Chapter 7
Evie
“Whoa. You’re leaving? It’s not even eight.”
Shonda’s close to my side, backpack slung over one shoulder, heels clicking in time to mine.
“Dinner plans? Something exciting?”
“Please,” I say with a roll of my eyes, pushing through the lobby turnstile to exit our building. A security officer stands to the side, but he doesn’t make eye contact.
“I have plans.”
“Great.” I step outside, glancing up and down the street. With no cab in sight, I thumb the rideshare app.
“Hey, what’s wrong?”
It’s the concern in Shonda’s tone that has me replaying our conversation. She has a date. I didn’t bite.
“Sorry. I just need to get home. Who’s your date with?”
“I didn’t say date.” Her hand falls to my wrist, forcing me to look up from the driver options listed on the app. “What’s wrong?”
I scan the area behind us. Streetlights bathe the sidewalk in a late evening glow and a mix of headlights and brake lights blanket the street. It’s not quiet outside, but the evening sounds are softer.
There’s nothing unnerving, yet I’m rattled—on edge.
Shonda isn’t on the Safe Passage case, but she understands procedure. I guide her to the side, near a park bench, out of the way of pedestrians.
“What is it?”
I pause, reading Shonda’s questioning expression, her dark brown eyes framed with impeccable eyeliner. She’s concerned. And trustworthy.
“Evidence is missing. Witness records. Removed from the system.”
“That’s not possible.” She shakes her head. Adamant and certain—because she believes in the system.
“I’m telling you. I’ve been working—”
“The case is closed.”
“I’ve been working on closing it out,” I say with an edge. If I’m sharing this, she needs to listen.
“What work?”
“Going through my files. Ensuring they’re in order for easy review when the case is reopened.”
Her lips purse and she crosses an arm over her middle.
“What? It’s going to be reopened. Maybe in the next administration, but eventually. Files I possess are no longer on the drive.”
“Maybe they got misfiled. Happens all the time.”
“Does it? Really?” Is that what she’s going with?
“Evie, you’ve been instructed to drop it. And I know this because everyone knows this. Everyone heard Rebecca tell you. And, for that matter, everyone heard your unprofessional response. Everyone is talking about this. Michael Harridan is pissed. What the hell are you doing?”
“Shonda, are you listening to me at all?”
She stops walking. “I heard you. Files are missing. Your brakes failed.” She says it back flatly, like she’s reading from a report. “And you think it’s connected.”
“Don’t you think that’s worth—”
“I think you’ve had a brutal few months and you’re not ready to let go of this case.” She exhales. “And I think that’s completely understandable. But Evie—you’re going to get a reputation. And not the kind you want.”
A car speeds by on the street, hitting a pothole. We both turn at the noise.
“You’re the only one I’ve told,” I say. “And you have to admit it’s odd.”
“Maybe. But odd doesn’t mean connected.” She adjusts the strap on her shoulder. “And your brakes—you’re still thinking that’s related too, right?” Another exhale. “You need a ride?”
I wave my phone. “I’ll get one.”
“Come with me.”
“You’ve got plans.”
“I do. But you’re on the way. I’ll drop you off.”
She takes off and stops three steps away.
“Come on,” she calls. “We can talk in the car.”
I follow her to the parking garage, two steps behind her because she’s tall and I can’t keep up with her in my heels. The two-inch block heels work for the office, but they still slow me down.
When we reach her red BMW, the lights blink twice signaling she’s unlocked it, and we climb in.
“Thanks for giving me a ride.”
She’s silent until we’re out of the garage.
“Are you mad at me?” I ask, breaking the silence.
“Girl, no.” She flicks a signal and presses hard on her accelerator, swooshing past a car seemingly looking for parking.
“I’m just worried about you. Even if you’re right—and I am not saying you are—you get that only someone with rank could pull that shit.
You’ve been told to drop it. This is your career.
You’ve worked your ass off. And I know you did because I know what I did to get here.
And you’re what? Going to disregard Rebecca?
A US attorney? She told you to drop it. There was no hedging.
What do you think you’re doing?” With a dismissive shake of her head, she stares ahead, tapping her fingers on the wheel to the time of a song on the radio.
I sit back, letting my anger swell. What I’m doing is the right thing. I promised a witness safety. Nothing about this is normal. Everything about the case is fucked.
And for whatever reason, Shonda seems angry.
“Why are you mad at me?”
“Mad?” Shonda asks, all attitude. “Hell no, girl. I’m not mad. I told you, I’m worried. I need your feet on the ground. You get your ass kicked out and I’ve got to spend my days with Mikey Mike and the duds.”
I grin, because Michael Harridan is not my favorite either. But I didn’t choose a career in law to expand my friendship circle. With that thought, I dig a finger into my throbbing temple and stare at the floor mat, tapping my foot, wanting Shonda to drive faster.
