When Betrayal Backfires

From the back cover

I died on a Tuesday, a stress-induced heart attack ending the brilliant career of Gabrielle Smith, Chicago's corporate law star.

My spirit lingered, an invisible spectator at my own memorial, watching Andrew Clark, my childhood friend and secret love, console Molly Johns, the paralegal I'd taken under my wing.

Then came the whispered confession that shattered my spectral peace: Molly, hysterical, admitted she swapped the evidence file to protect the client, promised a fortune.

But Andrew's next words were the real kill shot. Stroking her hair, he revealed he knew all along, that he helped her cover it up, that he was tired of living in my shadow and wanted me to take the fall.

The betrayal was a jolt, a blinding flash that ripped through my disembodied form, extinguishing the scent of funeral lilies and replacing it with the familiar smell of my office.

I gasped, a lung-filling breath, snapping my eyes open to see my hand resting on my mahogany desk, the clock reading 3:15 PM.

A knock came at the door. "Gabrielle? I have the final discovery files for the Russo case," Molly's voice said.

I looked at the calendar. It was the very day my downfall began. But not this time. This time, I knew.