Page 2 of Promise of Destruction (Destruction & Vengeance Duet #1)

two

Soren

I'm living in the comments section of my online article, scouring the netizen thoughts for anything to go off of, when Emily knocks on the cubicle wall, drawing me out of my thoughts. There hasn't been anything useful in the sixty-two comments.

I expected a snowball effect. If I could suggest that Declan Evers was responsible for anything bad, I figured more accusations would follow.

The way he's always seen with a different woman (or three) tells me that he's exactly what you’d expect of a wealthy tech billionaire.

A womanizer, who goes through more pussy in a single week than I do underwear.

I've been obsessing over him for months, and still, I have nothing solid.

It's why Detective Fremont practically laughed me out of his office when I slapped my little file down on the desk in front of him last week after I barged in and demanded he quit dodging me and give me some goddamn answers. It’s why I took matters into my own hands.

He looks mildly less irritated now when I turn to see him standing beside his partner, a woman with dark hair in a severe bun that makes my head hurt just looking at it.

"Detective." I attempt a smile, but he knows as well as I do how fake it is. "What can I do for you?"

"You can stop trying to get yourself sued for slander." He says casually, his eyes flicking to the screen behind me. "I saw your article this morning. Surprised Aaron pushed that through, given that he golfs with Evers' PR rep.”

"Aaron likes a good story." I shrug, knowing that it's only a matter of time before my editor realizes that I ran the article he explicitly tried to kill. He’ll be annoyed with me, maybe even make me cover the worst of articles for a few weeks, but he’ll get over it eventually.

"It's just that, though." The other officer says, drawing my attention to her as I await further explanation.

"Just what?" I prompt.

"Just a story." She laughs, glancing at Fremont as if looking for permission to continue. "I mean, Declan Evers is practically a saint . He donates to the hospital, the schools, the children's home—"

"The police station." I supply, watching her shrewdly to see whether that is news to her. She only blinks before turning to Fremont, seeking confirmation. "Ever wondered how he has so much money to donate?"

The uniformed officer, whose nameplate says Costanza, looks at me as if she’s never wondered that, actually.

"You're barking up the wrong tree, Miss D'Anerio."

"Mrs." I correct him, my throat thick. "And I'm not barking. I took an axe to the tree." I shrug my shoulders, trying to look unbothered.

The reality of it is that I spent so long compiling everything I could find (which is admittedly, not a lot) because I’ve been terrified to go after him.

I've screenshotted every offhanded comment on social media, scoured hundreds of threads on forums, and analyzed every picture he's ever publicly appeared in.

I might even agree with them that I was barking up the wrong tree…

if this wasn't the only tree still standing in a forest of ashes.

"That axe might very well fall on your head next." Fremont warns me. "I know you suffered an unimaginable loss, but going blindly after a man like Evers..." He shakes his head, deciding he doesn't need to spell it out for me.

And he really doesn't. I know what I got myself into.

I'm prepared for battle if it comes to it. Battle is less terrifying than the idea of wandering through life without answers. And I have tried to get answers.

When the idea that Declan Evers may be the cause of all of my problems was first presented, I didn't believe it any more than these detectives.

But it's the only thing that made sense, so I tried to get an audience with him.

Apparently, the man has a Pitbull for a secretary, because she repeatedly denied me access to him, refusing to schedule an appointment for me to meet with him, refusing me entry to his office every time I showed up.

When his security team threw me out in the rain because I'd been trespassed from the property, I decided that was the last straw and took it upon myself to gather everything I could on the man. I’d have stood outside his house every night if I could find the address, but apparently society likes to protect the wealthy.

His home address, his cell, even his damn e-mail address is all regulated, monitored, or unlisted.

I decided if he didn't want to explain himself to me, I'd simply fill in whatever I could by myself. And the picture I painted? It’s terrifying.

If he's really the monster I think he is, he wouldn't hesitate to have me disposed of for exposing him. I'm counting on that, though. It's why I went so public with the article. If I go missing now, how can anybody possibly deny the suspiciousness of the circumstances?

If the worst Declan Evers can do is have me, a lowly reporter, disposed of, then I don't really have anything to fear... because I also don't have anything to lose.

"Is this a social visit?" I ask, growing irritated by his intimidation tactics.

I hedged my bets when I saw the contribution Evergreen Industries made to the Chicago PD last year, thinking surely a lowly homicide detective wouldn't be lining his pockets with contributions from the millionaire.

But Detective Fremont seems pretty intent on denying that Evers has any responsibility for what happened.

"You're not under arrest, if that's what you're asking." Fremont shakes his head and blows out a sigh. "But you should heed my advice, Miss D'Anerio."

"Mrs." I correct him again, this time through gritted teeth. "And if you're done offering me your little pearls of wisdom, I've got a crime to solve. I thought that was your job, but here we are."

I laugh coldly and push past them, desperate to escape. But I can't resist one last jab. Turning back to them, I gesture to the reception desk, the stack of today's papers that were printed for our personal use.

"Help yourself to a paper on the way out. It'll give you something to do for the rest of your shift. There's even a crossword puzzle on page nine."

The uniformed officer stares at me, gob smacked, so I decide to gift her one last nugget.

"Twelve across is murder , by the way."