A serial killer sliding into my DMs while I sit here in a dandelion muumuu drinking wine through a straw.
“This is insane,” I finally say.
“Completely insane,” Alex agrees.
“I shook his hand just last week, and now he’s liking my Instagram photos.”
“And tomorrow you have to see him in person and pretend this is normal.”
“Fuck my life.”
“Fuck your life,” she echoes. Then, “But Dylan?”
“Yeah?”
“We have him now.” She gestures to the murder board. To the TV. To my phone buzzing with notifications. “He’s engaging with you. Following you. Messaging you. That’s evidence of contact. Of relationship building. And if he’s doing this to you, he probably did it to her too. To Dahlia. And maybe to others.”
I look at the murder board. At Elizabeth Short’s face standing in for a woman whose real name we don’t know. At Marcus’s photo pinned underWHO IS THE CRIMINAL?
My phone buzzes again.
We both stare at it.
“Should I look?” I ask.
“Absolutely not,” Alex says. “That is a problem for tomorrow Dylan.”
“Tomorrow Dylan is going to hate us.”
“Tomorrow Dylan always hates us.” She raises her wine glass, then stops. Sets it down. “Dylan.”
“What?”
“I’m scared.” She whispers it. “He’s messaging you. He’s in your phone. He’s learning about us. And tomorrow you have to see him in person and act like it’s fine.”
I set my glass down too. “I know.”
“I don’t know how to protect you from this.” Her voice cracks. “I can trace money and build presentations and make murder boards, but I can’t—” She gestures helplessly at my phone. “I can’t stop him from doing this. From getting inside your head.”
“You’re here.” I grab her hand. “That’s protection enough.”
“Is it?”
“It has to be.” I squeeze her fingers. “Because we’re not stopping. And we’re not running. Right?”
“Right.” She takes a shaky breath. “Dandelions.”
“Dandelions.” I pick up my wine glass again. “Now—to surviving Monday?”
She picks up hers and manages a small smile. “To surviving Monday.”
We clink glasses. Both of us crying a little. Both of us pretending we’re not.
We drink. The phone buzzes twice more, and we let it.
Outside, Philadelphia continues like nothing’s wrong. Like a woman isn’t missing. Like a killer isn’t building a parasocial relationship with his next potential victim.
Two women in muumuus. That’s what stands between Marcus Ashford and whatever he’s planning next.
