5. Eve
Chapter 5
Eve
THAT SAME NIGHT . . .
P acing my tiny living room floor, glass in hand, I rack my brain for the connection I’m missing.
“Wait!” I place my glass down, pulling up the archive of obituaries I’ve written over the last few years. I scan through them, pulling out the ones that had seemed odd to me at the time.
We call them the “dead files”—the obituaries that don’t come in from friends or family members with directions on what should be included. Instead, they’re deaths that have come across our desks with little explanation, reported by the police or coroner. Then there are the ones that are just plain perplexing, including rich businessmen dying under questionable circumstances with little to no investigation.
I filter out the obits that are most likely unclaimed prisoners, unhoused people, or those found on the streets with no identification. I also exclude those who were left behind at senior living facilities to die alone. I scan through the remaining few, narrowing it down further to the ones that seemed odd when I wrote them.
When you do nothing but write about death day in and day out, you start to pick up on patterns. Sometimes they’re nothing, but sometimes, they leave a lasting feeling in my gut—one that tells me there’s more to the story.
I spread the obituaries across my kitchen table, creating a timeline with sticky notes. Three men dead within six months—all with business connections to Knox Industries. The pattern’s too clear to ignore.
My finger traces the edge of Gregory Mendel’s obit—heart attack at forty-two. No previous health issues. I grab my phone and scroll through my address book until I find the contact at the morgue I used to bother relentlessly when researching Tia’s murder. I hit the call button, not holding my breath that I’ll get much of an answer to my questions.
“Cook County morgue, Hal speaking.”
“Hal, it’s Eve Thorne. How have you been?” I let out a nervous laugh, which is met by his excited gasp.
“Eve! Damn, I’d wondered what had happened to you! Just fell off the face of the earth after that last investigation you undertook. How are you?”
“I’m good.” I hesitate, not wanting to sound like I’m in too much of a rush, but I am. “I won’t lie, though . . . I kind of need a big favor.”
He chuckles. “I’m not surprised; it’s not like I expect social calls at the morgue. What can I help with?”
“I need everything you have on a Gregory Mendel from the past year.”
“Sure thing. Gregory Mendel,” he repeats the name to himself, the sound of computer keys tapping in the background. “Okay, got him pulled up. The investment banker?”
“That’s him.”
“What’re you digging into now?”
I hesitate. “Just following a hunch. Usual protocol. Meet you after work to get the info?” Since this isn’t a sanctioned investigation, just like in the past, it’s not exactly legal for Hal to give me information on the dead. So we meet by his car and he gives me printouts of whatever information he can find.
“You know it. See you then.”
I hang up and check my watch. Two hours until Hal’s shift ends. Two hours to organize what I already have.
The corkboard on my wall is filling up with connections. Red threads link obituaries to newspaper clippings to financial reports I’ve pulled from public records. It’s not enough—not nearly enough to take to my editor—but it’s a start.
I pin up another article: “Knox Industries Acquires Mendel Finance Group.” The acquisition happened three weeks after Gregory Mendel’s death. The company bought it for pennies on the dollar after its stock plummeted following his “unexpected passing.”
I pace back and forth in my living room, my thumb hovering over the number I only use for a genuine emergencies: Detective Michael Reeves, Chicago PD.
We met four years ago during my investigation into the young woman’s murder that nobody else seemed to care about. He was the only officer who took my evidence seriously, even though his superiors ultimately shut down any further questions into the matter.
“Reeves,” he answers on the fourth ring, his voice gruff and short.
“Hey, Detective, it’s Eve Thorne. I’m sorry to bug you again, but I need some information.”
There’s a pause. “About your parents’ deaths?”
“I need—I need some information on someone unrelated to their deaths. Thomas Wyatt. Off the record. And you told me if I ever needed anything . . .” I say, hoping selfishly that the guilt trip works.
Another pause, this one longer. “This about another obituary?”
“Potentially.” I hesitate, weighing how much to reveal. “Have you ever heard of something called The Shadows?” I wait a few seconds to say the next part. “And if there’s any connection to Damien Knox?”
