She’d probably still not be talking to me.
Because I can’t even listen to a ghost, let alone listen to her.
I’ve been so busy, so distracted, so consumed with investigation and ghosts and performing normalcy that I haven’t even noticed one was missing. Haven’t thought about it. Haven’t looked for it.
Because I haven’t used them.
It’s been here for an entire month.
Sitting on this step. Evidence. Proof I was here that night. Proof I was in this stairwell at 2 a.m. when Marcus was confessing to Dom four floors up.
Did anyone notice?
Did Dom?
No—Dom never takes the stairs. He’s elevator-only. Too important for stairs.
But someone could have. Someone could have seen it. Picked it up. Wondered whose it was. Turned it in to lost and found. Shown it to Dom.
Someone could have connected it to me.
My hands are shaking. The earbud feels like it weighs a thousand pounds.
I give myself a second. Just one. One second to panic and process and calculate risk.
Because that’s all I have before Dom sends someone to find me. Before I’m late enough that it looks suspicious.
I can’t leave it here. Can’t put it back. That would be insane.
Can’t throw it away—what if someone sees me? What if there are cameras in this stairwell that I never noticed before?
I need to take it with me. Hide it. Deal with it later.
But where?
My pockets are too obvious. My bag is back at my desk. I don’t have anywhere to?—
Fuck it.
I shove the earbud down my bra. Right next to the ring. Evidence meets evidence. A dead woman’s ring and the proof I heard her killer confess.
I’m wearing a crime scene under my clothes.
Breathing through my teeth, I climb the last section of stairs. Push through the door onto Dom’s floor.
My heart still races. The earbud burns against my skin. Or maybe that’s the ring. Or maybe it’s just my entire nervous system on fire.
I paste on a smile as I approach Kathleen’s desk.
Kathleen. Dom’s receptionist since the dawn of time. Way past retirement age, takes frequent naps at her desk, occasionally forgets what decade she’s in. But she’s been with Dom since he opened this firm thirty years ago and she’ll probably die here. Literally. At her desk. Mid-nap.
Just as I’m walking past, she looks up from her crossword puzzle—same one she’s been working on for three years. Doesn’t even make eye contact. Just waves me through with one gnarled hand while filling in 7-across with the other.
I shake my head and keep walking. Knock on Dom’s door.
It opens before my knuckles finish the second knock.
And I come face to face with Marcus fucking Ashford.
