Page 1 of Pursuit of Her

1

EVE

The call came at exactly 6:17 a.m.—the precise moment Captain Eve Morgan raised her coffee mug to her lips. The vibration against the glass table sliced through the morning stillness like a blade.

Another body. Another message. Another failure of the system I've sworn to uphold.

Three seconds passed before Eve allowed herself to reach for the phone. Three heartbeats of precious peace before the day devoured her whole.

But first, the sunrise. Always the sunrise.

Violent streaks of crimson and gold clawed their way through the clouds over Phoenix Ridge, as if the heavens themselves were hemorrhaging across the horizon. Eve stood motionless on her balcony, the untouched coffee warming her palms against the October chill that swept in from the bay, carrying the brine of saltwater and the faint diesel scent of fishing boats already heading out to sea. The city sprawled before her—a testament to ambitious women who'd carved civilization into this dramatic landscape where jagged cliffs plummeted to turquoise waters, where dense pine forests climbed the northern mountains, and where the copper-hued desert stretched endlessly eastward.

Her penthouse apartment offered an unrivaled view: the famous Phoenix Cliffs to the west catching fire in the morning light, their two-hundred-foot limestone faces transformed into molten gold; Siren's Bay's turquoise waters stretching toward the horizon, already dotted with the white triangles of early sailing vessels; and the gleaming glass spires of downtown rising between her building and the waterfront. The lighthouse stood sentinel at the edge of the northern peninsula, its white tower stark against the dawn sky, a reminder of the women who'd founded this city seeking independence a century and a half ago.

Eve inhaled deeply, drawing the cool air into her lungs, savoring these final quiet moments before the weight of her badge pressed fully upon her shoulders. These morning rituals—the precisely brewed coffee (one level tablespoon of grounds per six ounces of filtered water, steeped for exactly four minutes at 205 degrees, then filtered again), the sunrise observation, the mental preparation—were the foundation that kept her steady in a world that was anything but. The ritual was a fortification against chaos, a wall she'd built stone by stone over the years.

Forty years old and she'd spent nearly half her life in service to Phoenix Ridge Police Department. Third-generation law enforcement—her grandmother one of the first women on the force in the 1950s, her mother rising to Assistant Chief before retirement. The thought brought a familiar tightness to her jaw, a muscle flexing beneath the smooth skin. Her mother would say she carried the weight of the family legacy in that tension. Not that Eve had spoken to her mother in months, not since the argument about Eve's "inability to maintain meaningful connections."

The invisible scar across her heart pulsed once, a phantom pain from an old wound. Ten years. Ten years since she'd felt whole. Ten years since Reagan Shaw.

She set her mug on the pristine glass table—no coaster needed, she'd wipe away any ring before leaving—and straightened the collar of her crisp white shirt with precise movements. Her reflection in the balcony door showed what she needed the world to see: Captain Eve Morgan, impeccable in her tailored charcoal suit, dark hair perfectly styled with just a hint of silver at the temples, posture military-straight. The consummate professional. No one would see the hollowness that had taken residence behind her ribs ten years ago and never quite filled, the empty space that echoed with each heartbeat.

The phone continued to vibrate, tiny earthquakes against the glass, and she answered.

"Morgan," she answered, her voice low and controlled.

"Captain." It was Detective Valerie Rhodes, her most promising homicide investigator. Something in the younger woman's tone—a tightness, an urgency—made Eve's spine straighten further. "There's been another one."

Eve didn't need clarification. The vigilante. Three weeks, two high-profile deaths, both very bad men who'd escaped justice through technicalities and connections. Both executed with detached precision.

"Where?" She was already moving, the coffee forgotten, gathering her badge and service weapon from the lockbox beside her bed. The weight of the gun was familiar, comforting—cold metal warmed by her touch as she checked the chamber with mechanical efficiency.

"Judge Harmon's residence in Prosperity Heights. Gunshot wound, execution-style. Clean entry through the forehead." Rhodes's voice lowered. "And Captain, there's evidence left behind. Similar to the Peterson scene. Flash drive taped to his chest. Physical documents arranged around the body."

Eve's breath caught. Evidence carefully staged for police to find. Not the chaotic aftermath of rage, but the calculated message of judgment. A killer who wanted the world to know why these men deserved their fate.

"Secure the scene. Full team. I want Rivera on forensics and Mendez handling media containment. I'll be there in twenty." Eve ended the call and slipped the phone into her pocket, her mind already filtering through procedures, possibilities, and connections.

She cast one final glance at the sunrise, the beauty now seeming like a cruel joke against the day unfolding before her. Another powerful man dead. Another kill impossibly clean. Another message left in the vigilante's wake. The air in her lungs felt suddenly heavy, laden with something that tasted like forbidden understanding.

Eve locked her emotions away, one by one, like closing the safety deposit boxes that lined the walls of Phoenix Ridge National Bank. Fear, anger, and the unsettling whisper of admiration that this vigilante was accomplishing what the justice system often failed to do. Each secured behind a professional mask as impenetrable as the vault doors themselves.

She gathered her blazer, tugging it over shoulders that already carried the invisible weight of a city's expectations, and headed for the door. The coffee mug sat abandoned, steam still rising like a ghost in her wake, the surface of the dark liquid perfectly still—unlike the day that awaited her, which promised nothing but turbulence.

Judge Malcolm Harmon's residence perched at the highest point of Prosperity Heights, a modernist fortress of glass and stone that dominated the skyline on the cliffs' edge. By the time Eve arrived, the private road leading to the mansion was already clogged with department vehicles and the inevitable press vans, reporters tethered to the perimeter by yellow crime scene tape and the unwavering stares of uniformed officers.

Eve parked her black department-issued SUV behind the medical examiner's van and paused, studying the gathering circus through tinted windows. The morning sun glinted off camera lenses, hungry eyes seeking the perfect shot of tragedy to feed the city's appetite for scandal. She straightened her blazer, touched the badge at her hip like a talisman, and stepped into the fray.

"Captain Morgan!" A reporter thrust a microphone toward her face. "Is it true Judge Harmon's murder is connected to the other vigilante killings?"

Eve's gaze could have frozen the bay in August. "The Phoenix Ridge Police Department will issue an official statement once we've completed our initial investigation." Her voice carried the quiet authority that had earned her both respect and the nickname "The Standard" among her officers. No excess emotion, no panic, only competence.

She strode through the chaos with purposeful steps until Detective Valerie Rhodes intercepted her at the edge of the property, tablet in hand. The younger woman's dark curls were pulled back in a severe bun, her expression grave.

"Media's in a feeding frenzy," Rhodes said, falling into step beside Eve. "Someone leaked details about the evidence placement. The Commissioner's already called twice."

Eve kept her face neutral, but inwardly she cataloged this information. A leak meant eithercarelessness or calculation. Neither boded well. "Walk me through it."

---