The Wolfram Group building squatted in the Financial District like a black glass monument to power. Forty-three floors of steel and shadow, reflecting the morning fog that rolled off the bay. Ella stood on the sidewalk, clutching her coffee cup and trying to convince herself this was just another job.
The lobby screamed money. Italian marble floors, abstract sculptures that probably cost more than her apartment, and a reception desk that looked like it had been carved from a single piece of obsidian. The security guard who checked her ID had the build of an ex-Marine and eyes that catalogued every detail about her.
"Ms. Winters?" A woman in a crisp white blouse appeared beside her. Mid-twenties, auburn hair pulled back in a bun so tight it probably gave her headaches. "I'm Sarah Chen, Mr. Wolfram's executive assistant. He's expecting you."
The elevator ride to the thirty-eighth floor happened in silence. Sarah stood with her hands folded, staring straight ahead like she was afraid to make eye contact. When the doors opened, she gestured down a hallway lined with modern art that looked like controlled violence—all sharp angles and dark colors.
"Your office is the third door on the right. Mr. Wolfram will be with you shortly."
Ella's new office was three times the size of her old one. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a view of the Golden Gate Bridge through the morning haze. The desk was mahogany, polished to a mirror shine. A leather chair that probably cost more than her car sat behind it.
On the desk: a single manila folder.
She opened it and felt her stomach drop.
Crime scene photos. A dozen of them, each one more gruesome than the last. The victim was Marcus Blackwood, heir to a shipping fortune. Late thirties, athletic build, found dead in his Pacific Heights mansion three days ago. The official report listed the cause of death as "animal attack by unknown predator."
But Ella had seen animal attacks before, back when she'd worked pro bono cases in rural counties. This wasn't right.
The first photo showed Blackwood's body sprawled across his living room floor. Throat torn open, chest ripped apart. Blood had pooled beneath him, soaking into a Persian rug that probably cost six figures. The furniture was overturned, lamps shattered, artwork hanging askew.
She flipped to the next photo. Close-up of the throat wound. The tears were too clean, too precise. Like surgical cuts made by something razor-sharp.
The third photo made her hands shake.
Blackwood's study. Papers scattered everywhere, a safe standing open and empty. But it wasn't the obvious signs of burglary that caught her attention. It was the wall behind the desk.
Four deep gouges in the mahogany paneling. Parallel lines, evenly spaced. Each one thick as her thumb and deep enough to expose the drywall beneath.
Claw marks.
But not from any animal she'd ever seen. These were too large, too perfect. The spacing suggested something with a massive paw—or hand. Something that walked upright and had the strength to rip through solid wood like tissue paper.
"Fascinating reading?"
Ella jumped, nearly dropping the photos. Kaelan Wolfram stood in the doorway, looking like he'd stepped off the cover of Fortune magazine. Charcoal suit, silver tie, not a hair out of place. But there was something predatory in his gray eyes as they fixed on the crime scene photos.
"Mr. Wolfram." She forced her voice to stay steady. "I was just reviewing the case file."
"And what's your initial assessment?"
Ella glanced down at the photos again. Every instinct told her to tread carefully. "The official report says animal attack."
"That's not what I asked."
She met his gaze. Those storm-gray eyes seemed to see right through her. "The wounds are inconsistent with any known predator. The claw marks suggest something bipedal with opposable thumbs. And the precision of the throat wound..." She paused. "This wasn't random violence. It was execution."
Something flickered across Wolfram's face. Approval? Amusement? "Very good. What else?"
"The safe was opened, not broken into. Someone knew the combination. And look at this." She pointed to one of the photos showing Blackwood's hands. "Defensive wounds on his forearms, but they're shallow. He didn't fight back hard enough. Either he knew his attacker, or he was incapacitated first."
"Incapacitated how?"
"Drugs, maybe. Or..." She hesitated.
"Or?"
"Or he was too scared to fight back."
Wolfram smiled, and for a moment his teeth looked sharper than they should have been. "Excellent analysis. You'll fit in well here."
"What exactly am I supposed to do with this case?"
"Make it go away."
The words hung in the air like a death sentence. Ella felt the blood drain from her face. "Excuse me?"
