Page 8 of Pursuit of Her

As Reagan drove down the winding mountain road, her thoughts drifted to Eve—not the composed Captain Morgan from the press conference, but the woman who had once shared her bed, her dreams, her future. The woman who would soon be hunting her with all the considerable skill and determination that had made her Phoenix Ridge's youngest captain.

Let her come, Reagan thought with grim resolve. The evidence she left behind would speak for itself. And if their paths did cross in this deadly game of justice and vengeance, Reagan would face that reckoning as she had facedeverything else since that night ten years ago—with eyes wide open and no regrets for choices that had seemed impossible but necessary.

The lights of Phoenix Ridge emerged from the darkness ahead. Somewhere in that glittering web, Eve Morgan pursued a vigilante who executed abusers with cool precision, unaware that she hunted the ghost of a woman she had once loved.

Reagan's hands tightened on the steering wheel as she navigated the final curve before the highway that would lead her into the city.

There was no turning back. There never had been.

Phoenix Ridge Capital dominated the downtown skyline, sixty stories of gleaming glass and steel that caught the last rays of sunset. From her position in the coffee shop across the street, Reagan observed the structure with the calculating eye of a predator assessing its prey's den.

The café provided perfect cover: busy enoughthat a solitary woman with a laptop wouldn't draw attention, positioned with sightlines to both the main entrance and the service access at the rear of the building. Reagan had chosen a corner table, her back to the wall.

Her laptop screen displayed architectural spreadsheets—a convincing prop for any casual observer—while a secondary program ran facial recognition on everyone entering and exiting the building, alerting her to security personnel shift changes and the movements of key employees.

At precisely 6:42 p.m., her watch vibrated against her wrist. A moment later, a woman in a Phoenix Ridge Capital maintenance uniform pushed through the café door, her dark hair pulled back in a practical ponytail, eyes scanning the room with carefully concealed wariness.

Sophia Gresham. Twenty-eight. Former executive assistant to Richard Davenport. Sister of Rosalie Gresham, who had taken her own life three years ago after her sexual assault case against Davenport was dismissed due to "insufficient evidence."

Reagan closed her laptop as Sophia approached, sliding into the chair opposite without a word. Up close, the resemblance to her deceased sister was haunting—the same delicate features and intelligent eyes, though now shadowed by grief and determination.

"He's still there," Sophia said without preamble, her voice low. "Executive floor, northwest corner office. Security rotation changed at six. Kendall is on the desk; he always takes an extended coffee break around nine. That's your window."

Reagan nodded once, acknowledging the information without offering unnecessary gratitude. Sophia wasn't helping her for thanks. She was helping for justice—the kind the system had denied her sister.

"The access card?" Reagan asked.

Sophia slid a maintenance keycard across the table, the movement concealed by the placement of her coffee cup. "It'll get you to the executive floor service entrance. After that, you'll need the override codes for his private elevator."

"And the cameras?"

"Feed loops for two minutes when you input this sequence at any terminal." Sophia passed a folded scrap of paper. "It'll look like routine system maintenance. Use it sparingly."

Their conversation continued, information exchanged in quiet tones beneath the ambient noise of the busy café. Sophia had been Reagan's eyes inside Phoenix Ridge Capital for months, gathering intelligence while working maintenance shifts, positioning herself for this moment. Her role in tonight's operation was the culmination of careful planning and shared purpose.

"These arrived this morning," Sophia said finally, sliding a small envelope across the table. "The last pieces from Rosalie’s personal effects."

Reagan opened the envelope discreetly, finding two memory cards inside. "What's on them?"

Sophia's composure cracked slightly, her eyes lowering to her coffee cup. "Her journal entries. Voice recordings she made after…after each encounter with him. She was building evidence, documenting everything. When she realized it wouldn't matter, that he'd never face consequences, she..."

Her voice faltered. Reagan watched as Sophia fought for control, the struggle visible in the tightening of her jaw, the rapid blink of her eyes. Not for the first time, Reagan marveled at the strength of the women in her network—survivors, sisters, witnesses who refused to remain silent despite a system designed to ignore them.

"I've heard enough of them to know what's there," Sophia continued after regaining her composure. "It's everything you need to expose him. Everything the police 'lost' when she tried to report him."

Reagan slipped the memory cards into an inner pocket of her jacket. "These will be part of the evidence released to the public. Your sister's voice will be heard."

Sophia nodded, her expression hardening into resolve. "Make him answer for what he did. Make them all answer."

"I will," Reagan promised, the words carrying the weight of an oath. Not just for Rosalie Gresham, but for all the women whose voices had been silenced by powerful men who believed themselves untouchable.

As Sophia rose to leave, she hesitated, her gaze meeting Reagan's directly for the first time. "My sister believed in the system once. She trusted that if she gathered enoughevidence and told her story clearly enough, justice would prevail." Her voice took on an edge of bitterness. "She died when that belief died."

The words struck Reagan with uncomfortable familiarity, an echo of her own disillusionment. She had once believed, too, had once trusted that the institution she served would protect the vulnerable rather than the powerful.

"The system is designed to protect men like Davenport," Reagan said quietly. "But they aren't untouchable. Not anymore."

Sophia's eyes held hers for a moment longer, something unspoken passing between them—recognition, perhaps, of the shared wound that had transformed them both.

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