahlia have run that way if she’d seen it coming?
Door ahead leading to the main club. Did she dance first? Did she eat here? Order a drink? Feel safe?
Did anyone hear her scream?
Stairwell with concrete steps worn smooth in the centers. How many women have climbed these stairs thinking they were safe?
Everything is exactly how it should be in a functioning restaurant-slash-nightclub. And all I can think is that Dahlia probably thought it looked normal too. Right up until she followed the wrong man into the wrong alley and became a problem that needed to be solved.
“Club is downstairs and live music straight ahead,” David says, and I turn to see Alex’s lipstick smeared across his mouth like evidence. “Restaurant is on the roof with the rooftop bar, all enclosed. VIP lounge second floor.”
“Thanks, David.” Alex winks at him, and he blushes the same color as her lipstick.
“Find me later?” His voice cracks on the question. Hopeful. Doomed.
Alex ignores him and turns to me. “VIP?”
“Can we get up there?”
“Let’s check the rooftop bar first.” She heads toward the stairwell, leaving David to pout in the doorway like a kicked puppy.
My jaw aches suddenly. The same ache from every fake squeal about Winston.
“You okay?” Alex catches my expression as David disappears back inside.
“Are you?”
She knows what I’m asking. Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “It was three minutes, Dylan. I’ve done worse.”
“That’s not the flex you think it is.”
“I know.” She adjusts her lipstick in her phone camera. Won’t look at me. “But it gets us in.”
“Alex—”
“Don’t.” Soft. “Please don’t. Not tonight. We have a job to do.”
I want to argue. Want to tell her she doesn’t have to trade pieces of herself for access. But she’s already walking toward the stairs, and I know that set of her shoulders. The conversation’s over.
