Drawn to death evelyn si.., p.1
Drawn to Death (Evelyn Sinclair Book 1), page 1
DRAWN TO DEATH
KAT SHEHATA
Copyright © 2022 by Kat Shehata
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover design by Deranged Doctor
In loving memory of JoJo
Thanks for the inspiration, Mom
CONTENTS
Prologue
1. Bones—Evelyn
2. Drawn to Him—Evelyn
3. Death Pose—Leo
4. Out of My Mind—Leo
5. Haunted—Evelyn
6. Toxic—Leo
7. The Death of Me—Evelyn
8. Ghost Story—Evelyn
9. Wanted—Leo
10. Taps—Evelyn
11. Damning—Leo
12. Unearthed—Leo
13. Heartbreaker—Leo
14. Losing Battle—Evelyn
15. The Messenger—Leo
16. Captiva—Evelyn
17. Best Shot—Evelyn
18. Walleye—Leo
19. The Vision—Evelyn
20. Prying Eyes—Evelyn
21. Love Letters—Leo
22. Caller Unknown—Evelyn
23. Boys and Beer—Leo
24. Buzzed—Evelyn
25. Missing—Leo
26. Hovering—Leo
27. Silent—Evelyn
28. Sixth Sense—Evelyn
29. Blackwater—Leo
30. Sabotaged—Evelyn
31. Whipped—Evelyn
32. Twisted—Leo
33. Curious—Evelyn
34. He doesn’t Deserve You—Evelyn
35. Meltdown—Evelyn
36. Disturbing Thoughts—Leo
37. Murder Van—Evelyn
38. Popped—Leo
39. The Windy City Stalker—Leo
40. The Aftermath—Evelyn
41. She’s Mine—Evelyn
42. Bodyguard—Leo
43. Polished—Leo
44. Bad Boyfriend—Evelyn
45. Fake Girlfriend—Leo
46. Devilish—Evelyn
47. The Buzz—Leo
48. Falling—Evelyn
49. Afterglow—Leo
50. Undercover—Leo
51. Frisky—Leo
52. Pass—Evelyn
53. Buffalo—Leo
54. Straight Up—Evelyn
55. Ghostly—Evelyn
56. Wrecking Ball—Evelyn
57. Linwood—Leo
58. Final Friday—Evelyn
59. Mercy—Leo
60. Unholy—Leo
61. Unleashed—Leo
62. Pinned—Evelyn
63. Mementos—Evelyn
64. Scarlet—Leo
65. Linwood—Evelyn
66. Blow—Evelyn
67. Obsession—Evelyn
68. Blown Away—Evelyn
69. Angels of the Windy City—Evelyn
70. Serve and Protect—Leo
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Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Kat Shehata
PROLOGUE
Sydney Reynolds
The handle on the bathroom door rattled.
I removed my cucumber eye mask and stared at the door, thinking maybe I had imagined it.
“Vaughn?” I called my husband’s name. “Is that you?”
No answer. The floorboards creaked in the hallway. Someone was out there.
“Honey?” Vaughn left for the hospital an hour ago to check on a patient. I couldn’t imagine he’d returned home. My client, Evelyn Sinclair, had an art show that evening. Since Vaughn had been called to work, we agreed to go separately and meet at the gallery.
Maybe there’s been a change in plans.
I drained the sudsy water from the bath, clicked off the spa music, and reached for a towel. Spa-scented bubbles clung to my body as I stepped out of the tub. The aromatherapy candles on the counter flickered when I tossed my towel in the hamper and replaced it with my fuzzy pink robe.
I searched the room for my phone to check my messages, then realized I’d left it on the nightstand in our bedroom. I turned on the lights, killing my atmospheric mood lighting, and moved to the bathroom door. I held my breath and listened for signs of life. No footsteps. No movement in the hallway.
The house was quiet except for the pitter-patter of raindrops beating against the windows.
Vaughn always changed his clothes and showered when he came home. Maybe he didn’t want to disturb my spa time and decided to use the guest bathroom to clean up.
Or maybe it isn’t him trying to open the bathroom door?
I shook off the thought. I wasn’t usually so paranoid, but I’d received a string of disturbing phone calls and texts from an unknown caller over the past few weeks that had my senses on high alert.
I had initially believed the calls to my cell were random. They were infrequent. Nothing more than the sound of a man breathing. But this morning, a gift box was on my desk when I got to work. A card was tucked into the ribbon with my name scrolled across the center.
I opened the envelope and read the note. “Wear this for me tonight, Sydney.”
No signature. Just a hand-drawn heart. My husband was a cardiovascular surgeon, so it wasn’t off the mark to draw a heart to hint that it was from him.
