“Whether he’s paying Dom directly or through shell companies.”
“Exactly!” She’s almost smiling now. That feral investigative smile. “You’ll have the exact kind of evidence we need.”
“I’ll also be alone with a serial killer on a regular basis.”
“Well, yeah. But you’ll be documenting him. Very aggressively. With spreadsheets.”
“That’s your solution? Spreadsheets?”
“Spreadsheets are my love language. You know this.”
Despite everything, I almost laugh. “You’re insane.”
“And you performed today. You walked in there and shook his hand and smiled and he bought it completely. You’re good at this. Better than you think.”
“I dissociated so hard I left my body.”
“And that’s a survival skill.” Alex squeezes my hands tighter. “That’s how you’ll do it. You’ll be his paralegal. Professional. Competent. Invisible. And while you’re playing invisible, you’ll document everything.”
I want to argue. Want to tell her it’s not that simple. That I can’t just perform my way through working with a murderer.
But I did today. I alreadydid.
“Alex, he looked at me like I was wife material.” I pull my hands away, wrapping my arms around myself. “Not like he wanted to fuck me in a closet—though there was that too—but like he was calculating my usefulness. Smart, beautiful, about to pass the bar, good for his career trajectory. Like I could be the next thing he owns after the fur coat and the City Controller title and the body in the alley.”
“That’s—” She stops. Searches for words. “That’s worse somehow.”
“It’s so much worse. Because nothing I said would deter him. Every redirect I tried, every professional boundary I attempted to set—he just smiled like I was playing hard to get.”
“Okay but counterpoint,” Alex says. “You’re so far out of his league it’s not even funny. You’re like... a different species. He’s a serial killer and you’re?—”
“Also investigating a serial killer, so arguably we’re both making terrible life choices.”
“Fair. But yours are motivated by justice. His are motivated by being a sociopath in a fur coat.”
“That’s not actually comforting.”
“I’m workshopping it.” She pauses. “The point is—you’re better than him. Smarter. And he has no idea you’re about to destroy his entire life.”
“If we survive long enough to do it.”
“When. When we survive long enough to do it.”
“I have this feeling in the pit of my stomach that is screaming at me to run as fast and as far away from this situation as possible.” My voice drops to barely a whisper. “Every instinct I have is saying get out, get out now, before it’s too late.”
I could do it. Could call in sick tomorrow. Could quit. Could pack up the loft and disappear to Austin or Seattle or anywhere that isn’t here.
Could let Dahlia stay buried. Let someone else fight this fight. Let someone else risk their life for a dead woman with no name.
But I won’t.
Because running means she disappears completely. And I can’t live with that.
“So what are you going to do?” Alex asks. She rests her head on my shoulder. Her breathing syncs with mine. Steady. Present. Here.
I’m quiet for a long time. Listening to the traffic. The car alarm finally stops. Someone laughs inside the building—the sound floating out through an open window.
Normal life. Continuing. Like always.