"Blackwood's family is... concerned about the investigation. They believe the police are being too thorough. Too many questions. Too much media attention." Wolfram moved to the window, his hands clasped behind his back. "Your job is to ensure their privacy is protected."
"By doing what, exactly?"
"Whatever it takes. Legal channels, of course. Injunctions, privacy claims, procedural challenges. You're a clever lawyer, Ms. Winters. I'm sure you'll think of something."
Ella stared at the photos spread across her desk. A man was dead, torn apart by something that shouldn't exist, and they wanted her to help cover it up. "What if I can't? What if the evidence is too strong?"
Wolfram turned from the window. The morning light streaming in behind him cast his face in shadow, making his expression unreadable. "Then you'll find a way to make it weaker."
"That's—"
"That's your job." His voice had gone cold. "The job you signed a contract for. In blood."
The reminder hit like a physical blow. Ella's finger still ached where she'd pricked it with that antique pen. "I need to review the police reports. Interview the investigating officers. See what evidence they have that hasn't been released to the media."
"Already arranged. Detective Morrison will meet with you this afternoon. He's been... cooperative with our concerns."
Of course he had. In a city like San Francisco, everyone had a price. Ella wondered what Wolfram had paid for Detective Morrison's cooperation. Money? Favors? Threats?
"I'll get started on the research," she said.
"See that you do." Wolfram moved toward the door, then paused. "Oh, and Ms. Winters? Discretion is paramount in this matter. I trust you understand the importance of keeping our business confidential."
After he left, Ella slumped in her chair and stared at the crime scene photos. This was what she'd sold her soul for—or at least signed her blood for. Helping rich people cover up murders. Making evidence disappear. Destroying lives to protect the guilty.
But her father was alive because of that signature. She couldn't forget that.
She spent the next three hours poring over every detail in the file. Police reports, witness statements, forensic analysis. The more she read, the more convinced she became that this was no ordinary killing.
The forensic report mentioned trace amounts of an unknown substance found under Blackwood's fingernails. The lab couldn't identify it, but the chemical composition included proteins they'd never seen before. There were also hair samples—coarse, dark, with an unusual follicle structure that didn't match any known animal.
Most interesting was the timeline. Blackwood's security system showed him entering his house at 9:47 PM. The first 911 call came in at 10:23 PM from a neighbor who heard "screaming and what sounded like a wild animal." Thirty-six minutes. Whatever had killed Marcus Blackwood had taken its time.
Ella was so absorbed in the files that she almost missed the soft buzz of her cell phone.
Unknown number.
She hesitated, then answered. "Ella Winters."
Silence. Then, a voice like winter wind through dead leaves. "Stop digging."
"Who is this?"
"Someone who's trying to save your life. Drop the Blackwood case. Forget what you saw in those photos. Walk away."
"I don't know what you're talking about—"
"The claw marks, Ms. Winters. Four parallel gouges in the wall. You know they're not from any animal you've seen before." The voice was eerily calm, matter-of-fact. "But you're wrong about one thing. They're not from something that shouldn't exist. They're from something that's been hiding in plain sight for centuries."
Ella's mouth went dry. "What do you want?"
"Your safety. There are things in this world that don't belong in police reports or court filings. Things that will kill to protect their secrets. Marcus Blackwood learned that the hard way."
"Are you threatening me?"
A laugh like breaking glass. "I'm trying to save you. But if you insist on poking at sleeping wolves..." The line went quiet for a long moment. "Well. Let's just say that some contracts are harder to break than others."
"What do you know about my contract?"
But the line was already dead.
Ella stared at her phone, her hands shaking. Someone knew about her deal with Wolfram. Someone knew about the blood signature, the binding agreement that had bought her father's life.
And someone was warning her away from the Blackwood case.
She looked down at the crime scene photos again. The claw marks seemed deeper now, more ominous. Four parallel gouges that spoke of something powerful, something dangerous.
Something that might still be hunting.
The question was: who was protecting it? And why had Kaelan Wolfram chosen her to help make the evidence disappear?
Outside her window, storm clouds were gathering over the bay. The morning fog was burning off, revealing a city that suddenly felt full of secrets. Full of things that hid in plain sight.
Full of predators.