Chapter Five

Adele

"I'm so sorry, Ms. O'Shea," the woman at the front desk apologizes as she puts the phone receiver down. "The sixteenth floor has been evacuated. The elevators are out of service, and maintenance is still assessing the damage from the fire."

I've been sitting in the huge lobby of the tower that houses Ecolab for the past hour, waiting for an update from Jim Pearson's contact, or anyone from Ecolab. I'm too high-strung to have the steaming tea offered, I suspect, in a bid to pacify me, so I just cradle it in my hands, letting the heat soothe my jangled nerves.

This was not how I imagined my day in Chicago going. I arrived at the tower to find half a dozen fire trucks pulling out of the premises, and most of the Ecolab's staff gathered at the fire assembly point on the front lawn. Apparently, a fire had started from a wastebasket and caught a desk or something.

What was most surprising, though, was the number of fire trucks that attended to such a small fire. Must be a Chicago thing because back home, the entire tower would have to be engulfed in flames to get that kind of fire response.

When after almost an hour of hanging around and no one could explain what we were still doing out on the lawn despite the fire having been contained, I marched into the lobby and demanded to either be allowed up there or have someone from Ecolab come down and speak to me.

I wonder if I look as miffed as I am, or if the woman, whose name badge reads Jenny, is just a naturally anxious person.

"I'm sure someone from the company will be able to give you an update soon," Jenny says, then hurriedly picks up the phone blinking with an incoming call.

After about a minute of listening, Jenny finally puts the phone down. "Um, Miss O'Shea, I'm really sorry, but I've just been informed that Ecolab will remain shut for the rest of the week."

I raise a disbelieving eyebrow. "Because of a wastebasket fire?"

She fidgets with a pen, her eyes avoiding mine. "Well, it's not just that. I've been advised the entire floor is inaccessible as it is now flooded due to the, um, heroic efforts of the fire unit." Jenny has the grace to look mortified. Quickly she adds, "Besides, there is to be a police investigation."

I want to laugh and cry at the same time. Heroic efforts to put out a wastebasket fire? The whole floor flooded in a bid to put it out? It sounds like it's the Chicago Fire Unit who need to be arrested to have their heads re-screwed on.

"So what now?" I snap angrily.

"I'm afraid you'll have to reschedule," she says, then shrinks back as if expecting me to explode.

I take a deep breath, trying to quell my rising irritation. "Reschedule? I flew all the way from Boston for this sample. It's crucial that I get it today."

She bites her lip, clearly flustered. "I understand that, but there's nothing I can do right now. There's no one up there to attend to you."

The tea in my hand is no longer comforting; it's just hot and annoying. "When can I return for it?"

"I'll need to check with Ecolab logistics and maintenance," she stammers. "But it could be weeks before that floor is cleared for operation again."

"Weeks! I don't have weeks."

She looks about to cry, and I almost feel bad for yelling.

"Look," I say, softening my tone, "I need that evidence as soon as possible. Is there any way you can get someone from Ecolab to give me an update?"

She nods vigorously. "I'll email the logistics team first thing tomorrow and copy you in on it."

"Thanks," I mutter, though it doesn't feel like a victory. Doug Harrison will be livid. He'll somehow find a way to blame me for this. And I can't even imagine what Jim Pearson will do to Doug.

I step outside the deserted lobby and pull my coat tighter against the biting autumn wind. Anxiety gnaws at me, each step heavier than the last. The evidence retrieval was supposed to be a simple task, but nothing about this trip is turning out simple.

I flag down a cab. "O'Hare Airport, please," I tell the driver as I slide into the backseat and settle back against the worn leather.

He nods, merging into the flow of traffic. I close my eyes and sigh, pushing away the growing frustration.

We drive in silence for half an hour until traffic starts to build, gradually slowing us down to a crawl. And then it becomes a standstill.

The cab inches forward every few minutes, the driver fidgeting with the dashboard knobs, frantically changing radio stations as if searching for traffic updates.

Minutes slowly turn into an hour, dusk giving way to a moonless night, and we've barely moved. I lean forward, peering out through the windshield, seeing traffic stretch as far as the eye can see—a sea of red brake lights and honking cars.

