“Dylan—” Alex pulls over. Some side street in Center City. “Dylan, what does it say?”
I hand her the note. Can’t speak. Can’t do anything but sit here shaking and crying in a dress that costs more than my rent, wearing a dead woman’s ring, finally understanding.
It was a rescue.
The whole thing. The DA story, the ethics violation, Maria’s official tone, Patricia’s poker face—all of it was performance. Designed to fool Marcus. Designed to give me cover.
They never broke character because they couldn’t. Because Marcus has eyes everywhere. Because one crack in the facade and he’d know. And if he knew?—
“Holy shit.” Alex’s voice is barely a whisper. “Dylan. They haveprotocolsfor this.”
Protocols.
For rescuing women from fundraisers.
That’s a thing. That exists. Because this happens often enough that they needed to build a system. Emergency contacts and escape routes and politicians who can fake a DA investigation on fifteen minutes’ notice.
“How many women?” I hear myself say. “How many women didn’t have this? Didn’t have the business cards? Didn’t have anyone watching?”
Dahlia didn’t have this.
The thought hits me like a physical blow. No best friend waiting in a blue sedan. No state rep with a cover story. No note pressed into her palm as she walked to her death.
Just Marcus. And that elevator. And whatever waited on the 19th floor.
And a family who still thinks she moved to DC.
“Dylan.” Alex reaches for my face.
I flinch.
Can’t help it. Her hand near my face—any hand near my face—and my body screams NO before my brain catches up.
She pulls back. Hurt flashing across her face before she can hide it.
“Sorry.” I whisper. “I’m sorry, I just?—”
“Don’t.” Her voice cracks. Fierce and terrified. “Don’t you dare apologize.”
We sit in silence. The heat blasting. My teeth still chattering.
My hip throbs where Marcus held me. I press my hand against it through the dress. Feel the bruises forming under my palm.
“He’s not supposed to be near me,” I say. “Dom told him. In the stairwell.Do not go near her.Direct order.”
Alex’s hands tighten on the wheel. “And tonight he had his hands on you for three hours.”
“Yeah.”
“So either Dom doesn’t know how bad it’s gotten?—”
“Or Dom knows and can’t stop him.”
We sit with that. The heat blasting. My teeth still chattering.
Dom is the only person Marcus is supposed to fear. The man who buries his bodies. The man who’s kept him out of prison for years. The man who saiddo not go near herlike it was a command, not a request.
And Marcus is ignoring him. For me.
