Page 45 of The CEO

“I’m working on something important; it’s bigger than just obituaries.”

“This better not be—” He sighs heavily. “Eve, I understand ambition, but you’re treading into territory you have no business entering . . . and you’re doing it without institutional backing, I might add.”

“What if I told you I have actual evidence surrounding four suspicious deaths? Evidence strong enough to justify a formal investigation?”

In truth, I don’t havethatmuch solid evidence. In fact, I only have leads and a hunch, but I also know I’m not wrong. The evidence is there, so I just have to find it.

The silence stretches long enough that I check to see if the call disconnected.

“Brian?”

“I’m here.” His voice is cautious. “Where are you right now?”

“At home. Why?”

“Don’t say anything else, and don’t discuss this over the phone with anyone. Don’t email anything, and don’t save any evidence you think you might have to any shared servers.” The urgency in his tone is unlike anything I’ve heard from him before. “If you have something concrete, and I meanconcrete,Eve,” he pauses for dramatic effect, “then bring it to the office tomorrow and we’ll talk in person, off the record.”

He ends the call abruptly, leaving me staring at my phone with renewed unease. I glance at the gun again. The responsible course of action would be to compile the evidence I do have and try to find at least one thing that will make Brian see this as credible.

But what happens if he does think it’s credible? Is this where he steps in and hands my story off to someone else . . . someone he feels is more credible to report on the story while I’m left to return to my safe-yet-unfulfilling job of writing obituaries?

“He wouldn’t do that,” I say the words out loud as if they’re going to convince me, but the truth is, hewoulddo that.

Instead of taking the responsible course of action, I close my laptop and reach for my purse. If Damien is watching me, I need to understand how. If I’m being monitored, I need to know the extent of it. Because if he’s listening to my phone calls, I know damn well he won’t let me make that meeting with Brian tomorrow.

I grab my keys, deciding that the only way I can clear my head at the moment is with a stiff glass of whiskey. But just before I clasp the door handle, I turn back around and look at the gun. I don’t know why, but for some reason, I grab it and stuff it into my purse.

The bar I choose feels crowded for a weeknight, but then again, it’s not my usual crowd, so maybe this is normal. I make my way to the back, grabbing a stool at the far end of the bar. I nurse the whiskey the bartender handed me a moment ago, the burn matching my internal discomfort as I mentally review everything I’ve learned about Damien. The puzzle pieces fit together, I know they do. I just haven’t found the right position yet.

Vigilante justice funded by a corporation and carried out by professionals. The concept sounds horrifying, but the reality is, sometimes legal justice isn’t enough, and many times, there isn’t any justice at all. I find myself considering the cases I’ve encountered where justice wasn’t even considered, including the young woman whose murderer walked free despite the evidence I took to the police. Or my friend Nadine, whose abusive ex received mere probation after putting her in the hospital. Even my parents’ deaths were ruled an accident despite inconsistencies in the police report that haunted me for years.

“Waiting for someone?”

I glance up to find a man sliding onto the barstool beside me. He’s in his mid-thirties, wearing business attire, with carefully trimmed nails and styled hair.

“Just having a quiet drink,” I reply, hoping the dismissal is obvious as I turn back to my glass.

“Seems like a shame for someone as beautiful as you to be drinking alone.” He signals the bartender, ordering a drink before turning back to me. “I’m James, by the way.”

“Not interested, James.” I shift slightly away, making my disinterest physically clear this time.

He laughs, seemingly unbothered by the rejection. He’s probably one of thoseit’s a numbers gameguys—hitting on several women during the night knowing one will eventually give in.

“Fair enough. Just thought a woman under pressure who deals with the dead all day might want some company to cheer her up.”

I freeze, his assessment too on the nose to be a random encounter.Is this one of Damien’s goons?

“Who are you, really?” I ask, abandoning any pretense.

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Someone who’s noticed you’ve been asking questions about things better left unexplored.”

The confirmation sends fear coursing through me. Would Damien do this—send a strange man to rattle my nerves and threaten me? Something about it feels off. Not that I have Damien figured out by any means, but this feels . . . different.

“I’m a journalist; it’s my job.”

“Is that what you’d call what you’ve been doing? Journalism?” His posture remains casual, but his voice has an edge. “Looks more like you’re poking into private matters that don’t concern you, without understanding the consequences.”

I glance around, assessing an escape route, potential witnesses, or anything that might provide security if this conversation takes a turn. The bar remains somewhat crowded, which makes me feel a little at ease. Most people, no matter how unhinged, aren’t going to make a scene in a public place like this.

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