The silence stretches so long this time, I think we’ve been disconnected. But just before I’m about to say something, I hear his whispered voice.
“Where did you hear that name?”
My pulse quickens. “So it’s real? They exist—The Shadows?”
“I didn’t say that,” he replies instantly this time, his tone sharper. “Listen carefully, Eve. Whatever you think you’re on to, drop it. Knox operates in circles so far above our pay grades, they might as well be in a different fucking orbit.”
“But you know something?”
“What I know,” he says with deliberate emphasis, “is that reporters who look too closely at certain business operations in this city, or have probing queries about questionable deaths, tend to end up in your obituaries.”
The chill that runs through me has nothing to do with the temperature of my apartment. “Like natural deaths or strange accidents?”
“Jesus, Eve,” his voice turns urgent, “ please tell me you haven’t mentioned this to anyone else?”
The knot in my stomach tightens. “I—I might have gone to Damien Knox directly. I needed to assess his reaction.”
“You—” he cuts himself off with what sounds like a strangle of curse words. “We need to talk in person. Not now since I have to head into a meeting, but this weekend?”
“Yeah, Sunday.”
“Be careful, Eve. More careful than you’ve ever been.” He disconnects before I can respond.
I stare at my phone, Reeves’ warning echoing in my head. Whatever I’ve stumbled into is clearly bigger and more dangerous than I initially suspected. The smart move would be to back away, admit I’m in way over my head, and return to my safe space of obituaries and unfulfilled dreams.
But I can’t shake the sneaking suspicion that even if that’s what I wanted to do, it’s far too late for that. Especially when I’ve already made up my mind that I’m attending the gala at Eden this weekend.
After hanging up, I return to my board. I’ve written obituaries for enough unexpected deaths to recognize patterns: three wealthy men, all with connections to Knox Industries, all dying suddenly after business disagreements with the company.
I pull up the Tribune ’s digital archives, searching for Knox Industries coverage over the past decade. Damien Knox’s face appears on the screen—that practiced, perfect smile that never quite reaches his eyes.
The doorbell rings, startling me, but then I remember the delivery order I placed almost an hour ago. But when I open the door, it’s not a delivery driver standing there.
“Reeves?” I ask, surprised. “I didn’t expect you until Sunday. What’s going on? You find anything out about Wyatt?” I ask, wondering what further information he discovered that would make him stop by.
“Eve,” he says without pleasantries, “got those records you asked about. The Wyatt case.”
Thomas Wyatt. The second obituary on my board. Fifty-one, apparent suicide, though I noted inconsistencies in the police report I managed to get my hands on.
“Find anything interesting?” I keep my voice neutral, not showing how surprised I am that he’s not trying to talk me out of anything.
He looks nervous, glancing past me into my building, then over his shoulder at the empty street. “Can I come in?”
I step aside, leading him back up the stairs to my apartment.
“Interesting is one word for it,” he whispers as we walk up the stairs. “His tox screen showed unusual compounds. Nothing illegal, but strange combinations of prescription medications. Could be nothing.”
“Or it could be something,” I finish. “Can I see the full report?”
“I shouldn’t—” he starts to reply, but as I open my apartment door and he steps inside, his eyes immediately see it. I watch as he moves directly to my investigation board. His face tightens when he sees what I’m working on.
“Jesus, Eve.” He turns to me, lowering his voice despite us being alone. “You’re serious about this Knox thing? Of all the people in Chicago to investigate . . .”
“What do you know about him?” I press.
He shakes his head. “Nothing concrete. Just whispers. Rumors among certain officers.” He hesitates. “Some cases involving people who crossed him get quietly closed. Evidence disappears. Witnesses recant.”
“So the police are corrupt.”
“It’s not that simple.” He runs a hand through his hair. “It’s like . . . there’s a shadow over certain cases. No one talks about it directly, but every cop knows which investigations to drop.”
My pulse quickens. “So you do know about The Shadows. What can you tell me?”
His face pales further, and he glances nervously at my investigation board. “I told you on the phone to drop this. Hearing you say it again here, seeing all this . . . Eve, you have no idea what you’re getting into. Where did you first hear that name?”
