Lies on Bristol Lake

Lies on Bristol Lake Jean Nicole Rivers For my mom: All the support, the laughter, and the love will never be forgotten. Come to the Dark Side Click HERE to join my email network and be the first to get FREE short stories, news on beta reading opportunities and availability of new ARCs, and much more. Table of Contents Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 If you enjoyed this book . . . About the Author Chapter 1 Eight months ago, I could have walked into the posh offices of Bell Pharmaceuticals with my desk buried beneath a jungle of roses, orchids, and plant life without a second thought as to their presence, but Naomi Bell had been dead almost a year now. A single white hydrangea is crowded under lambs’ ear in a short, circular vase, wispy willow branches curling out from it, tentacle-like fingers stretching up from a grave of pastel florals. Sure, the flowers could be unrelated to the death of my boss’s wife, but they are not. I know without even looking at the card. It’s a beautiful but creepy arrangement if there is such a thing, so much so that I can’t resist an internet search to identify each of the flowers accurately. As if that would somehow make the bouquet less elusive. Turning the tiny, cream-colored envelope I had plucked from the aromatic bushel over my fingers, I contemplate whether to violate Malcolm’s privacy. Here at Bell Pharmaceuticals, it’s still early, so few people have arrived to work. Despite the open concept of the small, overly modern, four-story building, stealing a glance at the card without anyone noticing would be easy. The entire point of these open office concepts—at least according to the designers—with their group-style desk arrangements and cutout walls, is to fuel collaboration and synergy, but for the bosses, they offer an adjacent motivation—no privacy. The first floor of the building contains the reception area, the fully stocked kitchen, a large conference room, a few groups of desk clusters, and an area near the back with an arcade-style basketball hoop and an air hockey table. Floors three and four are the labs, accessible only to those who have security clearance on their magnetic badges. On the second floor, my floor, are mostly administrators. There are only four private offices in the whole building, and they are here, including two for the Bell brothers, Malcolm and Emory. Walls of glass separate the private offices from the rest of the open space on the floor where desks are grouped. On the other side of those offices are floor-to-ceiling glass windows where I can see that, despite the sun’s continued rise, the murky morning has yet to brighten. Along the far wall on the other side of this floor are three confessional offices—little more than 7x5-ft. rooms, with a glass fourth wall, where one could escape to solitude. But there are ways to attain privacy when those rooms are occupied and over the years, they had all been discovered. Some people are reluctant to converse, to ward off a crowd gathering near their workspace for chatter; others wear headphones. Everyone has privacy screens and angles their monitors to make them effective. As the assistant to one of the two founders, confidential information passes my email and desk occasionally, so I, an island myself, have the luxury of a desk of my own apart from the clusters. I’m not sure if it is just Bell Pharmaceuticals or the industry, but everyone here comes only to do their jobs and go home. No matter how much it’s said or how much material is created evangelizing the same, this place is not a family. There is an unexplained, unmentioned coldness. I could rip my top off right now and whip glittering pink tassels attached to my nipples in wild circles and few would even notice, except Rania. Rania Burnett—marketing—makes confident strides from the elevator and drops her belongings at her desk. Her long, black braids falling against her mint-colored blazer in stylish layers makes the color of her fashion pop. Poison ivy. One of my guilty pleasures is making up unsavory nicknames for Rania daily based on her ensemble. Throughout the day, I refer to her by these aliases—in my head only, but this rather innocuous act of pettiness meets my need to express my disdain for her while maintaining professionalism. Often, I wonder what inspired her need to look like she walked off a runway to work at a pharmaceutical company. What childhood trauma activated this need to always look the best, to appear perfect? Isn’t that the soil in which all our inspirations and insecurities are based? It is certainly the reason why I listen when people speak. I mean really listen. I pay close attention to their words, how they use them, the pitch of their voices, the tiny gestures they make while speaking. Particularly, I’m interested in who is lying, the way my father did the day he left. “Morning,” I say in a half-whisper that barely reaches across the room. Outside of the office, I don’t know her, but I would bet my life that her husband (she wears a huge wedding ring and speaks of her spouse at any opportunity) rolls his eyes each time he hears her key in the door. She’s that type, calculating and cynical, with positivity rarely on her lips and that must get exhausting to the person who has to share her life. Rania returns a half-smile but no