Page 26 of The CEO

My pulse quickens. “So it’s real? They exist—The Shadows?”

“I didn’t say that,” he replies instantly this time, his tone sharper. “Listen carefully, Eve. Whatever you think you’re on to, drop it. Knox operates in circles so far above our pay grades, they might as well be in a different fucking orbit.”

“But you know something?”

“What I know,” he says with deliberate emphasis, “is that reporters who look too closely at certain business operations in this city, or have probing queries about questionable deaths, tend to end up in your obituaries.”

The chill that runs through me has nothing to do with the temperature of my apartment. “Like natural deaths or strange accidents?”

“Jesus, Eve,” his voice turns urgent, “pleasetell me you haven’t mentioned this to anyone else?”

The knot in my stomach tightens. “I—I might have gone to Damien Knox directly. I needed to assess his reaction.”

“You—” he cuts himself off with what sounds like a strangle of curse words. “We need to talk in person. Not now since I have to head into a meeting, but this weekend?”

“Yeah, Sunday.”

“Be careful, Eve. More careful than you’ve ever been.” He disconnects before I can respond.

I stare at my phone, Reeves’ warning echoing in my head. Whatever I’ve stumbled into is clearly bigger and more dangerous than I initially suspected. The smart move would be to back away, admit I’m in way over my head, and return to my safe space of obituaries and unfulfilled dreams.

But I can’t shake the sneaking suspicion that even if that’s what I wanted to do, it’s far too late for that. Especially when I’ve already made up my mind that I’m attending the gala at Eden this weekend.

After hanging up, I return to my board. I’ve written obituaries for enough unexpected deaths to recognize patterns: three wealthy men, all with connections to Knox Industries, all dying suddenly after business disagreements with the company.

I pull up theTribune’s digital archives, searching for Knox Industries coverage over the past decade. Damien Knox’s face appears on the screen—that practiced, perfect smile that never quite reaches his eyes.

The doorbell rings, startling me, but then I remember the delivery order I placed almost an hour ago. But when I open the door, it’s not a delivery driver standing there.

“Reeves?” I ask, surprised. “I didn’t expect you until Sunday. What’s going on? You find anything out about Wyatt?” I ask, wondering what further information he discovered that would make him stop by.

“Eve,” he says without pleasantries, “got those records you asked about. The Wyatt case.”

Thomas Wyatt. The second obituary on my board. Fifty-one, apparent suicide, though I noted inconsistencies in the police report I managed to get my hands on.

“Find anything interesting?” I keep my voice neutral, not showing how surprised I am that he’s not trying to talk me out of anything.

He looks nervous, glancing past me into my building, then over his shoulder at the empty street. “Can I come in?”

I step aside, leading him back up the stairs to my apartment.

“Interesting is one word for it,” he whispers as we walk up the stairs. “His tox screen showed unusual compounds. Nothing illegal, but strange combinations of prescription medications. Could be nothing.”

“Or it could be something,” I finish. “Can I see the full report?”

“I shouldn’t—” he starts to reply, but as I open my apartment door and he steps inside, his eyes immediately see it. I watch as he moves directly to my investigation board. His face tightens when he sees what I’m working on.

“Jesus, Eve.” He turns to me, lowering his voice despite us being alone. “You’re serious about this Knox thing? Of all the people in Chicago to investigate . . .”

“What do you know about him?” I press.

He shakes his head. “Nothing concrete. Just whispers. Rumors among certain officers.” He hesitates. “Some cases involving people who crossed him get quietly closed. Evidence disappears. Witnesses recant.”

“So the police are corrupt.”

“It’s not that simple.” He runs a hand through his hair. “It’s like . . . there’s a shadow over certain cases. No one talks about it directly, but every cop knows which investigations to drop.”

My pulse quickens. “So you do know about The Shadows. What can you tell me?”

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