“I can’t say,” I respond, watching his reaction carefully.
He stares at the screen, then back at my board. “Eve, I’m saying this as someone who doesn’t want to find your name in the obituary section: Drop this. Whatever you think you’ve found, let it go.”
“I can’t do that.” I point to the obituaries. “Three men, all dead after conflicts with Knox. All unexplained deaths ruled natural or suicide.”
“And what if they were neither?” His voice drops. “What if they were something else entirely?”
I step closer. “What do you know, Michael?”
“Nothing I can prove.” He pulls an envelope from his jacket. “But here’s everything on the Wyatt case. The official file and my personal notes.” He hesitates. “I’m taking vacation time, starting next week. Going to visit my sister in Michigan for a few weeks.” The implication is clear: He’s distancing himself from whatever I’m about to unleash. “But let’s still meet up on Sunday. I’d rather you get all your bad theories out with me rather than running back to Knox and getting yourself killed.”
“Hey.” I reach out and grab his arm. “Thank you. Seriously.”
“Just be safe, kid.” He nods his head, then jogs across the street to his car.
After he leaves, I tear into the envelope to find page after page of police reports, witness statements, and forensic analyses. I spread them beside my existing research as new connections form in my mind.
Thomas Wyatt’s “suicide” occurred exactly three days after he pulled his company out of a merger with Knox Pharmaceuticals. The official ruling: He mixed alcohol with antidepressants, then shot himself in his study.
But Reeves’ handwritten notes tell a different story. The bullet trajectory was unusual for self-infliction. The gun was wiped clean of prints except one perfect thumbprint on the trigger. Witness statements from household staff noted unfamiliar voices in the study before the gunshot.
And most damning: Security footage from the estate shows a tall figure entering through a side door—face carefully angled away from cameras—exactly twenty minutes before Wyatt’s estimated time of death.
I sit back, mind racing. This isn’t just corporate maneuvering; this is something darker.
Less than two hours later, I’m standing by Hal’s car outside the morgue as he approaches.
“Everything we have on Mendel,” he says, handing over the materials. “Found something interesting in there, too. His widow gave an interview after his death, claimed he’d received threats. The piece never ran.”
“Why not?”
“Story goes, the editor killed it after a call from the publisher . . . who, coincidentally, plays golf with Damien Knox every Sunday.” He shrugs.
I thank him, then spend the next three hours piecing together more connections. The third man, James Carruthers, died of an apparent stroke at fifty-four. No autopsy performed at the family’s request—or rather, at his brother-in-law’s insistence. The same brother-in-law who took over the company and immediately sold its patents to Knox Industries.
By midnight, my timeline is complete enough to see the pattern clearly. Each death followed a specific business conflict with Knox Industries. Each benefited Damien Knox directly. Each investigation was perfunctory at best, corrupted at worst.
I sit in the dim light of my apartment, staring at the web I’ve created. This is bigger than I’d imagined. More dangerous. More intricate.
And yet, instead of fear, I feel a thrill coursing through me. This— this is the story I’ve been waiting for. The chance to expose corruption that the system itself protects.
* * *
I t’s 3:18 a.m. and I can’t stop staring at Damien’s face.
My apartment is bathed in the blue glow of my laptop screen as I scroll through the photos from the forest preserve for what must be the thirtieth time tonight. Each image reveals something I missed before—the precise angle of his jaw, the subtle unshaven scruff I can’t stop myself from reaching out to touch on the screen, as if I’d be able to feel it against my fingertips.
I struggle to reconcile the controlled charm he displayed in his office—the complete absence of emotion in his eyes when he spoke. Nothing like the warm philanthropist he portrays.
But it’s not the kind, warm man that intrigues me. The mask is just that: nothing more than a hollow portrayal of what the world wants to see. Carefully constructed for public consumption. These photos show the man beneath—predatory, calculating, and dangerous. This man stirs something deep inside me I’m too scared to acknowledge.
You’re going to lose this game.
