“The bathroom attendant,” Alaina mentions as we pass the restroom. “Ms. Ruth. Twenty years at the Bellevue. She keeps phone chargers and cab fare in the attendant closet. For emergencies.”
Twenty years. Ms. Ruth has been here twenty years, keeping emergency supplies for women who might need to run.
How many times has that closet been needed?
My paralegal brain is cataloging without meaning to.
Patricia Joyce—lost daughter, domestic violence, ex walked. Maria Santos—Deputy DA, emergency injunctions, after-hours availability. Judge Patterson—Saturday dockets.
It’s a witness list. A resource document. The kind of file I’d build for a client.
Except I’m the client. And these women are preparing my case before I even know I need one.
“Alaina.” My voice comes out wrong. Too quiet. “What is this?”
She doesn’t answer directly. Just guides me toward a quieter corner, away from the crowd.
“Did you know,” she says, “that Marcus holds these fundraisers monthly? Always here. Always the same crowd.” Her voice drops to barely audible. “The dresses are always beautiful. The women wearing them are always so young.”
Monthly fundraisers. Beautiful dresses. Young women.
The joke I might have made five minutes ago is gone. Dead. Rotting in my throat.
“What happened to them?” I whisper. “The other women?”
“Some transfer to DC. Some take jobs out of state. Some just...” She takes a long drink of her whiskey. “Disappear from the scene.”
But her tone says something different. Says they didn’t transfer or move or disappear voluntarily.
“How many?”
“I stopped counting after the third confirmed. There may be more.” She pauses. “There are probably more. Women who weren’t connected. Weren’t in our circles. Women we didn’t know to count.”
Thethird.
“If you know—” My voice comes out smaller than I want. “If you’ve been watching—why didn’t anyone?—”
“Prove it?” Alaina’s smile is bitter. Exhausted. The smile of a woman who’s been fighting a war no one else can see. “With what evidence? Young women who conveniently accept promotions in other cities? Families who are told their daughters simply moved on? Police reports that never get filed because the girl’s phone pinged in Virginia a week after she disappeared?”
“But you’re the Speaker of the House. You have power?—”
“I have power.” She says it like a diagnosis. Like a disease. “I have power in a system that was built to protect men like Marcus. You know how many people decide bail, warrants, and motions on Monday mornings? How many city contracts flow through his office now that he’s Controller? How many developers need his audits to come back clean?”
I look around the Grand Ballroom. At the crystal chandeliers and the five-thousand-dollar plates. At the ward leaders who deliver votes. At the judges who sign Marcus’s warrants and the council members who approve his budgets.
“It’s not just Marcus,” I say slowly. The realization settling into my bones like ice. “It’s not just Dom.”
“It’s Philadelphia.” She says it like a eulogy. “We’ve been trading women for power since the city was founded. Marcus is just the one who’s sloppy about it.”
“Sloppy?”
“He keeps trophies. Builds narratives. Can’t help himself.” Her eyes drift across the room to an older man—Main Line polish, Palm Beach tan. “His father was more careful. His grandfather knew how to be invisible.”
His father. His grandfather.
Three generations of men who learned that money and connections can make anything disappear. Including women.
“That man,” I glance in the direction of the man with the tan. “Who is he?”
