I want to believe it. Want to believe I’m made of something stronger than this trembling, nauseous mess currently holding herself together with duct tape and spite.
But the fact of the matter is—I’ve never been in this position before.
I’ve never had to work one-on-one with a murderer. Never existed in a space where smiling at a predator was part of my job description. Never had nightmares about this specific scenario because it was too outlandish to even imagine.
It’s inconceivable.
And yet somehow, I’m going to do it.
Because not finding out what happened to Dahlia will haunt me if I don’t.
And I know—realistically I know—that’s probably not even her name. It might have been the club. It might have been something he misheard or misremembered in his panic.
But I don’t know what else to call her.
Dahlia.
The woman in the alley. The woman whose ring is around my neck right now. The woman who deserved so much better than what she got.
“You’re right.” My voice cracks. I swipe at the tears on my cheeks, but more keep coming. “She’s one of us now.”
Another tear falls. Then another. I can’t stop them.
Stupid emotions. Stupid body. Stupid breakdown in a courtyard that’s finally, mercifully empty. Even the smokers couldn’t handle this cold.
But I can’t help it.
Because Dahlia—or whoever she was—deserved friends who would have shown up for her. Who would have noticed she was missing. Who would have reported it. Who would have cared enough to make noise.
And she didn’t have that. She had nobody. Just a killer in a fur coat and a paralegal who heard about her death secondhand and couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
“She is, isn’t she,” Alex agrees quietly. Her hand finds mine, squeezes. “So now she’s got us. Two idiots with a murder board and questionable survival instincts.”
“Very questionable.”
“The worst instincts, honestly. Most people would have stopped at overheard murder confession.”
“Most people are smarter than us.”
“Significantly smarter.” She bumps my shoulder. “But they’re not her friends. We are.”
I can breathe again. Just barely. But it’s something.
“I believed the facts, by the way. But I should have believed your fear earlier. When you said you couldn’t survive this—I should have understood that was real too.”
Something in my chest cracks. She heard me. Really heard me.
Because she’s right—I’ve been scared this entire time, but I kept performing like I wasn’t. Even with her.
“I didn’t believe my own fear either,” I admit quietly. “I kept thinking if I just stayed logical, if I just kept moving forward, the fear would go away. But it didn’t.”
“No.” She squeezes my hand. “It doesn’t go away when the danger is real.”
“You believe me now though. About all of it. The confession, the ring, the—” I swallow hard. “The supernatural stuff.”
“I believe you,” she says it firmly. No hesitation. “All of it. Even the parts that don’t make sense yet.”
I lean into her, resting my head on her shoulder. The way I’ve been doing since we were twelve. Since dandelions and wishes and playground promises. “Thank you.”
