Page 25 of The CEO

“Wait!” I place my glass down, pulling up the archive of obituaries I’ve written over the last few years. I scan through them, pulling out the ones that had seemed odd to me at the time.

We call them the “dead files”—the obituaries that don’t come in from friends or family members with directions on what should be included. Instead, they’re deaths that have come across our desks with little explanation, reported by the police or coroner. Then there are the ones that are just plain perplexing, including rich businessmen dying under questionable circumstances with little to no investigation.

I filter out the obits that are most likely unclaimed prisoners, unhoused people, or those found on the streets with no identification. I also exclude those who were left behind at senior living facilities to die alone. I scan through the remaining few, narrowing it down further to the ones that seemed odd when I wrote them.

When you do nothing but write about death day in and day out, you start to pick up on patterns. Sometimes they’re nothing, but sometimes, they leave a lasting feeling in my gut—one that tells me there’s more to the story.

I spread the obituaries across my kitchen table, creating a timeline with sticky notes. Three men dead within six months—all with business connections to Knox Industries. The pattern’s too clear to ignore.

My finger traces the edge of Gregory Mendel’s obit—heart attack at forty-two. No previous health issues. I grab my phone and scroll through my address book until I find the contact at the morgue I used to bother relentlessly when researching Tia’s murder. I hit the call button, not holding my breath that I’ll get much of an answer to my questions.

“Cook County morgue, Hal speaking.”

“Hal, it’s Eve Thorne. How have you been?” I let out a nervous laugh, which is met by his excited gasp.

“Eve! Damn, I’d wondered what had happened to you! Just fell off the face of the earth after that last investigation you undertook. How are you?”

“I’m good.” I hesitate, not wanting to sound like I’m in too much of a rush, but I am. “I won’t lie, though . . . I kind of need a big favor.”

He chuckles. “I’m not surprised; it’s not like I expect social calls at the morgue. What can I help with?”

“I need everything you have on a Gregory Mendel from the past year.”

“Sure thing. Gregory Mendel,” he repeats the name to himself, the sound of computer keys tapping in the background. “Okay, got him pulled up. The investment banker?”

“That’s him.”

“What’re you digging into now?”

I hesitate. “Just following a hunch. Usual protocol. Meet you after work to get the info?” Since this isn’t a sanctioned investigation, just like in the past, it’s not exactly legal for Hal to give me information on the dead. So we meet by his car and he gives me printouts of whatever information he can find.

“You know it. See you then.”

I hang up and check my watch. Two hours until Hal’s shift ends. Two hours to organize what I already have.

The corkboard on my wall is filling up with connections. Red threads link obituaries to newspaper clippings to financial reports I’ve pulled from public records. It’s not enough—not nearly enough to take to my editor—but it’s a start.

I pin up another article: “Knox Industries Acquires Mendel Finance Group.” The acquisition happened three weeks after Gregory Mendel’s death. The company bought it for pennies on the dollar after its stock plummeted following his “unexpected passing.”

I pace back and forth in my living room, my thumb hovering over the number I only use for a genuine emergencies: Detective Michael Reeves, Chicago PD.

We met four years ago during my investigation into the young woman’s murder that nobody else seemed to care about. He was the only officer who took my evidence seriously, even though his superiors ultimately shut down any further questions into the matter.

“Reeves,” he answers on the fourth ring, his voice gruff and short.

“Hey, Detective, it’s Eve Thorne. I’m sorry to bug you again, but I need some information.”

There’s a pause. “About your parents’ deaths?”

“I need—I need some information on someone unrelated to their deaths. Thomas Wyatt. Off the record. And you told me if I ever needed anything . . .” I say, hoping selfishly that the guilt trip works.

Another pause, this one longer. “This about another obituary?”

“Potentially.” I hesitate, weighing how much to reveal. “Have you ever heard of something called The Shadows?” I wait a few seconds to say the next part. “And if there’s any connection to Damien Knox?”

The silence stretches so long this time, I think we’ve been disconnected. But just before I’m about to say something, I hear his whispered voice.

“Where did you hear that name?”

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