But when I opened the present, I was surprised to find a skimpy negligee and thigh-high silk stockings. I gasped from the shock and checked around the room to see if any of my coworkers had noticed. Thankfully, no one had. Naturally, my first thought was that my husband had sent the gift.
But it wasn’t like Vaughn to send something risqué that would embarrass me at work. A dozen beautiful roses, yes. But he never bought me kinky lingerie.
As I processed the boldness of the gift, I suspected my husband was not the sender. I had the uncomfortable feeling the raunchy gift and disturbing calls were related. I planned to discuss the matter with Vaughn that evening and then decide if the harassment warranted a call to Chicago PD.
Wear this for me tonight, Sydney.
My mind raced with disturbing thoughts. Did the unknown caller break into our home while I was bathing?
Do you seriously believe an intruder would be so kind as to wait for you to finish your “me time” before he attacked you, Sydney?
The idea was ridiculous. I had to be reasonable. Once I got to my bedroom and retrieved my phone, I would text Vaughn. He was never too busy to step away and return my call.
I unlocked the door and twisted the lock. As the door creaked open, I peeked into the hallway. I placed my hand on my chest and laughed with relief. An adorable teddy bear was holding a red satin heart, leaning against the wall.
Red and white rose petals were scattered along the floor like bread crumbs leading the way to our bedroom door. This was undeniably Vaughn’s romantic gesture.
Red roses for the passion that burns in my heart. White for the pureness of our eternal love.
Instrumental jazz music played, and the soft glow of a salt lamp created the romantic ambience that was the work of my sweet, handsome and very romantic husband.
I felt foolish for letting my imagination run away with wild ideas about an intruder.
I lifted the bear off the floor and cuddled him in my arms, smiling as I pictured my handsome husband strolling into the hospital’s gift shop and purchasing a cartoonish stuffed animal.
He often spoke of the sweet senior citizen volunteers who ran the gift shop, teasing me that one or two or all of them had a massive crush on him, the handsome heart surgeon who visited them daily for his chocolate bar and peppermints fix to satisfy his sweet tooth.
“I’m sure the ladies teased him when he bought you,” I whispered playfully to the bear.
As I headed toward our bedroom, butterflies of excitement fluttered in my stomach. I felt a rush of gratitude that I had married the kindest and most thoughtful man I had ever known. Vaughn was everything. I couldn’t wait to see what other surprises awaited in our bedroom.
I hope this means he’s no longer upset with me.
After we’d made love last weekend, I had hinted to him about spicing things up with some naughty play toys. He seemed insulted that I would prefer an instrument to take the place of his magical touch.
I hadn’t meant to insinuate that I needed more, just something different. He had a healthy ego, and after I’d suggested it, I felt guilty because I’d hurt his feelings. Vaughn hadn’t explicitly said as much, but he’d acted moody afterward, and we hadn’t made love since.
Surgery days wiped him out, and he rarely had the time or energy during the week to indulge in romantic encounters. I hoped to reward his thoughtful gesture with the pleasurable kind of kisses that drove him wild, along with a fantastic evening under the sheets.
I pushed open our bedroom door and glanced around to find my husband. More rose petals were scattered on the bed and all over the room, but he wasn’t there. Instead, there was a bottle of bubbly in an ice bucket, two champagne flutes, chocolates, and juicy strawberries—and the skimpy lingerie I’d received at work spread out across the bed.
This is wrong. I tossed the gift box into the dumpster behind our office and stuffed the skimpy contents of
Was he angry I wasn’t more receptive to his gift? Maybe he had come up with another way to spice up our love life without the sex toys. Did he think I wanted to wear this?
I glanced at the nightstand. The honeymoon picture of us on Captiva Island had been turned facedown—
The electricity went out. The room fell dark. Heavy footsteps thundered up the stairs.
Oh, God! I’d fallen into a trap. I fumbled through the darkness, desperate to reach my phone. The only light in the room came from flashes of lightning from the storm looming over the Windy City.
Crash! A heavy body tackled me and slammed me down on the bed. Instead of falling on a pillow to soften the blow, my head banged against the wooden headboard, knocking me nearly unconscious.
While I struggled to reorient myself, a man straddled my body and covered my mouth with a gloved hand to muffle my screams.
“You’re mine now, Sydney. He can’t have you anymore.” He pushed against me and moaned, aroused by my helplessness and fear.
A lightning bolt struck, followed by a rumble of thunder that shook the windows. While the room was illuminated for a split second, I saw my attacker’s face. He was wearing a ski mask.
I couldn’t make out his features, but something about his voice and his body’s familiar shape alerted me that the man shoving a gag into my mouth and securing my wrists with zip ties was someone I knew.
He tied a bandanna around my eyes to serve as a blindfold and secured my ankles with rope.
I screamed for help, but the gag prevented the sound from escaping my lips. I tried to fight him off and struggle free, but he was too strong.
