DANCING WITH SHADOWS
Maya's POV
The invitation arrives by messenger at exactly 5 PM, thick cardstock that smells of expensive paper and hidden agendas. "Seattle Tech Innovation Gala," embossed in silver lettering that catches the dying afternoon light streaming through my office windows. Ethan's handwritten note paperclipped to the corner reads: "Thought you might enjoy meeting Seattle's tech pioneers. They remember your parents fondly. Black tie, 7 PM. I'll pick you up. -E"
My hands shake as I hold the invitation, the weight of it heavier than paper and ink should be. The Seattle Tech Innovation Gala is legendary—an annual gathering where deals worth millions get made over champagne and carefully orchestrated conversations. I've heard partners at my firm talk about it in hushed tones, describing it as the kind of event where careers are born or buried depending on who you know and what secrets they're willing to share.
But what freezes my blood is the realization that my parents would have attended this exact event fifteen years ago, back when they were Seattle's golden couple of cloud security innovation. Robert and Susan Reeves, the brilliant minds behind encryption protocols that could have revolutionized digital privacy, would have been guests of honor at a gala celebrating exactly the kind of work that got them killed.
My black Valentino dress hangs in my closet like armor designed to look like elegance, the silk so dark it seems to absorb light rather than reflect it. I chose it specifically for tonight—high neckline, long sleeves, every inch of skin covered except for my hands and face. If I'm walking into a room full of people who might have known my parents, who might know why they died, I need to look invulnerable even if I feel like I'm drowning.
Ethan arrives at my building precisely at seven, emerging from a black sedan that screams money and power. His tuxedo fits like it was created specifically for his body, and when he smiles at me through the lobby's glass doors, I see the same predatory satisfaction I've been trying to ignore for days. But tonight feels different—like he's finally bringing me somewhere I was always meant to be.
"You look stunning," he says as I slide into the sedan's leather interior. The car smells of expensive cologne and something else—anticipation, maybe, or the metallic scent of plans finally coming together.
"Tell me about this gala," I say, testing his reaction. "Have you attended before?"
"A few times. It's where Seattle's tech community celebrates its successes and mourns its losses." His voice carries weight that wasn't there during our coffee date. "My mother insisted I go this year. Said it was time I started networking with people who remember the early days of the industry."
People who remember the early days. Like my parents. Like whoever killed them.
The Museum of Flight after hours transforms into something from a different world, aircraft suspended from the ceiling like metallic angels watching over conversations that reshape fortunes. The main hall buzzes with Seattle's tech elite—venture capitalists, startup founders, patent lawyers, the kind of people who build empires on other people's innovations. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over faces I recognize from business magazines, and the air tastes of champagne, ambition, and secrets worth killing for.
Ethan introduces me to a parade of executives whose names I catalog like evidence: Patricia Chen from quantum computing, Michael Rodriguez who built his fortune on social media algorithms, Jennifer Walsh whose biotech patents revolutionized genetic therapy. Each handshake feels like a test, each conversation a careful dance around topics that might reveal too much.
But it's the way older executives look at me that makes my skin crawl. Not with romantic interest, but with recognition that goes deeper than my professional reputation. They see something in my face that reminds them of ghosts from fifteen years ago, and their smiles carry weight that has nothing to do with networking pleasantries.
I excuse myself to the ladies' room, but instead slip into an alcove near the museum's historical displays where conversations echo off metal and glass. Two men in expensive suits stand with their backs to me, voices low but carrying in the acoustics designed to showcase aviation history.
"...always wondered what really happened on that mountain road," the taller man says, swirling brandy in a crystal glass. "Weather report showed clear skies that night, no precipitation, road conditions were perfect."
"Richard was thorough, I'll give him that." The shorter man's voice carries the weight of someone who's spent years keeping secrets. "Made it look exactly like what it needed to look like. But those of us who knew Susan and Robert... we knew they were too careful to drive off a cliff because of weather that wasn't even there."
My blood turns to ice water. Richard—Ethan's father. And they're talking about my parents' accident like it was anything but accidental.
"Cross Technologies certainly benefited from their... departure," the tall man continues. "Convenient timing, right before the patent applications went through. Richard's innovations suddenly looked a lot more innovative after the Reeves couple wasn't around to contest ownership."
"Ancient history now." The shorter man glances around nervously. "Richard's dead, the company's legitimate, no point digging up old graves. Some secrets are better left buried with the people who created them."
I press myself deeper into the shadows, my evening purse clutched against my chest like armor. They're discussing my parents' murder like it's a business decision that worked out well for everyone involved. Patent theft disguised as accident, witnesses who chose silence over justice, a conspiracy that benefited everyone except the two people whose lives it cost.
Strong hands grip my shoulders, and I nearly scream before realizing it's Ethan. His face is perfectly composed, but his eyes hold something that wasn't there in the car—recognition that his carefully orchestrated evening is revealing more than he intended.
"There you are," he says, voice carrying just the right amount of concern. "I was worried when you disappeared."
The two businessmen notice us and their conversation stops abruptly, faces shifting into the kind of carefully neutral expressions people wear when they've said too much. The taller man steps forward, extending his hand with practiced political smoothness.
"You must be Maya Reeves," he says, his handshake firm but brief. "I'm David Sterling. I had the privilege of knowing your parents during their pioneering work in cloud security. Brilliant minds, both of them."
Sterling. The name tastes familiar, and then I remember—Victoria Sterling, Elite Connections' founder. This man shares her distinctive silver hair, her precisely controlled smile, her way of knowing things about my life that feel uncomfortably intimate.
"Susan was particularly remarkable," he continues, studying my face with unsettling intensity. "You have her eyes, her determination, her way of asking questions that make people uncomfortable." His smile grows sharper. "She never knew when to stop digging, your mother. Always convinced there were answers worth finding, even when finding them might be... dangerous."
The shorter man shifts nervously, glancing between David Sterling and Ethan like he's watching chess pieces move across a board he doesn't understand. "We should get back to the reception," he mutters. "Pleasure meeting you, Miss Reeves."
They disappear into the crowd, leaving me standing with Ethan while my world reshapes itself around the knowledge that my parents were murdered by his father for patents they'd developed, innovations that built the Cross Technologies empire on a foundation of theft and blood.
"Interesting conversation?" Ethan's voice carries a dangerous calm.
"Very." I meet his eyes directly, no longer pretending to be the naive inheritance-desperate lawyer he thinks he's manipulating. "Tell me, Ethan—what else should I know about my parents' relationship with Seattle's tech community?"
His smile doesn't reach his eyes anymore. "Only that some relationships don't end when people die. Some debts, some obligations, some connections span generations." He offers his arm with mock gallantry. "Shall we rejoin the party? I think you'll find the evening full of surprises."
But I've already found the most important surprise: my parents had enemies powerful enough to kill them and connected enough to make their murder look like accident. And those enemies are still alive, still networking, still protecting the secrets that built their fortunes on my family's blood.
The museum's suspended aircraft cast shadows across the reception hall like metallic birds of prey, and I realize I'm not attending a gala—I'm walking through a room full of people who benefited from my parents' death, hosted by the son of their murderer, while wearing a dress that might as well be a target painted on my back.
Some debts span generations, and tonight I'm finally meeting my creditors.