"What's going on?" I ask.

The driver shrugs. "No idea. Never seen it build this bad so quickly before."

I check my watch for the hundredth time. At this rate, I'll be lucky if I even make it to O'Hare by midnight. Maybe tomorrow's flight. Maybe never.

I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching as people start abandoning their vehicles, slamming doors with excessive force before marching off to investigate the holdup. I briefly consider joining them but decide against it.

Why ruin a perfectly good evening stuck in traffic by actually finding out what's causing it?

My phone buzzes, lighting up the dark interior of the cab. It's Dad. Again.

I stare at it, my finger hovering over the "End" button before letting it go to voicemail. The man has called me about a dozen times since he hung up on me this morning. Did he seriously think the fact that he hasn't forgiven me for that first time, or his tantrum today would stop me from doing my job?

What's his issue with me leaving Boston anyway? He needs to fucking chill out with the paranoia and take up a nice, relaxing hobby.

Like volcano climbing.

Instantly, a pang of guilt twists in my gut, as it always does when I chafe at his odd behavior or his overprotectiveness. I really can't blame him for being the way he is.

I finger my thin red scar through my shirt, a souvenir from an open-heart surgery at the age of five. One of a few aimless bullets had missed my heart by a hairline.

The bullets came from a deranged gunman who had opened fire in Airydale Children's Park. I was one of the many who survived.

My dad—who is, in truth, my uncle—however, lost everything that day. His wife, his two boys, his brother—my father, and his sister-in-law, my mother.

Stricken by grief, he'd nursed me back to health and adopted me. But as if the universe wasn't finished toying with him, I got thrown out of a car when a drunk cleared us off the road on the way to a hospital appointment, shattering my right hip in the process.

But here's the real kicker: all of that happened in Boston.

So why the fuss about never leaving Boston? My life has been more at risk in Boston than anywhere else on earth. But I suppose I'll never get it.

After I let yet another call go to voicemail, I decide to type him a reassuring text.

Daddy, can you stop worrying? I'm still in one piece, and no, I've not spoken to any boys. I'm now, in fact, on my way back. No alien abductions to report. Yet.

I switch off my phone before he takes that as an invitation to call—in other words, monitor my progress by demanding a minute-by-minute update on my location. Because nothing says, "I trust you not to get yourself killed," quite like real-time surveillance.

The cab driver leans out his window and shouts to a man walking back from the front of the traffic jam. "Yo, what's the holdup over there?"

The man shakes his head. "Some idiots in Porsches managed to wrap themselves around two huge Escalades. It's a real mess up there, but can you imagine there are no emergency services on the scene yet?"

"No shit," the driver responds. "How would they get through to the wreckage in this gridlock?"

"That's the other thing, though, man. Ain't no bodies over there. Given the pile-up you'd expect bodies, but . . . the cars are empty. It's a fucking mystery."

The forensic analyst in me is already putting the puzzle together. Four expensive cars in a pile-up. No emergency services. No bodies. It has ‘unnatural' written all over it. Deliberate even. I shut off my overactive brain before it conjures up a whole conspiracy theory to torture me with.

The driver thanks the guy, then turns back to me grimly. "Miss, it doesn't look like you're getting to O'Hare in time for your flight tonight."

I already suspected that, but having the man confirm it lends a note of finality. With a sinking feeling, I switch on my phone and start tapping, searching for hotels nearby, desperate for a warm bed and a moment of peace after such a hellish day.

I stop my scroll on The Chicago Marston, just less than a mile away.

"Hey, you know this place?" I ask, showing the driver my screen.

He squints at it and nods. "Yeah, nice hotel. Just off Wellington Avenue, not too far from here. It's that high-rise building you can see all the way from here."

I glance out the window, weighing my options. The hotel beckons, promising a hot soak and soft pillows to ease the day's stress.

The driver eyes me warily. "You're not seriously thinking of walking there, are you?"

I shrug. "It'll be faster than waiting for this gridlock to clear."

He frowns, his gaze drifting to the darkened overpass in the distance. "I wouldn't recommend that. Just wait a bit, miss, and I'll take you there once we start moving again."