I close my bleary, fatigued eyes, rubbing them a little too hard. Sleep seems impossible with my mind racing, replaying moments from yesterday. The memory of his fingers brushing my neck as he draped the scarf around me sends an involuntary shiver down my spine. The gesture felt like both a threat and a tender caress, leaving me completely unsettled in a way I don’t care to examine too closely.
“Focus,” I mutter, shaking my head side to side as if that will fix everything. I turn my attention back to that day in the preserve.
How did he even find my scarf? How long had he known I was watching? And most disturbing: What else does he know about me?
Over the last few hours, my research on Knox has expanded from a single browser tab to a dedicated folder on my desktop. So far, it contains frustratingly little . . . just some public records of his business holdings, charity contributions, and society page appearances, all painting the picture of the perfect man. Nothing I can find, no matter how deep I go, connects to whatever The Shadows might be or explains who The Skull is.
The only damning evidence I have is my sliver of a connection between Knox Industries and the three businessmen I found. While that is suspicious alongside the conversation I overheard between him and Roberts, it wouldn’t prove anything to either the court or the police. I would be laughed out of any office if I tried to present this theory based on a hunch. Plus I’d have to admit I was spying on him without his knowledge.
Even though all three of these men died suspiciously, the timing could only be described as “unfortunate” considering their failed deals with Knox. It’s circumstantial at best, and nothing any credible news outlet would publish or even investigate. But the details nag at me, like a splinter just beneath the surface of the skin.
I open a new document and create a timeline, placing these deaths alongside major Knox Industries business announcements. Three data points aren’t enough to establish a definitive pattern, but they form a troublesome question, and I need more information.
My phone sits on the desk beside me, Damien’s business card propped against it, with his private number written on the back in precise, angular numbers. It calls to me like a forbidden fruit, tempting me toward something I know can change everything.
The invitation to his charity gala at Eden feels like bait for an obvious trap, and yet . . . I’m considering taking it anyway.
I pick up the card, flipping it over carefully in my fingers. I study it as if it’s going to reveal something I don’t already know. Another one of my father’s wise quotes comes back to me: “The best way to know your enemy is to enter their territory. Nothing will ever tell you more about someone than when they’re comfortable in their own surroundings. They always let their guard down just enough.”
But my dad was talking about journalists who go behind enemy lines to interview dictators on the world’s stage. He wasn’t talking about walking unprotected into a lion’s den with a bloody steak around your neck.
I close my laptop, the sudden darkness of my apartment amplifying the silence. In the quiet, doubt starts to creep in.
What am I doing? I’m an obituary writer, not an investigative journalist. I don’t have institutional backing, legal protection, or even basic training for this kind of situation.
What I do have is a growing certainty that Damien Knox is not the poster child Chicago believes him to be, and questions that only get louder the more I try to ignore them.
Yawning, I finally drag myself to bed. I won’t be able to stay on my toes with a lack of sleep. I’ll continue my research down the rabbit hole tomorrow.
* * *
“Y ou look like hell warmed over,” Ingrid observes as I drop into my chair at work the next morning. “Late night with Mr. Right?” She bounces her eyebrows playfully.
I manage a weak smile while clutching my extra-large coffee like a lifeline. “Afraid not. Just couldn’t sleep, so I caught up on some research.”
“Must be some project. You’ve got the thousand-yard stare going.” She leans closer when I don’t respond, her voice lower this time. “Seriously, Eve, you okay? You’ve been a little off the last few days.”
“I’m fine.” The lie comes easily, practiced from years of assuring people I’m okay when I’m anything but. “I’m just going through a little insomnia phase is all.” I yawn, punctuating my statement.
She looks unconvinced but thankfully drops the subject when her phone rings. I turn to my computer, pulling up the obituary templates for the ones I need to complete before lunch. Today’s subjects: an elderly schoolteacher, a mid-level bank manager, and a retired postal worker. Lives distilled down to a few paragraphs, and legacies reduced to a list of causes and survivors.
Even with the extra caffeine, my mind keeps drifting to Damien, The Shadows, and what might await at Eden this weekend . . . if I decide to go.
I force myself to focus, typing mechanical descriptions of lives I never knew.
