Page 32 of The Tracker

They were a reckoning.

And whatever came next, they’d face it together—focused, relentless, and done playing by anyone else’s rules.

11

EVANGELINE

Evangeline stood before the smoked-glass doors of Shaw Petrochemical's main headquarters, the cold gleam of reinforced steel and bulletproof glass a far cry from the warmth her father still carried, even as CEO of the company he’d built from nothing. She tightened her grip on the leather strap of her handbag, her knuckles white against the supple brown. Dawson and Lachlan flanked her in practiced formation, their presence silent but unmistakable. Shaw Petrochemical’s tower wasn’t the tallest in San Antonio, but it loomed this morning, hostile and angular in the sun.

Gone were the soft echoes of laughter in the lobby, the scent of fresh coffee wafting from the café. A new security checkpoint now stood in place of the welcome kiosk, manned by a uniformed guard Evangeline didn’t recognize. The receptionist—a woman who used to greet her by name—kept her eyes trained on her screen, her jaw clenched tight. Even the plants looked neglected, their leaves browned at the edges. The building no longer felt like home—it felt like a front.

Now, there was only silence, stiff nods, and the hum of static in her earpiece. Eyes followed her—some with fear, others with suspicion. Peter’s murder had sent shockwaves through thecompany, and her presence here—barefaced, unapologetic—sent fresh ripples through already troubled waters.

Inside the elevator, the silence wasn’t just from the security detail surrounding her—Dawson at her side, Gavin monitoring from above, Jesse coordinating from the server room—it echoed from within. Her stomach fluttered—not with nerves; she’d burned through those—but with the taut hum of anticipation. This was a low simmer, a steady alertness.

The car climbed with mechanical precision, each soft lurch winding her tighter. She found herself remembering the last words Peter had said to her just three days ago, before she’d uncovered the truth—his false concern, his easy smile, the way he’d leaned in too close as if they shared something conspiratorial. She’d taken him at face value then. Foolishly. The memory curdled now, laced with the acidic sting of betrayal. Her jaw tightened.

She could still hear his voice, casual and calculated, telling her the company needed 'fresh eyes' on the narrative. She hadn’t known he meant feeding that narrative to outsiders. Floor by floor, the pressure mounted, drawing her toward a confrontation she no longer dreaded but met with cold resolve. She noticed the sterile scent of filtered air, the faint hum of machinery, the sterile wash of LED lighting overhead. Her reflection in the mirrored panel wasn’t polished perfection—it was razor-edged control, cold composure honed by betrayal.

The silence pressed in, but she welcomed it, letting it steel her resolve. Every inch of her skin felt tight, awareness prickling across her shoulders as though she were being watched by ghosts. The faint vibration beneath her heels marked their steady ascent, each floor passed a relentless drumbeat counting down to confrontation. Overhead lights shifted as they rose, casting harsh angles across the mirrored walls and distorting her reflection into something sharper.

Something harder. It was a transformation she both feared and welcomed.

“Executives are gathered in Conference Room Four,” Lachlan murmured. “Gavin has eyes on the upper floors. Jesse’s in the server room. You’re covered.”

“I know,” she said, her voice sharper than she intended. She drew in a breath and forced the edge down. “Thank you.”

The mirrored walls of the elevator reflected her image: sharp suit, polished heels, a tight chignon that dared anyone to underestimate her. Gone was the cotton softness of Dawson’s shirt, the vulnerability of last night’s grief. This was war paint.

“You’re sure you want to do this?” Dawson asked from her right, his low voice steady.

She glanced at him, her expression unreadable. “Yes.”

He nodded once. “Then I’ve got your back.”

The elevator chimed. Doors opened. The tension in the hallway hit her like a slap—quiet, bristling, heavy with the stink of barely suppressed panic. The conference room door was already ajar. Someone had been too impatient to wait.

She stepped inside, and the hum of low conversation died.

There were nine of them, spread along the sleek obsidian table like chess pieces. Bradford lounged with calculated ease, his fingers steepled as though already envisioning his next move. Fielder’s thin lips were pressed into a line, eyes flitting from her to the door and back again, like he wanted to speak but lacked the nerve. One woman—Newell—scribbled furiously in a notepad without looking up, the rapid scratch of her pen betraying a nervous energy she was clearly trying to mask. Every posture, every glance, was a tell. And Evangeline read them all.

Her father’s seat stood conspicuously empty at the head—he had yet to return from Nigeria with its notoriously unreliable communications system, He was still unreachable, whether for optics, control, or caution, she wasn’t sure. Evangeline didn’tflinch as she walked past it and took the one to the right—her seat. The chair creaked softly as she sat. Dawson remained behind her, watchful and silent, a living warning.

“We didn’t expect you back so soon,” said Mark Fielder, one of the oldest board members, voice thin and papery, like he’d been smoking since the Reagan administration.

“No,” she said. “I imagine you didn’t.”

Another man leaned forward, fingers steepled. Bradford Mason. He’d always struck her as overly fond of his own voice. “A tragedy, what happened to Peter. And so… targeted.”

His eyes glittered with implication.

Evangeline met them head-on. “Yes. Tragedy implies it was senseless. This was calculated.”

“You think you were the target?” Fielder asked.

“I don’t think,” she replied. “I know.”

A soft chuckle. Too soft. Bradford again. “And so you came here with armed thugs in tow.”

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