They don’t know you. They know the performance. Just like I’m performing right now.
“You know what’s funny?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “People recognize me by the coats now. The fur coats. They’ve become my signature.”
My stomach sours.
“I have four of them. Each one has a story.” He’s stroking the collar of the cream one he’s wearing. Petting it. “This one was my grandfather’s. A family heirloom. I had it restored last year. Cost a fortune, but it was worth it.”
The thing Dahlia probably grabbed at while you were strangling her. The thing that might still have her DNA in the fibers if you didn’t have it cleaned well enough.
“The other three—there’s a black one, a brown one, and this incredible silver one—they’re all vintage. Real fur, obviously. None of that fake shit.” He says it with disdain. “People try to give me grief about it sometimes. Animal rights, whatever. But these are art. History. You can’t replicate this quality with synthetic materials.”
You wore one of these when you killed her. Which one was it?
“I’m actually kind of famous for them now.The guy in the fur coat.That’s how people describe me. My brand, you know?” He grins at me. Proud. “What do you think? Do you like this one?”
He’s asking me to compliment the coat he might have worn to murder someone.
“It’s very distinctive,” I manage.
“Right? That’s what I’m saying. Distinctive. Memorable. People see the coat and they know it’s me.”
Exactly. People see the coat and they remember.
“You know what’s crazy?” He’s changed lanes three times in thirty seconds. “The dating thing. So many women are interested. Like, my DMs are insane. Hundreds of messages a day.”
I grip the door handle tighter.
“But no one special yet. No one who really gets me, you know?” He glances at me. Too long. “Everyone wants to date the City Controller. The influencer. The guy with two million followers. But who wants to date Marcus?”
Is this a question? Am I supposed to answer?
“I’m looking for someone smart. Ambitious. Someone who understands what I’m trying to build.” Another look. Direct. Intentional. “Someone who can keep up with me intellectually.”
Ohno.
“That’s why I’m excited to work with you, Dylan. You’re not like the other women who throw themselves at me. You have substance. Goals. You’re going to pass the bar. Become a real lawyer.”
The way he saysreal lawyermakes my skin crawl.
“That’s really attractive to me. Intelligence. Ambition. Someone I can actually have a conversation with.”
We’ve been in this car for fifteen minutes and you haven’t asked me a single question about myself.
This is how it works—men like him don’t need to know you to decide who you are. They just need you to fit the role they’ve already written.
Smart girl. Ambitious girl. Girl who understands what I’m building.
Every woman is an audition for a part in their story, and they’re always the fucking hero.
“I think we’re going to work really well together.” His hand leaves the steering wheel. Reaches toward me.
I flinch. Can’t help it.
He freezes. Hand hovering. Then laughs. “Sorry, sorry. Was just going to adjust your seatbelt. It’s twisted.”
It’s not twisted. I know it’s not twisted.
He puts his hand back on the wheel. But that smile stays. That knowing smile.