I open my contacts, adding Damien Knox’s private number to my list before returning my attention to obituaries. I check my watch as I submit my final work for the day, and realize there’s still time to check out a small boutique I always pass on my way into work. If I’m going to attend a gala, I first have to find something appropriate to wear. I’m confident my one pencil skirt and blazer won’t do the trick this time.
As I gather my things, I notice Ingrid watching me, her expression concerned. Before I can acknowledge her, she turns away, busying herself with her computer. Something about the way she looked at me makes me wonder if she knows more about what I’m researching than she’s letting on.
I’ll deal with that later. For now, I have a dress to buy.
The boutique is nestled in Chicago’s Gold Coast, its understated exterior plain compared to the stunning gowns that hang in the window. I hesitate at the door, suddenly aware of how out of place I am in my work clothes and sensible shoes. This is a shop for women who carry credit cards with limits higher than most mortgages, and last names they wield like weapons.
“May I help you?” The saleswoman’s soft voice interrupts my thoughts when I finally muster the nerve to open the door and step inside.
“Um, hi.” I glance around nervously. “I need a dress for a gala,” I blurt out.
“Well, you have certainly come to the right place then. I’m Giselle—a pleasure.” She walks around the counter in a sweeping motion, her hand extended out toward me politely. “What kind of dress did you have in mind?”
“I’m not really sure; I’ve never been to a gala before. I guess I’m not even sure what’s acceptable at an event like that.”
“No worries, that’s what I’m for.” Her smile is polite and genuine and starts to put me at ease. “Most galas are black tie, so let’s go with that assumption. That would be our floor-length gowns over here. Can you tell me more about the event, such as where it will be held?”
“Um, Damien Knox invited me to a private gala at his estate?”
“Oh!” Her demeanor shifts, and her eyes drift down my body and back up in a flash, as if she’s sizing up whether I’m his type or not. “Well, then that tells me exactly what I need to know.”
I allow her to guide me deeper into the store, as I wonder if this is a common occurrence for Damien: sending private invitations to young women around Chicago.
“He has an excellent eye,” she says, shuffling through a particular rack of dresses, pulling out only a few and leaving the rest. My skin prickles with unease as she holds them against me one by one.
How many other women in Chicago have had this same experience—shopping for a dress to impress a man who has summoned them to his private estate? But none of those women would have known the things I know about him . . . and then threatened him with that knowledge at his own company.
“Let’s go with a simple silhouette—something elegant with a bold color.”
“Okay.” I nod, having no clue what I’m doing in a store like this. If I’d been left alone, I would have most likely chosen something inappropriate for the occasion.
For the next hour, I try on dresses that cost more than my monthly rent, each one more beautiful than the last. I push away the nagging feeling that I’m going to have to dig into my savings to afford one of these, and even then, I’m not sure I can pull the trigger. I’ll just have to find something at a chain store that I can make look decent with the right shoes and jewelry.
Despite my earlier unease with the idea of being manipulated by Damien, I can’t help but enjoy the luxury of fine fabrics against my skin. I turn around in the three-way mirror, admiring the deep crimson of the material that flows over my body like water.
“This one.”
The dress is elegant and simple: a structured bodice with a sweetheart neckline that emphasizes my collarbones and a tasteful amount of cleavage.
“It’s stunning!” She smiles, stepping beside me to lift up my hair. “You should pull your hair back to keep the focus on your beautiful features.”
For the first time in I don’t know how long, I take the time to look at myself, trying to see what she sees.
“He’s going to love the color on you.” My eyes flash to hers in the mirror for the briefest second before she turns away. “Now, how about shoes? Accessories? A bag?”
I know I’m reading more into that than necessary, but even though I’m willingly choosing to attend this event, to continue to engage with Damien, it almost feels like I couldn’t deny him even if I wanted to.
“Oh, no, I can’t afford more than just the dress.”
“Don’t be silly!” She laughs as she waves off my concern with a flick of her hand. “I think with your coloring and this dress, you should go with silver—maybe black diamonds?”
“No, really, I’m serious. I can barely afford the dress. I mean . . .” I look around for the tag. “I actually avoided even looking at the tag because I’ve fallen in love with it.”
