Chapter 73
Evelyn's POV
I pulled out a worn manila folder, the edges soft from years of handling, and carried it to my kitchen island.
Inside were police reports I'd stolen from the precinct when I was nineteen, newspaper clippings from the brief coverage my mother's death had received, handwritten notes I'd made before Arthur had sent me away—before I'd understood that investigating on my own would only get me killed faster.
Maria Valentine, 40, found deceased in her apartment. Blunt force trauma. Case remains open.
That's all she'd been to the NYPD. A statistic. Another dead woman in a city full of them, another case that would go cold because nobody cared enough to solve it. Because women like my mother—working class, drowning in debt—didn't matter to people with badges and pensions and comfortable lives.
But she'd mattered to me.
I spread the documents across the marble counter, my hands moving automatically through a sorting process I'd developed years ago. Police reports here. Witness statements there. The few grainy surveillance photos I'd managed to obtain through methods that would have landed me in jail if anyone had caught me.
Photos of men entering our building the night she died. Men in expensive suits with dead eyes and the kind of swagger that came from knowing you could hurt people without consequences. Men who worked for someone powerful enough that even the cops looked the other way.
I didn't need the photo to remember their faces. Those were burned into my memory with the kind of clarity that seven years and Vorkuta's brutality couldn't erase. But the photo had other uses—timestamps, license plates in the background, details that would help me track them down when the time came. Evidence I'd need to hunt them properly.
I'd spent months tracking them before Arthur had found out what I was doing. Had followed them to their usual haunts—a social club in Little Italy, a restaurant in Chinatown, a warehouse in Red Hook where they conducted business that had nothing to do with legitimate enterprise. Had memorized their routines and their weaknesses.
Then Arthur had discovered my research and everything had changed. He'd sat me down in his study and explained very carefully that investigating my mother's murder would only get me killed. That these men were connected, protected, part of an organization that had been operating in New York for decades. That I was just one girl with no resources and no protection, and they would crush me without a second thought.
Then he'd taken the files from me. Told me it was for my own good. For my safety. That he'd handle it—that he'd use his connections to look into the case, to find justice for my mother through proper channels.
I'd believed him because I'd been desperate and nineteen and terrified. Because I'd wanted so badly to think that someone with power would actually help me. That justice was possible if you just asked the right people in the right way.
But Arthur had never looked into it. Had never used his connections or his resources or his influence. Had simply swept it under the rug like it didn't matter, like my mother's life and death were inconveniences to be managed rather than wrongs to be righted.
And I'd let him.
Before Arthur sent me away, I'd stolen the files back from his study. I'd thought I'd never return to New York, thought I was being exiled forever, and I'd wanted to take more than just my mother's cross with me—wanted to carry some piece of her, some proof that her death had mattered to someone even if it didn't matter to the NYPD or Arthur Winthrop or anyone else with power.
Then I'd met Viktor in Russia. And everything had changed.
I was staring at a surveillance photo—blurry but clear enough to show three men entering my old building—when someone knocked on my door.
My entire body went on alert, adrenaline spiking through my system as I reached automatically for the Glock I'd left on the counter. The knock came again—firm, professional, and somehow familiar even though I'd only heard it once before.
I gathered the documents quickly and shoved them back into the folder, then tucked it under a kitchen towel before approaching the door. Used the peephole to confirm what I already suspected.
Webb stood in the hallway, looking exactly as he had when he'd delivered Julian's clothes this morning—expensive suit, professional demeanor, the kind of careful neutrality that came from years of working for someone who didn't tolerate mistakes.
I kept the gun out of sight but didn't put it down as I opened the door, not bothering with the chain this time. Webb had already proven he wasn't a threat—at least not the kind that required a locked door between us.
"Mr. Webb," I said, my voice flat. "I wasn't expecting another delivery so soon."
He offered that same polite, professional smile. "Mrs. Valentine. I apologize for the intrusion. I'm here on behalf of Titan Security to discuss a business matter."
"A business matter." I leaned against the doorframe. "Does your boss make a habit of sending you to conduct business with women in their apartments?"
"Only when he gets himself thrown out," Webb said mildly, and I had to give him credit for not flinching under my stare. "May I come in? This is a rather sensitive conversation to have in a hallway."
I considered slamming the door in his face. Considered telling him to pass along to Julian that I'd meant what I said about there being nothing more to discuss. That sending his assistant to my apartment less than two hours after storming out wasn't going to change anything.
But I also needed to know what Julian wanted. Needed to understand if this was his way of trying to control me, or if—impossibly—he was actually trying to help.
I stepped aside and let Webb enter. He walked to my kitchen island with the same casual confidence he'd shown this morning, pulled a folder from his briefcase, and set it down carefully—far enough from the towel hiding my mother's case files that it couldn't have been accidental.
Webb knew how to read a room. Knew when to give people space.
"Mr. Russell wanted me to present you with a formal offer," Webb began, opening the folder to reveal what looked like a standard consulting contract. "Titan Security is conducting an investigation into the attempted assassination of Senator Caldwell. Given the... unusual circumstances surrounding that incident, and given your unique position as someone with intimate knowledge of the parties involved, Mr. Russell believes you could provide valuable insight."
I stared at the contract, trying to process what I was hearing. "He wants to hire me to investigate the case where I was the assassin?"