Page 21 of Pursuit of Her

Eve glanced toward the stairwell, then back to Reagan, the professional mask settling back into place though her eyes betrayed deeper conflict. "Reagan?—"

"There's more evidence," Reagan said, already calculating escape routes as police chatter increased in her earpiece. She moved toward the window that led to the fire escape. "Safety deposit box 227 at Phoenix Ridge National. The key is at 1542 Harbor Point Road, taped beneath the third floorboard from the wall."

"Wait—" Eve started, but Reagan was already through the window.

Rain lashed against Reagan's face as she paused on the fire escape, looking back at the woman she had protected through distance for a decade. "Be careful who you trust, Eve. Brooks has people watching you. If you investigate that evidence, you'll become a target."

"Don't disappear again," Eve said, command and plea intertwined. "Turn yourself in. We can work through this together."

The words tugged at something Reagan had thought long buried. For a fleeting moment, she imagined a different path: one where she surrendered her crusade, faced consequences for her actions, and trusted the system Eve still believed in despite its flaws.

But the memory of two bullets tearing through her body ten years ago when she was left for dead extinguished that fantasy. The phantom pain of nearly drowning in Phoenix Ridge Harbor while the men who'd ordered her death celebrated their successful "cleanup" nearly overwhelmed her in the moment.

"Look at the evidence first," Reagan said. "Then decide what justice means."

Before Eve could respond, before the almost-kiss could pull her back on a collision course, Reagan descended into the darkness. The rain provided perfect cover as she moved in silence down the fire escape, already mapping her extraction route through the warehouse district's forgotten corners.

Through her earpiece, she heard police units converging on the factory. Eve would misdirect them—Reagan knew her well enough to be certain of that—but survival demanded immediate withdrawal. She had exposed herself tonight, revealed her existence to the one person who could truly threaten her mission.

Yet beneath the tactical calculations and the renewed urgency of her hunt, a different truthrefused to be silenced: for the first time in ten years, she had stood face to face with Eve Morgan, had spoken her name, had almost bridged the chasm her disappearance had created between them.

And despite everything—the deaths, the vigilante justice, the opposing sides they now occupied—the connection between them remained unbroken. Those few moments in the abandoned factory had proven what Reagan had feared and hoped in equal measure: that some bonds survived even death and resurrection.

As she disappeared into Phoenix Ridge's storm-swept streets, Reagan knew with cold certainty that their paths would cross again. Eve had the evidence now. She would follow where it led because that was who she had always been: relentless in pursuit of truth, regardless of consequences.

The question was whether that pursuit would ultimately lead Eve to arrest Reagan or join her crusade—and whether Reagan could complete her mission before that inevitable confrontation forced a choice neither woman was prepared to make.

The storm raged on, washing away her footprints as she vanished into the city's shadows, a ghost once more.

5

EVE

The storm had followed Eve home, lashing against her penthouse windows with renewed fury. Lightning illuminated her living room in stark bursts, revealing what her apartment had become: a war room dedicated to a ghost who had materialized from the darkness only hours before.

She hadn't bothered turning on the lights. The darkness suited her mood and the nature of her investigation: one that existed in shadows, off books, and beyond the boundaries of her official duty. Files covered her dining table, spread across the polished surface in meticulous chronological order. Crime scene photographs. Witness statements. Autopsy reports. A decade-old investigation resurrected alongside its primary detective.

Reagan Shaw was alive.

The thought still struck her with physical force hours after their confrontation. Eve rubbed her eyes, fatigue burning behind her lids after a sleepless night. Her coffee had gone cold, the ceramic mug sitting forgotten amid the evidence. A half-eaten container of Thai food—her concession to physical necessity—lay abandoned beside it, the spicy aroma now stale in the still air.

The rain beat a restless rhythm against glass as Eve stood, stretching muscles stiff from hours of focused analysis. She moved to the wall she'd converted into an evidence board, tracing connections between photographs with trembling fingers.

Reginald Sinclaire. Nathaniel Peterson. Judge Malcolm Harmon. Richard Davenport. Four powerful men connected through business dealings, social circles, and allegations that had mysteriously disappeared from official records. Four men now dead by Reagan's hand.

And there—pinned at the center of this web of corruption—a photograph of Reagan herself, taken weeks before her disappearance. The same determination in her fierce blue eyes that Eve had seen tonight, but without the hardness a decade of vigilante justice had carved into her features.

Eve's fingers lingered on the image, an unconscious caress before dropping to the evidence Reagan had slipped into her hand during their near-kiss. The waterproof case sat open on the table, its contents now integrated into Eve's investigation: financial records connecting the victims, documentation of "cleanup operations" coordinated through Jonathan Brooks, and witness testimonies that had vanished from police files years ago.

A key piece of the evidence had been a small photograph, worn around the edges from handling: Eve and Reagan in their academy uniforms, arms around each other's shoulders, smiling with unguarded joy. On the back, in Reagan's precise handwriting: "I never stopped watching over you."

The words had pierced Eve's carefully constructed defenses and breached her walls.

She turned her attention to the safety deposit box key Reagan had mentioned. According to her, the key was hidden at 1542 Harbor Point Road, beneath the third floorboard from the wall. Eve had cross-referenced the address in property records and found a modest cabin registered to a Casey Harris—an alias, undoubtedly. The safety deposit box itself, number 227 at Phoenix Ridge National Bank, would be accessible only during banking hours. Tomorrow's mission, then.

Lightning flashed again, followed immediately by thunder that shook the windows. Eve flinched, the sound triggering a cascade of memories: the night Reagan disappeared and the torrential downpour as Eve had searched the harbor, calling a name that received no answer.

She'd believed for ten years that Reagan had been killed during an undercover operation gone wrong—or worse, that she had simply abandoned everything they had built together. The truth, as Reagan had revealed tonight, was far more sinister. They had tried to kill her when she'd gotten too close to exposing their network.

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