First off, let’s all appreciate the small details on the cover. I am super happy about the skulls on her dress.
Second, if you want to hear the scene where Seth and Merri meet read in an Aussie accent, go watch the VIDEO on the Kickstarter page for the fan kits (and maybe grab a fan kit while you’re there).
Third, the first chapter is below! Go read it and get excited for December!
CHAPTER ONE
I had an unplanned three-day weekend.
Three o’clock on a Thursday afternoon in April. In Chicago, my favorite city in the world. There were thunderheads gathering over Lake Michigan but, for now, downtown was a delightful playground of rushing cars, stressed commuters, and the bitter tears of the lives I’d ruined with a pink slip[1].
With no where in particular to be I meandered, crossing Clark Street at the light to reach a small city park with maple trees that wouldn’t reach maturity in this century, a little playground with a sun shade, and a recycled rubber tire running track that crossed through the limited greenspace like a drunken snake trying to bite its own tail.
It was too early for school to be out and too late for lunch, which meant the park was populated by a muddy handful of toddlers, their attendant adults, and me. I kept to the outside track, crossing a stone footbridge over a shallow dirt ditch that might become a small pond if it rained. Tulips bobbed in the wind. The forsythia was out.
Little flowers and cheeky sparrows.
I enjoyed it for about four minutes before I could feel my brain scrabbling around like a trapped rat desperate for escape.
Natural vistas had that effect on me. I needed something to think about. A job to focus on. Numbers. Problems. City things.
At the sound of a jogger approaching I stepped to the side so they could sweep past and catch the running track.
And sweep past he did. A gloriously muscular runner with olive-toned tan skin, a shock of silver-white hair shaved on the sides and long on top, a well-defined back and legs, and a black shirt sliding out of his waistband and dropping to the ground.
Well then.
It wasn’t quite the young Miss Bennet dropping her gloves so a militia man could retrieve it for her, but it was possibly the twenty-first century equivalent. Even if it wasn’t, it was only polite to collect the handsome man’s shirt and hand it to him.
I picked it up, shook off the dust and grass clippings, and held the shirt up for inspection. The owner was broad shouldered and the shirt was lean cut, meant to hug him and give everyone looking an excellent view of his well-defined muscles. Slightly more interesting was the word KILLER written across the front of the shirt in the font of the well-known horror brand, Slasher.
The jogger was a scary movie fan.
Not a lot to work with as openings went.
Scary movies weren’t my cup of cocoa. No movies were, most days. Sitting still for hours on end listening to other people talk made me restless.
Perhaps it wasn’t meant to be.
I folded the shirt neatly and when I looked up the jogger was watching me from the bend of the running track only a few feet away, one white earbud hanging off his shoulder, the other still in his ear. He was younger than the white hair suggested, maybe twenties or early thirties, dark brown, nearly black, eyes, high cheekbones, a well-defined jaw line, with a sharp, straight nose. He looked exceptionally intense and unquantifiably captivating.
“Is that my shirt?” he asked in a deep voice as delicious as he was. I could listen to that man read the dictionary and I’d love every moment of it.
I held the shirt up, letting it unfurl over my dress. “I don’t know, do you think it’s mine?” I let him get a good look at me. Large, dark reds curls that looked half a century out of date, a pink flower tucked behind my ear, pink lipstick, pretty smile, A-line green dress with pink flowers embroidered on it and a crinoline underneath for volume: I looked like a piece of walking history.
Twee. Sweet. Friendly.
Stupid.
I’d heard every verdict, but the dress made me look fabulous and I loved bringing a pop of cheer to people’s otherwise blighted lives.
“It’d look good on you. Killer.” The corner of his mouth lifted in a sexy smile.
Oh. No. I did not like that.
Actually, I did, very much, but I knew where sexy smiles led. It would be hot nightclubs, wild parties, and then a trip to the suburbs as Mr. Sexy waxed lyrical about “getting away from the city.” Pretty soon he’d be browsing baby name websites and talking about getting a dog.
No.
If a Timberwolf Town werewolf couldn’t tempt me, then a yappy little dog suitable for the suburbs didn’t stand a chance.
I held the shirt to my shoulders and tried not to notice how good it smelled. “It looks like my size, too.” Assuming it was supposed to be worn halfway to my knees. Jogging, dark, and handsome was also tall, dark, and handsome.
“I’ll let you borrow it some time.” The man had dark, hungry eyes that promised to make my flirtation worth my time.
“Sure.” That was never going to happen. I tossed the shirt to him. “Enjoy your run.”
The smile turned to a smirk. “Enjoy the view.” He secured the shirt to his waistband again and took off with a wink.
Confidence was always sexy, and I was very tempted to continue my little stroll around the park and see if the jogger wanted to join me for a post-workout snack somewhere. I was great at first dates. Lots of confidence and a big smile got me everything I wanted.
Second dates?
No one had tempted me enough to schedule a second date since college.
I glanced at the jogger again. Maybe no one had tempted me?
He looked familiar in that we-met-once-in-passing sort of way.
My memory for names and faces was legendary, but I couldn’t recall being introduced to him before.