His warning sends a chill through me, but the hotel's allure is too strong to resist. My phone buzzes again with another incoming call from Dad. I ignore it.

"Thanks, but I think I'll walk," I say, handing the driver a few bills. "I could use the fresh air."

He shakes his head, his expression worried. "Be careful, miss," he calls as I leave the cab.

The sounds of idling engines and honking horns envelop me as I weave between the motionless cars. The air is thick with exhaust fumes, and the glare of headlights illuminates the frustrated faces of drivers trapped in the gridlock.

I reach the median, pausing to catch my breath. The Chicago Marston looms in the distance, the skyscraper a beacon of comfort amidst tonight's chaos. The din of the highway starts to fade away as I dart across Wellington Avenue, the sound of engines slowly giving way to the chirping of crickets.

I reach the quiet side road and approach the overpass entrance, which looks like a gaping maw of darkness. I quicken my pace, my footsteps echoing off the concrete as I walk right past the entrance and cross onto the sidewalk, clutching my bag tightly. The cuboid shape of the empty evidence box digs into my side, mocking me with a reminder of the day's failures.

I sigh in relief when I finally take the small steps off the sidewalk and into the Marston's huge parking lot. The lot stretches out before me, the high-rise building standing out like a promised land.

As I begin the final trek, an eerie stillness hangs in the air, the silence broken only by the distant hum of traffic and the crunch of tiny loose gravel beneath my kitten-heeled boots. The lot is pitch black, which strikes me as highly unusual, but the soft glow of the hotel's lights urges me on. I allow myself a small smile.

Maybe things are looking up after all.

Suddenly, a loud pop shatters the quiet, echoing through the night. I freeze, my heart slamming against my ribs. That sound . . . I know that sound. It's the unmistakable sound of a gunshot.

My eyes dart around the lot, searching the darkness, but the cars obscure my view. The shot came from the far end. That much I'm certain of. Every fiber of my being screams for me to turn and flee back the way I came, and the driver's cryptic warning rings in my ears, but the thought of returning to the gridlocked hell when salvation is just a few hundred yards away is too much to bear.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing thoughts.

Maybe it wasn't a gunshot. Maybe my mind is playing tricks on me, conjuring up childhood fears of masked gunmen lurking in the shadows.

I force my feet to move, then I break into a jog, ignoring the dull ache in my right hip.

As I reach the middle of the parking lot, another pop rips through the air, stopping me in my tracks. This time it's followed by a scream.

Shit. That was definitely a gunshot. Without thinking, I dart behind the nearest parked vehicle, which, thankfully, is a large delivery van. I crouch low, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, my breaths pumping out in a light smoke in the night's chill.

I think I hear another groan in the distance, but I can't be sure. More than anything, I need to get myself out of this rapidly evolving nightmare.

What the hell is it about Chicago, and why, of all things, do I find myself in the middle of a shootout every fucking time?

Once more, I look toward the Marston, its promise of soft pillows and a warm bath rapidly evaporating. I'll take staying alive over all of that. It's not worth the risk of walking into a criminal operation.

I stay crouched for another ten or twenty minutes, ignoring the biting cold and my joints aching from holding the same position for so long. When I don't hear any more sounds, I straighten and begin retracing my way back to the safety of the gridlock traffic. With any luck, I might even find my cab driver.

Suddenly, my phone vibrates against the metal evidence box in my bag, causing me to jump and accidentally drop my bag. The small metal briefcase clatters noisily onto the asphalt and spins a few feet away.

As I bend to pick up the case and my things—a pen, a tube of lip gloss, and a case of Tic Tacs—scattered onto the ground, my worst fears come to life: Footsteps.

Oh shit. Someone is coming this way.

I can't tell from which end of the van they're approaching, but I know they are not the footfalls of someone walking briskly to their car. No. These are much too slow. Heavy, deliberate. As if looking for someone in hiding. Terror slithers down my spine.

I can't stay here. Whoever fired those shots might have seen me from across the lot, and I don't imagine they'd be thrilled with the thought of having a witness.

I take the chance and with a sudden burst of energy, bolt from my hiding spot, running back toward the road.

Cursing my utterly moronic idea of wandering around in the dark in a strange place, I dare a quick glance over my shoulder to search for any sign of pursuit, relieved to find none. Still, I don't slow my pace.