Whatever’s going on with Shonda will pass. I won’t say anything else to her and she’ll believe I dropped it.
What I can’t drop is the scanning. Someone is systematically pulling evidence—witness records gone, case files thinned. If they’re working through the system, they’re not done. Which means I need to be faster.
A rule follower, I kept all electronic files on our server. Nothing on a private computer or server. The paper copies? Allowable.
When I scanned files this past weekend? Yeah, not allowed. But I had this feeling… thank god I did. The problem is I didn’t finish.
I need to get home and complete it tonight. Contact numbers. Street addresses. The details on Lina I haven’t committed to memory yet. Once it’s gone from the server, it’s gone.
“What’re you thinking?” Shonda pulls me back to the car.
“You don’t need to worry.” Her posture shifts, mouth open slightly, and I hold up a hand to stop her. “I hear you. I won’t do anything to get fired.”
“Good.”
She pulls up in front of my place. She couldn’t park even if she wanted because there’s no available street parking, so I hop out quickly.
“Wait, where are you off to?”
“Book club,” she answers with a wide smile. “If it’s good, I’m gonna make you join next month.”
“We’ll see. Thanks for the ride.” I close the door and wave, stepping to the curb out of the way of traffic. I don’t know how Shonda has time to read for pleasure. I spend hours reading—and it’s almost never fun. Such is the life of a lawyer.
I shove the key in my front door, push it open, and kick the door closed. Entering my place through the front is one more reminder I really need to sort out the car situation. I prefer to enter my place from the back where there’s a coat hook.
But instead of going through the kitchen to the coat hook, I head straight up the stairs to my home office.
The files will be there. Of course they will. But I need to see them—need to know what I still have before more disappears from the server.
Atlas pokes his head from the bedroom threshold.
“Hey, boy.”
He sits. Tail flipping back and forth.
I don’t stop. He’s not the kind of cat that wants attention. He’s a watcher.
The binders are lined up on the credenza exactly where I left them. Neat. Orderly. Color-coded tabs peeking out at precise intervals.
I let out a breath.
See? I tell myself. You’re fine. You’re tired. You—
I stop.
The third binder from the left is angled differently. Not by much. Just enough that the spine isn’t perfectly flush with the others.
I reach for it slowly, my fingers suddenly clumsy. Inside, the pages are intact. Mostly. I flip through, faster now, my eyes scanning margins and headers and handwritten notes I know as well as my own signature.
Page numbers in pencil. Bottom right corner.
Seventeen.
Eighteen.
Twenty-one.
My breath stutters.
I flip back. Forward. Again.
Pages nineteen and twenty are gone.
Not torn. Not ripped out hastily. Cleanly removed. No ragged edge. No damage to the binding.
I sink into the desk chair, my knees weak, my gaze blurring as I force myself to keep going.
Another binder. Another gap. Different section. Not consecutive. Not random.
Targeted.
I pull open the file drawer beneath the desk. Everything looks normal at first glance. Manila folders stacked neatly, labels facing out.
Until I reach Lina’s file.
It’s still there. The folder itself hasn’t moved.
But it’s thinner.
My hands shake as I open it. Intake forms. Case notes. Interview transcripts.
Her contact sheet is missing.
Not the entire page—just the second copy I made for myself. The one with the handwritten notes in the margin. The one that listed the cousin she trusted. The address she wouldn’t give the FBI until the last interview.
The room feels suddenly too small. Too quiet.
This wasn’t a burglary.
Someone came into my house and read my work.
I push back from the desk, my chair rolling an inch before stopping. The mug I left on the bookshelf yesterday is gone from the coaster and sitting on the windowsill instead. Cold. Empty.
I didn’t place it there.
There’s no question. Someone was here. In my home.
My phone is in my hand before I realize I’ve reached for it. I stare at the screen, my thumb hovering over Shonda’s name. Scott’s.
The police.
And then I see the problem as clearly as the gaps in my files.
There’s no forced entry. Nothing of value is missing. No proof anyone took anything—only proof, in my own mind, that they knew exactly what to take.
If I tell someone my coffee mug moved, they’ll think I’m grasping at shadows. Tell them pages are missing, they’ll think I misplaced them.
I lower the phone.
The doorbell rings.
Once.
I flinch, my heart slamming hard against my ribs.
A pause. Then another ring. Longer this time. More insistent.
I sit there. Stunned. Envisioning someone in this room—likely wearing gloves.
Another ring. Crossing from annoying to rude.
I move toward the stairs on instinct, my body buzzing, my thoughts scattering as I take them two at a time. By the time I reach the front door, I’m shaking, breath coming too fast, fear and fury tangling in my chest.
I wrench the door open.
“Evie.”
Gabe stands on the stoop, his expression hard.
“What the hell are you doing?” he says. “You don’t open the door like that. Always check.”
And that’s when my legs give.