She follows. That particular silence of hers—the one from when we were fifteen and I swore I wasn’t smoking behind the gym.
We pass a couple making out against the wall. Someone’s phone buzzes. Normal Saturday night sounds.
Two more flights. My calves are burning. The music gets louder with each step.
“Okay, seriously.” Alex grabs my arm again on the next landing. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“What?”
“You’ve got that look. The murder board look.” She’s studying my face in the flickering stairwell light. “Something happened in there besides the bartender.”
I hesitate. The ring is still warm against my chest.
“The curtains in the booth. The one he warned me about.” I force the words out. “They were moving.”
“Moving how? Like someone was behind them?”
“Moving like there was a breeze. But there was no breeze, Alex.” I can hear how I sound. Crazy. Like my great-aunt. “The air was still and thick and?—”
“Okay.” She doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t dismiss it. Just squeezes my arm. “Okay.”
“You believe me?”
“I believe something is happening that we don’t understand yet.” She starts walking again, pulls me with her. “But right now? We focus on what we can prove. The owner. The connection. The rest?—”
“The rest can wait.”
“The rest can wait.” She pauses on the next landing. “Although for the record, if you get possessed by a dead woman, I’m calling an exorcist before I call your mom.”
“That’s actually the correct order of operations.”
“I know. I’ve thought about it extensively.”
“Of course you have.”
“Someone has to plan for the supernatural logistics. You’re too busy being haunted to think practically.”
Despite everything—the fear, the adrenaline, the impossible curtains—I almost laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m prepared. There’s a difference.”
We make it to the main floor. The bass hits like a physical force. Bodies everywhere. Heat and sweat and sound.
We weave through the crowd toward the exit. Someone spills a drink. Someone else grabs my arm trying to pull me toward the dance floor. I shake them off.
Alex is already pulling out her phone, squinting at the screen in the strobing lights.
“Corporate filings are public record,” she mutters, fingers flying. “LLCs, DBAs, registered agents?—”
“Can you get it tonight?”
“Can you get it tonight, she asks, like I’m not literally Philadelphia’s best forensic accountant?—”
“You work in accounts payable?—”
“With the skills of a forensic accountant. I’m manifesting.” She’s scrolling faster. “Give me ten minutes and the club’s entire ownership structure.”
“You’re the best.”
