Page 33 of The Tracker

She tilted her head and smiled. “You’re right, I did.”

Dawson didn’t move, but his presence rippled through the room like a dropped stone. One man flinched as his gaze swept the room.

“Now, unless you’re here to trade thinly veiled threats, I suggest we begin,” she said.

There was a beat of silence. Then papers rustled, screens flicked on. The meeting lurched into motion.

They went through operational forecasts, refinery delays, shipment reroutes—all delivered in monotone, as though Peter’s body hadn’t still been cooling when the early morning agendas were updated. But the undercurrent was clear: She had only just discovered Peter had been a corporate spy, feeding information to outside interests. And with his body found in his office—her letter opener shoved between his shoulder blades—the pressure on her now was suffocating.

She parried every loaded question with precision, her mind calculating each answer like a chess master. When Fielder asked if the press leak last week was an accident or a diversion, she smiled coolly. "Neither. It was a correction—one that let our competitors reveal themselves before we had to." A calculated pause. "And it worked."

A flicker of discomfort crossed his face before he looked away. Every question was an opening, every answer a step forward. She stayed three moves ahead, already anticipating the next ten. Once, even a pointed inquiry might have made her squirm, searching for her footing. Now, the fire in her chest didn’t burn her—it tempered her.

She remembered the first time she’d sat in this same room, tongue-tied and deferential, desperate to meet her father’s expectations without upsetting the fragile egos surrounding her. Back then, she’d second-guessed every move, hesitated before speaking, measured each word for safety. But now the hesitation was gone. The memory only sharpened her resolve, a reminder of how far she’d come. She didn’t just sit, she owned her place at the table.

Evangeline wasn’t a board member, but in the wake of the murder, crisis communications had become the front line, and she was the one holding it. One board member shifted in his chair, another dropped his gaze. Even Bradford’s ever-present smirk faltered, if only for a moment. The room had changed—and they felt it.

Now, she didn’t flinch—didn’t blink. This time, she met their gazes without apology, each word measured, deliberate, honed like a weapon. She could feel the difference in herself, in the stillness of her spine and the cool clarity in her chest. Whatever innocence had once lingered was gone, burned away by betrayal and tempered into something ruthless. She saw the shift happen—when their doubt turned to calculation. Not that she was weak. But that she might be dangerous.

Bradford was the first to make his move. “There’s a rumor,” he said, fingers tapping an idle rhythm against his tablet. “That Peter had concerns. About certain… decisions being made. That he’d begun recording board conversations.”

Her pulse didn’t spike. She didn’t blink. But beneath the practiced calm, her muscles coiled, every nerve sharpened by the weight of what was coming. “Then I suggest you watch your tone, Mr. Mason. If there are recordings, they’d likely show who he believed was worth watching.”

The smirk died on his face. Just a twitch, but it pleased her.

When the meeting adjourned, she stood without another word. Dawson and Lachlan flanked her as she crossed the polished floor.

“You good?” Dawson asked quietly.

“No,” she said. “But I’m sharper.”

Down in her father’s private office, the air smelled the same—aged leather, cedar polish, and a faint metallic tang beneath it, like the ghost of tension clinging to the walls. Her fingers drifted over the edge of the old desk, brushing against a brass paperweight shaped like a compass—her father’s favorite, always perfectly aligned to true north. It still bore the fine scratches from his restless hands during late-night strategy sessions. She closed her eyes for a moment, the scent of his cologne—a warm sandalwood blend—rising faintly from the top drawer. Every sensory detail pressed against her chest, sharp and urgent, dredging up memories she didn’t have time to process.

The antique desk stood untouched. Except… she paused.

The drawer where her father kept his personal files—the one she’d only ever opened with his permission—was slightly ajar. Her breath caught. She crouched beside it, the familiar scent ofcedar and aged paper rising to meet her. Her fingertips brushed the smooth wood.

“Dawson.”

He was already moving, silent and lethal.

Evangeline reached for the drawer, slid it open. The files were there. But not all of them.

Her stomach dropped—a sharp twist low in her belly, as if the floor itself had tilted beneath her. Her pulse skipped, breath catching as cold realization crawled up her spine. She looked up at Dawson. “We’ve got a breach.”

He spoke into comms without hesitation. “Lachlan, seal the floor. No one leaves.”

Evangeline stared down at the empty space in the drawer, the faint ghost of dust outlines where papers had been. This wasn’t sloppy. It was strategic. Just enough taken to send a message. Just enough left to make her wonder what she didn’t know.

The pressure behind her eyes sharpened.

They were inside. Inside her company. Inside her life. Inside her trust.

She turned toward the bookshelf, fingertips trailing lightly along the spines—rows of tomes once off-limits when she was younger. Her father still kept those same books here, untouched but not forgotten. The dust whispered of neglect, but also of secrets.

Evangeline remembered sneaking into this office once, years ago, and being caught thumbing through an old ledger—how her father had gently taken it from her hands, smiled, and said there was nothing in it she ‘needed to worry her pretty little head about.’ The memory surfaced now, drawn up by something in this moment that felt like a hinge between past and present—a quiet reminder of the unspoken boundaries that had always defined her place in the company, and the careful, distant trusther father maintained, even now, unreachable on the far side of the world, chasing a deal worth billions.

She hesitated at a familiar volume—dark leather, its edges worn smooth from years of handling. Her breath caught. Her father had always favored this one, often pulling it out when they’d talked strategy late at night. Was she reaching for it out of habit—or instinct? Her pulse quickened as she pulled it free, the weight grounding her even as adrenaline surged. Inside was a flash drive. She popped it into the USB slot on the encrypted terminal and keyed in the password.

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