It was going to bother me all afternoon if I didn’t pursue it.
As if the office had a psychic link[2] my phone rang, the quick staccato tattoo reserved for my boss. Work was there again, to rescue me from my worst impulses and save me from the kind of heartbreak ice cream couldn’t fix.
“Hi, Amara.” I moved toward the crosswalk, dodging a little green car that nearly swerved into me. Chicago drivers. So charming.
There was a tiny community garden space across the street, a safe distance from the sexy jogger.
“Merri, I just heard the good word from Windy City Security, you’ve officially slayed the wicked with of the upper west side. Did you break seven minutes?” Amara Rosa Park[3] was just as competitive as I was and she’d had my back in the office betting pool. Sloan and Markham is THE name in corporate accounting in Illinois. Amara is the head of the Forensics Unit.
Really, we’re a bunch of math nerds who read too many mystery novels and decided we’d grow up to fight white collar crime for a six figure annual salary. And in the land of the nerds, I’m the brutal boss b****.
“You make me so happy! Did Dulcie cry? I met her when I went in for the initial contact and…” Amara sighed. “Some people just look evil, you know?”
I pictured Dulcie Waterhouse in her gray pantsuit with a black silk shell under the jacket, there were two silver studs in each ear, a professional, asymmetrical cut for her dark brown hair, and dark red lipstick on a mouth pouring out more cuss words than could fit into a Monday morning commute when the trains were down. “She didn’t cry, but you may need to give the interns a bonus for reading my emails for the next few weeks.”
“More death threats?” Amara sighed. “What is it about you that attracts so much venom.”
“It’s the job.” And the fact that dressing like the lead singer from a retro throwback band made everyone underestimate me. What can I say? I have brains and beauty.
With a click of her tongue Amara dismissed the disappointing news. “Well, done is done. I’ll give the interns a heads up.” There was a chime in the background. “Oh, and there’s the first hit on social media. Want to hear it?”
“It’s not like I’m going to look it up.” I didn’t do social media. Despite having an email assigned to me along with my social security number I had the digital footprint of a ghost.
“The headline is ‘Chicago’s Infamous Grim Reaper Strikes Again.’ Good job.”
“I try my best.”
Amara made a happy, purring sound. “Did you try your very best with Harry?”
“Harry?” I stopped in front of a bench. “I’m drawing a blank.”
“Junior executive in accounting?” Amara dangled the tidbit.
Mentally I flipped through a detailed list of junior accounting people. “Not ringing any bells.”
“Henderson account?”
I shuddered.
“He sent you’re a gorgeous bouquet of day lilies-”
“He was telling me about how his parents were building a new house in Sugar Grove and how the commute was under thirty minutes to the city with the new high speed trains.”
There was a stunned silence and then Amara took a deep breath. “So…”
“So, thanks but no thanks? Give them to someone else.”
“He left a note too.”
Stupid man. It was only polite to read the note and find some excuse for why I couldn’t show up to Domestication Of The Wild Wifey 101. “Leave it on my desk. I’ll deal with it when I get back to the office.”
“About that….”
“You have another job for me before the weekend?” If there were gods who smiled fondly on math nerds I would have prayed. Numbers and patterns were my favorite candy. A weekend sorting through someone else’s finances as just as blissful as a bubble bath.
There was a hesitant little sigh which meant Amara wasn’t sold on the job but someone was begging. “This is an odd one. It’s not the bosses calling, it’s an employee, and she asked for you by name because she said you worked here, but she didn’t seem to know what it is you do.”
Weird. “The name?”
“Ellen Berry.”
Someone else would have a hazy memory of a schoolyard friend who they’d met during a game of tag turned head-on collision in kindergarten. My memory was sharper than that and off the top of my head I could rattle off all the major life events in Ellen’s personal history up until she left for college in New York. We hadn’t kept in touch mostly because I forgot people existed when I was working with math.
It was great for my bank account, not relationships.
“Merri?” Amara waited. “If I give you the address can you go over and see what’s going on?”
“Sure. Where am I headed?”
“Cozy Studies -“
“Cozy as in Cozy TV with the candy-dipped romances?” Good grief. “Can I fire the writers for their poor plotlines?”
“Only if they’re embezzling,” Amara said. “Otherwise, give them the quick, two-day special. A little workflow advice. A little hiring advice. And then get out of there because we have the Oretega account to tackle next week.”
Easy as mud pie in Mississippi. “Got it. In. Out. Tear-free.”
“If you make it tear-free I will personally buy you dinner anywhere in the city.”
“I like expensive food,” I warned.
“Cozy was just bought out by Slasher Corp,” Amara reported with maybe just a soupcon of glee. “You’re getting called in because Cozy is getting killed.”
[1] Technically this is a lie. Dulcie Waterhouse ruined her own life embezzling from her firm and the only tears were the tears of joy in her co-workers’ eyes when they realized she was leaving for good. And there wasn’t a pink slip. I convinced her to resign. I’m good like that.
[2] Or a stopwatch to keep track of the betting on the Dulcie problem.
[3] Named for Amara Enyia and Rosa Parks, obviously.
[4] Ha ha, I’m so funny!