Thirty days.
One month.
His office is on the third floor. Corner office. Windows overlooking Broad Street.
It’s nicer than Dom’s. Newer. More modern. Like they renovated recently just for him.
Desk. Leather chair. Bookcases lined with books he’s probably never read. Conference table. All very official. Very City Controller.
And in the corner—a second desk.
Smaller. Facing his.
“That’s you,” Marcus says, gesturing. “Right there. Close. Where I can...” He pauses. Smiles that smile. “...keep an eye on things.”
I’m going to be in this room with him. Every day. For a month.
“Computer’s already set up. Login credentials are on the sticky note. Phone works. You’ve got access to the shared drive.” He’s showing me around like a realtor. Proud of his space. “Any questions?”
A thousand questions.
Why did you kill her?
How many others have there been?
Does Dom know you’re ignoring his warning to stay away from me?
“No, I think I’m all set.”
“Great.” His phone buzzes. He checks it. Frowns. “Shit. Council vote in ten minutes. Budget committee.”
He grabs a folder from his desk. Then another. Then a stack of papers at least three inches thick and shoves them at me.
“Review these. Flag anything that needs my attention. Compliance filings, mostly. Administrative law stuff. Should keep you busy for a few hours.”
I take the papers. Heavy. Dense. Boring government bureaucracy that will take hours to sort through.
He’s already at the door. Already halfway gone.
Then he stops.
Turns back.
That smile again.
“Oh, and Dylan?”
I look up. Meet those too-bright blue eyes.
“Don’t bother looking for anything interesting.” He says it casually. Lightly. Like he’s commenting on the weather. “I don’t keep anything sensitive in here.”
What the fuck?
“I’m very careful,” he continues, “about what I leave lying around.”
That smile. That knowing smile that says I know exactly what you’re thinking and you’re not as smart as you think you are.
Then he’s gone.