Just when I think I might have escaped whoever was looking for me, I slam into a solid wall of muscle.

I scream as the impact sends me back sprawling on my ass, my skirt hiking up dangerously as I hit the asphalt. Pain shoots through my elbow and shoulder, but I barely register it over the terror gripping my soul.

As I scramble to readjust my skirt, my eyes travel up the imposing figure standing over me.

He's built like a linebacker, with a weathered face and a deep scowl that raises the hairs on my nape. A black trench coat hangs from his broad shoulders, the fabric flapping in the breeze. I try to scoot back, desperate to put some distance between us, but he bends over, grabs my arms, and hauls me up as if I weigh nothing at all.

Visions of how I might end the night flash through me. Pumped full of bullets and thrown into . . . shit, what's the name of the river now? Yeah. Lake Michigan.

No, that'd be stupid. They can't throw me in the lake. My body would be too easily discovered. They'd bury me in a thick forest where no one would ever find me. But then again, they could drown me if they tied my feet to a concrete—

Focus! I screech at my racing mind and face my captor.

"I swear on my mother's grave, I didn't see anything. I didn't hear anything, and I won't say a word," my voice comes out in a trembling rush.

The man stays silent, his dark eyes boring into mine for an unusually long time, almost as if he's trying to work out what species of animal I am.

I take the opportunity to catalog his features: a sharp jawline that probably hasn't felt a razor in weeks, the scar cutting through his left eyebrow, the deep-set eyes that don't miss a thing, and the faint scent of mint clinging to his black trench coat. Clearly, this is a man who takes his oral hygiene seriously, if not his grooming habits.

He notices the metal briefcase which has slipped out of my bag and onto the ground again and bends to pick it up. "What's that?" His voice is rough, like crushed stones.

"It's a case," I respond automatically.

He glares at me, looking slightly insulted. "I know what it is. What the fuck is in it?"

My mind spins with possible lies I could weave. Nothing clever comes to mind. "Jewelry," I finally respond. I deftly slide off my bracelet and let it roll onto the ground. It's not much, but it's the start of the trail I need to leave.

"Stolen?" he asks, narrowing his eyes.

Something about the assumption irks me despite the fear. Can't I own precious jewelry? "It was my grandmother's," I say with as much indignation as I can muster under his intimidating gaze.

He jiggles the case and gives me a look that suggests he thinks I'm full of shit. "You always tell ridiculous lies?"

Apparently, yes. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you the truth."

"Which is?"

"It's empty."

My heart pounds as he fumbles with the case. I'm hoping this goon does not find the work ID I tucked in one of the pockets of the case holder. Working in the DA's office won't do me any favors with a criminal.

He glares at me again. "You're right. I don't believe you."

"Well, there's a shocker."

"Open it."

"I can't," I say truthfully, but I know he won't believe me. Although all it's going to take is swiping my fingers one by one along the fingerprint pad.

The Hulk doesn't seem too interested in the box because he picks up my bag, tosses the box back in it, and then asks for my name.

"Addy," I reply.

"Uh-huh," he murmurs, clearly unconvinced by everything coming out of my mouth.

"And what are you doing here, Addy?"

"I needed a place to crash."

He looks over his shoulder and jabs a thumb at the Chicago Marston. "You wanted to crash there?"

I nod yes.

He grunts. "And, how did you get here?"

"I took a cab."

"Right." He studies me again intently before asking if I'm alone.

"Yes, I'm alone."

"And are you Irish, Addy?"

I shake my head so fast that I dislodge my bun, causing my thick curls to tumble down my back. "I'm American."

Apparently sick of our conversation, he rummages through my bag and removes my wallet. He pulls out my driving license.

"Adele O'Shea," he reads out loud, noting my Boston address. His eyes swing back to me with shock and a glimmer of something that looks suspiciously like recognition.

I open my mouth to tell him I'm pretty sure we've never met before, but his face smooths into a frighteningly cold mask that makes me shut my mouth.

"You're coming with me, Red Wine," he growls, and then his hands become iron bands around me as he hoists me over his shoulder like a sack of flour.