She steers me toward a cluster of women near the windows. Older. Sharp-eyed. Watching the room the way I’m watching it—cataloging, assessing, surviving.
“Patricia, this is Dylan Wells,” Alaina says. “She’s handling the City Controller transition.”
Patricia Joyce. State Senator from the Northeast. I recognize her from the news—women’s safety legislation, domestic violence reform. Sharp eyes that miss nothing.
She takes in my dress, my positioning with Alaina. Something passes between the two women silently.
“Ms. Wells.” Patricia shakes my hand. Holds it. “Alaina’s giving you the tour?”
“She’s been very generous.”
“Alaina’s good at identifying who needs... guidance.” Patricia’s eyes hold mine. Steady. Knowing. “My daughter would have been about your age.”
The words land somewhere behind my ribs. Sharp. Final.
“I lost her five years ago.” Patricia’s voice doesn’t waver. “Domestic violence. The ex walked.”
Six words. No softening. No euphemism. Just fact, delivered like testimony.
I think of my father. How I haven’t visited his grave since I was twelve. How I still can’t make myself walk through those cemetery gates because standing at his headstone means admitting he’s really gone.
Patricia Joyce visits her daughter’s grave. Has to. Because her daughter is dead and the man who killed her walks free.
My throat closes. That automatic response—the one I’ve had since the stairwell, since my body learned that some truths are too big to speak.
“I’m sorry,” I manage. The words feel small. Pathetic.
“Don’t be sorry.” Patricia’s hand tightens on mine. Brief. Fierce. “Be smart.”
She presses something into my palm. A business card.
“My direct line. Not the office.” A pause. “Day or night.”
Before I can respond, Patricia is guiding me toward a younger woman in a sharp black suit. Alert eyes. Already reaching into her pocket.
“Maria, this is the young woman I mentioned.”
Maria Santos shakes my hand and presses two cards into my palm in the same motion. Practiced. Seamless.
“My direct line and my clerk’s. Evenings and weekends.” She holds my gaze. “Very discreet.”
And then I’m being passed again. A touch on my elbow from a woman I don’t recognize—councilwoman, Third District, according to her murmured introduction—who leans in close.
“The Kimmel Center has a valet tunnel exit. Staff entrance on the south side. Most people don’t know.”
A card presses into my hand.
Another woman. Union rep’s wife. Firm handshake.
“The Wawa on Broad and Walnut. Twenty-four hours. Well-lit. Security cameras everywhere.”
No card this time. Just information. I memorize it.
“Judge Patterson,” Alaina murmurs as we pass a silver-haired woman deep in conversation. “Saturday dockets are always light. Especially for emergency orders. She knows to expect unusual requests.”
I’m being handed through a network.
Each woman adding something to my arsenal. Cards and phone numbers and escape routes accumulating in my clutch like ammunition.
