CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
As Evelyn Caldwell guided her Audi along the familiar gravel road, she felt a familiar relaxation in her chest—like that first precious breath after too long underwater.
She welcomed each mile that separated her from Chicago, from board meetings and construction schedules.
The whole afternoon stretched before her, empty and quiet, a luxury so rare it felt almost decadent.
Her phone lay silent in the glove compartment, powered off the moment she’d turned onto the private access road.
She’d scheduled this retreat to the woods two weeks ago. But it seemed more urgent now, and not just because of work. It was also the news that had dominated Chicago’s headlines for the past three days. Three women murdered. Three women she knew.
Margaret Thornfield. Victoria Ashworth. Amanda Sterling.
The names echoed in her mind. Not friends, exactly—Evelyn had never been one to entangle business with the personal—but certainly women whose paths had crossed with hers in significant ways.
Women who, like her, had helped reshape a corner of Chicago, transforming neglected blocks into the gleaming Grand Horizon Mall.
Was there a message in these deaths? A warning?
If so, she was confident it wasn’t meant for her, but only for the triumvirate that made up Triad Ventures—if, indeed, the murders had anything to do with the mall. Her own connection to it had been long forgotten.
Still, it was a project she was proud of.
Grand Horizon had been her first major project as CEO.
While the Triad Ventures women had provided the vision and the financing, it had been Caldwell & Sons—her company—that had transformed their plans into physical reality.
Her crews that had cleared the land, poured the foundations, erected the steel skeletons that would eventually support one of Chicago’s premier shopping destinations.
There had been controversy, of course. There always was with projects of that scale. Protests about gentrification, complaints about displacement, a lawsuit that had gone nowhere. Standard obstacles in urban development—unpleasant but ultimately surmountable.
After the mall’s completion, Evelyn had moved on to other projects, and her interaction with the Triad Ventures women had dwindled to occasional nods at business functions.
She had never been part of their social circles.
The Triad women moved among old money and high society, while Evelyn remained more comfortable in the practical world of construction and development.
The Caldwells had built Chicago’s skyline, yes, but they also understood the importance of knowing when to step back, when to create distance between themselves and the consequences of progress.
Through the trees, she caught her first glimpse of the cabin—”Whispering Spirits.
” Then she guided the Audi into the small clearing that served as a parking area and brought the vehicle to a stop.
She sat for a moment, just listening. The silence was complete in a way that city dwellers rarely experienced—no distant traffic, no hum of electronics, no human voices.
Just the occasional call of a bird or rustle of leaves.
She stepped out of the car, stretching her back after the long drive.
The air smelled of pine resin and damp earth, a scent she associated exclusively with this place.
Evelyn moved to the trunk, retrieving her overnight bag and a small cooler containing the simple provisions she’d brought for her stay—cheese, bread, fruit, and a bottle of her favorite whiskey.
The path to the front door was lined with flat stones, placed there by her father decades ago.
Three wooden steps led to a small porch where a pair of Adirondack chairs faced the clearing, positioned to catch the afternoon sun.
Evelyn set down her bags and reached into her pocket for the key—an actual metal key, not the electronic fobs and security cards that protected her city dwellings.
The lock turned with a satisfying click, and Evelyn pushed the door open. She had always loved that first moment of entering the cabin, of stepping across the threshold from one world into another.
But this time, that moment of transition was shattered by something out of place.
In the center of the main room stood a small folding table that Evelyn had never seen before. Atop it sat an open bottle of red wine and a single glass, filled halfway with the dark liquid.
Evelyn froze. “What the hell?” she muttered.
The maintenance crew knew better than to leave anything out when they finished their work. They understood her insistence on finding the cabin exactly as she had left it. Besides, they would never presume to open wine, to pour a glass.
She took a tentative step forward, then another, her eyes fixed on the wine glass. A welcome gesture from someone? A thoughtful surprise?
But as she moved closer, another thought intruded, slicing through her confusion: Amanda Sterling had been murdered in her wine cellar last night.
The realization stopped her mid-stride. The three women connected to Triad Ventures, all killed within days of each other. And now this—an unexpected glass of wine waiting for her in a cabin where no one was supposed to be.
She needed to leave. Now.
Before she could even turn toward the door, strong arms encircled Evelyn from behind, pinning her arms to her sides.
Her bags tumbled to the floor as something thin and pliant was pulled over her head—a plastic bag, her mind registered with horrifying clarity. It clung to her face with each desperate attempt to inhale, the edges sealing against her skin as she struggled to pull air into her lungs.
Evelyn was no delicate society matron. She thrashed against her captor, her legs kicking backward, connecting with nothing but air.
But the arms around her were like steel bands, unyielding despite her wild movements.
Darkness began to creep in from the edges of her vision as her lungs burned for oxygen.
A voice whispered close to her ear, the words penetrating her panic with terrifying clarity: “I hope you recognize the vintage. It’s quite... special.”
The words triggered something in her—not recognition, but a surge of primal refusal to surrender. With what felt like her last reserves of strength, she drove her right elbow backward with all the force she could muster, aiming for where she imagined her attacker’s solar plexus would be.
The impact sent a shock wave of pain up her arm, but she was rewarded with an explosive grunt of pain from her captor and a momentary loosening of the steel grip around her.
It was enough. Evelyn twisted violently, breaking free from the weakened hold.
Her hands clawed at the plastic clinging to her face, tearing it away as she gasped desperately for air.
Her vision swam, but she caught a glimpse of her attacker—a man doubled over, one arm wrapped around his midsection where her elbow had struck. She didn’t recognize him. All that mattered was escape.
Evelyn staggered backward, disoriented, her legs unsteady beneath her. She collided with the small table, sending it toppling. The wine bottle and glass crashed to the floor, dark liquid spreading across the wooden planks like spilled blood.
As she tried to regain her balance, her ankle twisted beneath her. Pain shot up her leg. A sprain, her mind cataloged automatically, even as she forced herself to keep moving.
The man was between her and the front door, still hunched over but beginning to straighten. She couldn’t get past him. Her only option was the back door.
Limping, Evelyn lurched across the main room toward the narrow hallway that led to the cabin’s rear. The hallway seemed to stretch impossibly before her. Still, she pushed forward, one hand against the wall for support, the other outstretched toward the promise of escape.
She reached the back door, fumbling with the deadbolt. For one heart-stopping moment, the lock resisted, and then it yielded with a decisive click. Evelyn yanked the door open.
The woods behind the cabin were denser than those at the front, the underbrush thicker, the ground less even. Not ideal terrain for escape, especially with an injured ankle.
She had no choice.
Behind her, she heard her attacker cursing, heard the scrape of his shoes as he began to look for her. She closed the door behind her, then stumbled out into the afternoon light.
Somewhere out here, she needed to find a place to hide, a way to evade the man who was trying to kill her.