“No, dear.” She reaches for my hand. “Mr. Knox is paying for it.”
“What?” I pull my hand back, looking over my shoulder as if I expect to see him standing in the doorway behind me. “How’d he know?”
“Well, I assume he sent you here specifically since he has an account?” She walks away, presumably to look for the items she mentioned, while I just stare in the mirror—trying to decide if he did mention this place and I forgot, or if it’s the more likely situation: that he’s having me followed.
I stand awkwardly, in a daze, Giselle’s words going in one ear and out the other as she talks through shoes, necklaces, earrings, and more.
“You are all set, my dear.” She hands me a large bag with a few smaller bags containing all the items she just charged to Damien’s account.
“Thank you so much.” I accept the bag, still not entirely comfortable with him paying. It feels like another form of manipulation: his need to control every little thing a way of demonstrating his reach.
Back outside, Chicago’s evening traffic rushes around me as I make my way toward the train station. The weight of the garment bag on my arm is a tangible reminder of the path I’m choosing to follow—a path leading into whatever web Damien is trying to weave around me.
As I wait on the platform for the train, my mind is a tangled mess of thoughts trying to make sense of what I’m doing. I’m very aware of how far out of my depth I am.
“Excuse me.”
“No problem.” I smile at the man next to me who apologizes after bumping into me. I turn back to face the train that approaches and starts to slow.
He speaks again just as the doors are about to open. “Going willingly into the serpent’s garden is a death sentence,” he says, his voice barely audible above the station noise.
I whip my head toward him just as the doors open and the commuters rush out. “What did you say?”
But he’s already gone, swallowed into the crowd before I can make out anything about him.
I jump onto the train, my heart pounding so erratically, I’m worried I’ll have a panic attack if I don’t get my breathing under control. I close my eyes, sinking down into a seat, as I take several long, slow breaths.
The man’s words echo loudly in my ears.
“The serpent’s garden.”
Eden.
By the time I’ve made it to my stop and climbed the stairs to my apartment, I’ve almost convinced myself I imagined the entire encounter. That it was a manifestation of my anxiety about Damien and his invitation.
Almost . . . but not quite.
My apartment feels different, but nothing is technically out of place. It’s a subtle feeling—the air disturbed in ways only I would notice. I glance around at objects aligned a little too perfectly, like someone could have picked them up, examined them, and tried to replace them perfectly.
I set down my bags and methodically check each room, looking for concrete evidence of intrusion or signs that I’m being watched or followed. Even with no evidence, I’m certain someone has been here, invading my space.
Only after completing my inspection do I notice the small envelope pushed almost completely beneath the fruit bowl on my counter. I move the bowl, staring down at the envelope.
“Tongs,” I say to myself, darting over to grab a pair from a drawer. I slowly reach them out to pick up the envelope, flipping it over. It’s plain, white, unmarked. It isn’t sealed, so I hold it open, not wanting to touch it with my bare hands. I grab a pen and hold the envelope open while using the tongs to pull out the single business card that’s inside. Detective Michael Reeves, Chicago PD. On the back, handwritten in blue ink, I read:
Not safe to meet Sunday. Watch your back. Trust no one.
A chill spreads through me as I drop the tongs onto the counter. If Reeves couldn’t safely meet me, then what does that say about the power Damien wields? And how the hell did this warning get into my locked apartment?
My gaze drifts over to the bags I dropped by the front door, the warning from the train platform still reverberating in my brain as well.
Cancel. Walk away now.
Instead, I reach for my phone, typing a message to Damien’s number that I saved in my phone earlier.
Me
I’ll attend. What time can I expect the car?
His response comes almost immediately, as if he’s been waiting by his phone for my confirmation.
Damien
8 p.m.
I debate whether I should say something back, but decide against it just as a second and final text comes in from him.
Damien
Eager to see which dress you chose, Eve. Good night.
The implication, or almost admission, that he is in fact watching me, should terrify me . . . and it does. But more than that, it excites me.
Whatever game Damien is playing, whatever web he’s weaving, I’m now determined to unravel it from the inside out, before he unravels me.