Ever wished your boss would drop dead?
Of course not. Well, not really. And neither had Rachel Benjamin—until she finds herself working for Wall Street terror Glenn Gallagher on his latest pet project. Rachel thinks the deal—and Glenn—are more than a little shady, but she has a promotion at stake. It’s either keep her lips sealed or kiss her partnership goodbye. Or kill Glenn. (Just kidding!)
At least she has Peter. Rachel’s too-good-to-be-true fiancé has moved in, and while his stuff is everywhere and he’s strangely jealous of her friendly new coworker, she’s confident they’ll figure things out. It would help if Glenn’s killer schedule didn’t have Rachel working around the clock. Really, the man must be stopped.
Rachel’s jokes about killing her boss don’t seem so funny when Glenn is murdered. And it’s even less laughable when she becomes the prime suspect. With the police hot on her very stylish heels, and the threat of an unflattering orange jumpsuit in her future, Rachel’s learning the hard way to be careful what you wish for. She needs to catch the true killer quickly, before the killer catches her.The Key
I was having my favorite type of dream, a flying dream, when the phone rang.
I opened one eye, testing to see if this was part of the dream. But in my dream the skies were blue and lit by golden sunlight. In my bedroom, it was dark, and freezing, since my new roommate liked to sleep with the windows wide open, even in March and even in Manhattan. And the phone was still ringing.
Peter mumbled something unintelligible and pulled the duvet over his head. I thought about doing the same, but surely nobody would call in the middle of the night unless it was important. I reached out for the phone.
“Rachel. Glenn Gallagher here.”
This had to be a joke.”What time is it?”
“Almost six. Listen, I need you in the office. We don’t have much time to get ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“I’ll tell you when you get in. See you in an hour.”
“But it’s Satur—” I began to say before I realized I was talking to a dial tone.
I was still half-asleep, so my reaction was somewhat delayed. It was nearly five seconds before I’d collected myself sufficiently to say the only appropriate thing that could be said in such a situation.
Peter gasped and shot into a sitting position. I’d spoken more loudly than I’d intended. “And a good morning to you, too.” Even in the dark, I could make out the silhouette of his sandy hair.
“You look like Alfalfa.”
“From The Little Rascals. You know, the one with the piece of hair that stuck straight up. He sang.”
“I’m in the Mood for Love.”
“Uh-huh. He had a crush on Darla.”
“And that makes me an asshole? Get this hilarious novel for N1,000 at Bookati