I reverted to survival mode and remembered the lessons I’d learned from a self-defense class I’d taken with my girlfriends over the summer.
“If an attacker threatens you, fight for your life. Never let him take you to a second location. The place where detectives find corpses, not survivors, is Location B.”
Once my assailant had me subdued and silenced, he tossed me over his shoulder and lumbered down the stairs. I was disoriented from being upside down, and I’d hit my head so hard that I was sure I was suffering from a severe head injury.
I couldn’t see and relied on my other senses to navigate my nightmare.
The back door of our townhome opened and closed, then I recognized the sound of a heavy van door sliding open. My attacker dumped me on a pile of musty blankets. He slapped a handcuff on my wrist that was attached to a chain.
Oh, God. It’s him.
A new level of fear overcame me when I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt the identity of my attacker. I writhed and kicked my bound legs in a desperate attempt to save myself from the horror that awaited at the hands of my abductor.
I cried out for my husband. “Vaughn!”
The door slammed shut. The engine revved. The van sped off toward Location B.
BONES—EVELYN
Three months earlier…
“I saved the best for last,” Sydney said.
When my real estate agent rolled up to an old brick building on Halsted Street with a torn red awning and security bars on the first-floor windows, I thought she was playing a cruel prank.
“This is the place?” I pointed to the historic commercial building in Chicago’s famed arts district. The old warhorse had power lines zigzagging overhead and a battalion of street-smart pigeons ready to open fire on passersby.
“This is it, Evelyn.” Sydney slung her Louis tote over her shoulder and led the way to the entrance.
I treaded lightly under the tattered awning that proudly announced “Chez Arte” and tiptoed around the bird-crap splatters that littered the entryway. The droppings were so expressive and heavily layered that they held the spirit of a Jackson Pollock painting.
Once inside, I covered my mouth to stifle a scream. Inlaid tile floors, exposed brick, vast open spaces, and huge picture windows caked with no less than six inches of city grime.
“What do you think of her bones?” Sydney asked.
I slowly turned, taking it all in. “I’ll need to refinish the floors, replace some fixtures, power wash everything, rehome the vermin.” I pointed to a trail of rodent droppings along the wall.
I didn’t see the space for what it was. I was excited about what she could be. I imagined portable room dividers for our artists to hang their art and create gallery space for each individual. The wall on the far side of the room had enough space for a small stage and seating area for thoughtful presentations and conversations with the artists.
“What are you thinking, Evelyn?”
“This is in my budget?” I glanced up at an antique brass chandelier needing a good polishing. I flipped the light switch. Dead.
“It’s on the lower end of what we discussed, which gives you extra room to budget in the remodel. If you want to consider properties outside of Halsted—”
“No way. Location is nonnegotiable. The gallery must be on Halsted.”
“Right. Let’s continue the tour.”
When we reached the second floor, I pulled back the dingy curtains to let in the light. I saw a row of trees lining the sidewalk out the window. There was a bike rack in front of the building and another art gallery a block away. Perfect for cross-promoting with my fellow artists.
I’ve been a part of the highly publicized Final Friday Gallery Walks since I moved to the city as an artist and art lover. The idea that I would be a gallery owner and have a studio in the famed art district was my wildest dream come to life.
While I mentally tallied the remodeling bill, an unending wave of emergency vehicles roared down the street. Hearing sirens from police cars and frantic honking from firetrucks was as natural to the city as pigeons cooing over discarded hot dog buns.
But this was different.
I moved to the front window that faced the street to get a better look at the action. “Someone must’ve died to get this much attention.”
Sydney moved to the window and tapped on the glass, pointing out a line of law enforcement vehicles. “Murdered,” she said. “You don’t get that many cops if you have a heart attack.”
I nodded, acknowledging the native Chicagoan’s keen observation. I was from a small town in Ohio and had only lived in the city for a short time. I wasn’t naive. I knew Chicago was dangerous. I had stopped watching the evening news because the crimes were too disturbing.
In my short time in Chi-Town, I experienced city life’s positive side. An active social scene, museums, tourist attractions, Portillo’s hot dogs, the White Sox, the Bulls, the Bears, the Cubs, the Blackhawks, the Bean, the beluga whales at the Shedd Aquarium…
“Did you know it was going to happen?” Sydney asked. “The accident, I mean. Did you have a feeling you were going to die?”
I was absorbed in my thoughts and hadn’t noticed Sydney’s demeanor had changed. Her eyes glistened with tears, and she looked rattled. Her question had thrown me off. I had never mentioned my near-death experience and wondered what had prompted her to ask me about it.
Sydney must’ve read my bewilderment and elaborated. “I checked out your website. I wanted to find the perfect building for your gallery, and I did my research. Your survival story is amazing.” Sydney waved off her rush of emotions as if dismissing the conversation.
