Chapter 2: The Body on Willow Grove

No time for hesitation. I shoved aside last night’s half-eaten Kraft mac and cheese, grabbed my jacket, and bolted out the door. My battered old scooter waited by the curb. I tore through morning traffic, weaving past minivans and delivery trucks, the address she texted burning a hole in my brain.

The city was waking up—baristas shouting orders, joggers dodging puddles, kids with backpacks waiting at bus stops. I blew through every yellow light, barely feeling the wind sting my cheeks.

Willow Grove—Dalton’s pride and joy. Upscale, gated, all stone facades and manicured lawns. When I pulled up, Savannah was already at the door, pacing like a caged animal.

She looked completely out of place—hair wild, makeup smudged, hands twisting in front of her until her knuckles turned white.

I barely had time to park before she rushed over, grabbed my hand with a grip that said she wasn’t letting go, and yanked me inside.

Her grip was ironclad, almost frantic. She didn’t care about the neighbors watching from behind their curtains. Whatever happened inside had shaken her to her core.

“What happened?” I asked as we hustled through the foyer.

The house smelled like Pledge and freshly printed hundred-dollar bills. I caught a hint of Savannah’s perfume—vanilla, with an edge of something sharp, like nerves stretched too thin.

She bit her lip, voice dropping to a whisper. “Let’s talk inside.”

Her eyes darted around, scanning the marble walls as if even the crown molding could eavesdrop. I followed, pulse pounding in my ears.

She led me into a house straight out of Architectural Digest.

Every surface gleamed, sunlight bouncing off glass and polished marble. The silence pressed in, broken only by the faint hum of a Sub-Zero fridge in the kitchen.

Right there, sprawled on a leather sofa in the living room, was a man—stone-cold dead.

He looked almost peaceful, like he’d dozed off watching TV. But the color in his cheeks was all wrong, lips tinged blue. I’d seen enough bodies to know.

It was Evan Miller, Fairmont Group’s general manager—my direct boss.

I stopped cold. The world seemed to shrink around me. Evan wasn’t just a boss—he was my best shot at answers, maybe even at justice. Now, he was just another corpse in a fancy suit.

Damn. There went my best lead.

My fists clenched, knuckles popping. Months of digging—gone in an instant.

Not long ago, I’d uncovered a link between him and a child trafficking ring. A source told me he’d been seen taking a kid from a woman.

I’d been closing in, following the trail of breadcrumbs. My gut said he was the key. Now, the trail was ice-cold—permanently.

Never thought he’d wind up dead just as I was getting close.

It felt like a message. Someone knew I was getting close and decided to pull the plug.

I sucked in a breath, forced down my frustration, and turned to Savannah. “What happened?”

She wrung her hands, voice barely above a whisper. Her eyes were rimmed red, but she held it together. “I—I found him just like this. I swear.”

Her voice shook. “Mr. Dalton sent me to get some signed documents from Evan. I knocked and knocked, but he didn’t answer. The door was unlocked, so I let myself in and found him…”

She shivered, hugging herself tight. I could tell she was reliving it, over and over.

“You call the cops?”

She shook her head, gaze dropping. “No. I called Mr. Dalton first. He told me not to call the police yet, to get security—so I called you.”

“Not call the police?” My frown deepened.