Page 7 of The CEO

I sigh, reaching for the folder—that hopeless dread starting to settle over me. But I decide to give it one last shot.

“I think Damien Knox is into some seriously shady business deals,” I blurt out. “I don’t know exactly what he’s doing, but it seems highly illegal and suspicious.”

“You’re serious?” he says before bursting into laughter, my excitement deflating immediately. “Damien Knox? The billionaire who just added a new wing to the Children’s Hospital downtown? The one who funds half of the charitable foundations in this city and owns this newspaper?”

“Yes, but—” My stomach somersaults. “Wait, he owns this paper?”

“Jesus Christ, Eve.” Brian rolls his eyes and tosses his hands in the air. He unceremoniously flops down in his chair and puts his glasses back on, effectively signaling that this conversation is over. “I need those obits by six.”

I sit for another second before reaching for the folder in defeat. It’s pointless to beat this dead horse, that much is clear. As I turn to leave, Brian lets out a dramatic sigh.

“Look, Eve,” he says, his voice softening a little, “I get it. You want to be Lois Lane, out there solving crimes and helping people, but youarehelping people, and you’re good at it. You’re giving them dignity in death. So don’t go throwing it all away by chasing down some wild fantasy, looking for trouble where there isn’t any.”

I nod, smiling politely before exiting his office and returning to my desk, completely unconvinced when it comes to stopping my investigation. Nothing Brian has said to me before has ever deterred me from investigating when I know damn well that something isn’t right.

Before removing my camera bag from my body, I take out the SD card and quietly slip it into my pocket. I glance around to find my coworkers completely lost in their own worlds, so I take the chance to type “Damien Knox + The Shadows” into my search engine.

It’s a long shot and I don’t expect anything to actually show up. That would be too easy. As suspected, nothing relevant populates—just several articles about Damien Knox’s business achievements and many charitable donations. I type in a few more options.

“Damien Knox + The Skull.” Nothing.

“The Skull + The Shadows.” Nothing.

“Damien Knox + Criminal.” Nothing.

“The Skull + Chicago.” Nothing.

I try at least a dozen other combinations, each one leading to a complete dead end. I’m still scrolling through images, my face almost plastered to the screen to catch any clues, when a chat notification pops up from Ingrid.

Ingrid

Brian keeps staring at you. Might want to at least pretend to be writing those obits.

Minimizing my search engine, I pull up the obituary template and reach for the folder from Brian. I can feel his eyes burning a hole through my back, but even still, I cannot seem to focus on the dead.

Instead, I keep seeing Damien’s cruel smile. I keep hearing his cold, empty words and the threat that The Skull wouldwipe Roberts off the face of the earth.My stomach churns at the threat, a slow burn rising to my throat. Squeezing my eyes closed for a few seconds, I push the thoughts aside, reminding myself that I have all night to research.

By six o’clock, I’ve finally managed to finish the obituaries and get them over to Brian, relief allowing my shoulders to finally relax a little as I hurry down to the parking garage and head home.

* * *

My apartment greets me with the familiar silence that follows me home every night. I like my place. It’s small, and even that is being generous, but it works for me. I keep it pretty plain—with just photos I’ve taken lining the walls.

I drop my things by the front door, walk the few steps to my fridge, and retrieve a bottle of wine I had planned to save for a special occasion. Witnessing a potential criminal threat by one of the most famous and powerful men in the country feels like it qualifies.

Bottle in hand, I pop the cork and take a drink, not bothering with a glass. Then I pull the SD card from my pocket and plug it into my personal laptop. I sit at my kitchen island, clicking through the photos. I pause again on the last one—the one that still makes me feel uneasy even in the safety of my own apartment.

I stare at his face, trying to reconcile this image with the photos that litter the internet—the ones that paint him as the hero this city never knew it needed. I click back to an image of him with the mayor. His eyes seem bright and inviting, his smile causing crinkles around his eyes that give his face life.

This is not the same man I saw today. The man I saw today looked like a dangerous animal that had caged itself—a man who practiced the art of self-control and discipline until it defined him.

The wine on an empty stomach makes my head swirl after only a few swallows. But I keep drinking, considering my options. Clearly, Brian isn’t interested in hearing more and I can’t risk bringing it up to him again. I could go to the police, but what exactly would I be reporting? A suspicious meeting in the park? A vague threat that’s only hearsay? The mention of an organization that has zero digital footprint and would most likely make me look even crazier? Even if I called up my contact at the station, he wouldn’t even give me the time of day with this shred of evidence . . . if you can even call it that.

What about Ingrid?

I consider the thought. She’s a legitimate journalist, after all, and has more of a leg to stand on than I do in that office. But even that carries with it some risks that I wouldn’t want to push onto her. Newsroom politics are brutal, and judging by the way Brian reacted at the mention of Damien’s name, he would know I asked her to look into it for me, which would probably end in my termination.

“Shit,” I groan, taking another large gulp of wine. I’ve talked myself out of all my viable options at this point. Which means there’s only one left . . . the only option that keeps circling my brain, even if it is the most reckless and risky one.

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