Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 96957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
He leaned forward resting his elbows on his knees while shooting a wink at me. “Or that.”
*
The next day, my dad followed me to Sacramento to be there when the moving company arrived and helped me get settled. He usually ignored Jericho. Apparently, Mom’s dog Gunner didn’t like my dad. That might have been part of it, but most of it was Slade. Dad hated that I insisted on keeping such a big part of the man who was hired to kill me. Still … before he headed home to San Francisco, he rubbed Jericho’s head and told him to take care of me. It was the first time he made any sort of recognition that Jericho was not only special to me; he was, in fact, my protector.
I had twenty-four hours to get settled before my first day on the job at the most prestigious law firm in Sacramento … maybe in all of California. They had won some of the biggest environmental lawsuits in history: most notably, a multi-billion-dollar one against a petroleum giant and another one against a company that had been knowingly poisoning people with its coating for nonstick pans.
“Relax …” I said, blowing out a breath before stepping onto the elevator that took me to my new firm on the eighteenth floor.
A bright-eyed woman with dark skin and straight black hair greeted me with a warm smile from behind a sleek glass desk the second I stepped off the elevator.
“Hi. I’m—”
“Livy Knight. I’m Rosalie. We’ve been expecting you. Welcome. Follow me.”
Before I could get out another word, she led me down a wide hallway to a conference room with a full glass wall, a long table, leather chairs, and a monitor on the only wall that wasn’t glass or windows to the Sacramento skyline. The familiar face of Timothy Morten, who personally drove to San Francisco the previous month to recruit me, smiled, as did his partner, Trisha Brattebo. We chatted via video after Tim’s trip to San Francisco.
“Go on in. Good luck.”
I smiled at Rosalie. “Thank you.”
“Livy, come in. Sorry to throw you in the deep end before you get to see your new office, but Mr. Wright will be here soon.”
“Have a seat.” Trisha gestured to the chair next to her. “Nice to see you in person.”
“You too.” I tried to control my nerves while taking a seat, thankful they didn’t offer to shake my embarrassingly sweaty hand. “Who’s Mr. Wright?”
“Floyd Wright.” Trisha curled her wispy auburn hair behind one ear and gave me a conspiratorial look.
“Floyd Wright as in Off Grid Transportation?”
Timothy chuckled at my shock, and I cringed as my immaturity stood on full display. Of course, environmentalist, activist, billionaire Floyd Wright would have used Timothy and Tricia for his legal needs. They were the best.
“Yes. That Floyd Wright. We were supposed to meet tomorrow, but he had a change in his schedule for security reasons. Sadly, his activism has put him in danger.” Timothy nodded behind me. “There’s his team now. He’s on his way up.”
I glanced behind me. Two men and a woman, all in black suits, inspected the area, including all of the offices.
“Team?” I again showed my shock or ignorance.
“Security,” Tricia added.
I nodded slowly.
“I wanted you to sit in on this with us just to observe and to meet Floyd. You could be working with him in the future.”
My bladder screamed. I needed to pee. The rush of nerves quadrupled with the news of sitting in on a meeting with the Floyd Wright on my very first day. I reached into my purse to fish out a breath mint. My mouth suddenly felt like the desert.
“Floyd, good to see you again,” Tim said before I could get the mint popped into my mouth. I dropped it back in my purse and lifted my head, plastering on a smile like I wasn’t shaking to my bones.
I thought it couldn’t be more intense and surreal—me in the same room as Timothy, Tricia, and Floyd.
I was wrong.
The man standing at the door, guarding it in a suit with a crisp white shirt, perfectly knotted tie, and neatly trimmed beard was … him.
A ghost.
An illusion.
A lie.
He was dead. He died. I watched him close his eyes, taking his final breath.
I mourned him.
I spent years in therapy.
I slept next to his dog every night.
Things were said. Introductions were made. Yet, I heard nothing more than echoes of sound until Tricia touched my shoulder. “Livy, are you okay?”
It was then that I realized everyone was standing and shaking hands except me. Tearing my gaze from the ghost that gave me an emotionless expression, at his post like a wooden soldier, I pressed my hands to the table and tried to stand. “F-fine.”
“Whoa … are you sure?” Tricia grabbed my arm as my knees started to buckle the second I attempted to stand.