Page 11 of Pursuit of Her
Confusion replaced his smug confidence, followed by horror as he finally recognized the ghost standing in front of him.
"You're—"
The silenced shot cut off his words, the hollow-point round entering his forehead. Richard Davenport slumped forward, his secrets dying with him.
Reagan moved methodically in the aftermath, arranging the evidence around his body: financial records, Rosalie's testimony, documentation of the other women he'd assaulted. Finally, she placed her calling card besidehis hand: "The System Failed. I Did Not."
The cameras would reactivate in thirty seconds. Reagan erased all traces of her presence and slipped away through the service exit, disappearing into the night like the ghost she had become.
Four names remained on her list. Four more links in the chain of corruption that had nearly killed her and that still threatened Eve, whether she realized it or not.
The hunt would continue.
3
EVE
Eve returned to her apartment well past midnight, the weight of the day's investigation pressing against her shoulders like a physical burden. Her mind refused to quiet, churning through evidence, connections, and the disturbing possibility that Reagan Shaw—the woman she loved presumed dead ten years—might be the Phoenix Vigilante.
She dropped her keys into the crystal bowl by the door, the soft clink impossibly loud in the stillness. The penthouse remained exactly as she'd left it that morning with the coffee mug abandoned on the balcony table. Eve moved through the darkness with practiced familiarity, not bothering with lights that would only highlight how empty the space remained despite her years of residence.
In her bedroom, she stripped off her suit jacket and removed her badge and weapon, placing them in the lockbox beside her bed. The day's tension coiled through her muscles as she rolled her shoulders, wincing at the tightness that had settled between her shoulder blades.
Sleep wouldn't come. Not with Judge Harmon's evidence wall tattooed across her memory. Not with Commissioner Brooks' increasingly insistent calls throughout the evening. And certainly not with the ghost of Reagan Shaw lurking at the edges of her thoughts.
Eve padded to the kitchen, bare feet silent against the hardwood. She uncorked a bottle of cabernet and poured herself a generous glass, though drinking alone had never been her preference. The first sip burned pleasantly, warming a path down her throat to settle in her chest like liquid courage.
Decision made, she moved to the hallway closet and retrieved a stepladder. Setting her wine aside, she climbed the rungs and reached for the ceiling panel that concealed her most private investigation, the one she'd conducted entirely off-book for the past decade.
The hidden compartment yielded a single item: a fireproof document case, its surface coated with a fine layer of dust. Eve carried it reverently to her dining table and opened the combination lock with fingers that betrayed the slightest tremor.
Inside lay the remnants of Reagan Shaw—not the woman's body, which had never been recovered, but the fragmented pieces of the investigation that had consumed her before her disappearance. Evidence that Eve had salvaged and hidden when Reagan's case had been officially closed, her status changed from "missing" to "presumed dead."
She spread the contents across the table: case notes in Reagan's precise handwriting, photographs of crime scenes, interview transcripts, and a map of Phoenix Ridge with locations marked in red. At the center, Eve placed a photograph of Reagan herself—confident and alive, dark blonde hair falling across intelligent blue eyes that seemed to challenge the camera. The only personal item Eve had allowed herself to keep.
Eve traced the connections marked on Reagan's map, noting with growing unease how they aligned with the vigilante's targets. Judge Harmon and Nathaniel Peterson had both been circled, their names connected to other powerful men through a complex web of relationships. Relationships that Reagan had been investigating before she vanished.
"What did you find?" Eve whispered to the photograph, wine forgotten as she immersed herself in a decade-old mystery. "What made you disappear?"
A pattern emerged from Reagan's notes—allegations of sexual violence, witness intimidation, evidence tampering, and a recurring phrase: "Phoenix Network." Reagan had been building a case against what appeared to be an organized system of mutual protection among Phoenix Ridge's most powerful men.
The same men now being methodically executed by the vigilante.
She closed her eyes, memories surfacing. Reagan's voice from the past, passionate and determined during their last argument: "Thesemen are untouchable through legal channels, Eve. Theyownthe system. They have judges and officials in their pockets."
Eve had dismissed her concerns then, believing in the integrity of a system she'd sworn to uphold. She'd attributed Reagan's growing disillusionment to the frustration of difficult cases rather than genuine corruption.
Had that been her greatest mistake?
Her phone vibrated again, this time with a call from Detective Caroline Foster. Eve answered immediately.
"Foster."
"Captain." Foster's voice carried the tight control of someone delivering bad news. "Richard Davenport was found dead in his office twenty minutes ago. Single gunshot wound to the forehead. Evidence arranged around the body. Flash drive. Documents. The same calling card."
The vigilante had struck again. Four victims now, each connected to Reagan's investigation.
"Secure the scene," Eve ordered, already moving toward her bedroom to dress. "Full team. And Foster"—she hesitated, weighing her options before committing—"bring the evidence directly to me before logging it. No digital copies yet."
