Page 1 of Saved from Deception

PROLOGUE

CHARLOTTE

I can’t figure out why everyone is looking at me so strangely.

It’s nothing obvious—nothing I can put my finger on, exactly, but something is different.

Walking through our open concept office space, there are at least fifteen people I wave at or say hello to—other associate attorneys, paralegals, and assistants. Face-on, I get the same sleepy nods of greeting and half-smiles I’d expect at eight A.M. on a Monday morning.

Except the nods take a little longer, and the smiles seem forced.

When I pause by Erica’s desk to ask how her sister’s wedding went, she gives me a flat, “It was fine,” before picking up her phone and wordlessly dismissing me.

Derek, who has the workstation next to mine, keeps his eyes glued to his monitor and barely grunts a hello when I greet him.

Sarah, my assistant, flushes pink when I stop by her desk, mumbling a good morning without even looking me in the eye.

It’s too many people to assume that they all had a bad weekend.

As I settle down at my desk, I wonder if there was some company email that would put everyone in a bad mood? Some sort of policy change? A message from the senior partners telling us we all have to work on Memorial Day this year instead of having it off?

But there’s no such email, just the usual messages from clients and notifications about upcoming deadlines and appointments. Nothing that would give a clue as to why my coworkers are treating me like I have something contagious.

Which I definitely don’t. I’m not sniffling and sneezing like Oscar is over in the corner; wads of tissues piled up around him. Or hacking up half a lung like Eloise, who's been bringing her germs into the office for over a week.

While I go through my email and sip my coffee, that’s when I start to notice the other stuff. Like the shifty glances in my direction when they think I’m not looking. Eyes flickering to me, followed by raised eyebrows and little smirks. Narrowed gazes, appraising and speculative.

Am I losing it? Imagining things? There’s no reason why all these people would be paying attention to me.

Unless… Did my hair somehow turn into a bird’s nest from my apartment to here? Did I drool toothpaste all down my shirt without noticing? Is there a giant stain on my skirt that I didn’t know about? A giant hunk of something stuck in my teeth?

I grab a mirror from my desk and sneak a glance at myself—everything looks normal. My dark brown hair is shiny and smooth, still tucked neatly back in a low ponytail. No horrible makeup blunders—it’s just as I applied it—just a hint of blush and a brush of blue-black mascara to accentuate my gray eyes.

I can’t see anything that would merit anyone taking notice. No toothpaste marks, nothing in my teeth, and no stains on my clothes as far as I can see. I’ll have to make a trip to the bathroom to check the rest of my outfit, but I know it looked fine while it was hanging in the closet, so I don’t know how any stains could have magically appeared from there to here.

It’s all in my imagination. It has to be. People are just cranky about being back at work after one of the first perfect weekends in Saratoga in May. Warm enough to sit out on the patios and roof decks at all the restaurants downtown, enjoying the peace before all the horse racing enthusiasts arrive for the summer.

I’ll prove it’s only in my head.

One of the other associates is headed this way—we were hired at the same time and he’s always been friendly enough—and as he passes by, I catch his attention. Smiling at him, I say, “Shane. How was your weekend?”

Stopping, he turns to look at me, a small smile appearing. “Hi, Charlie.”

There’s nothing off about his expression, just that bit of smugness he always has—his I’m-an-attorney-and-therefore-an-important-person attitude—slightly irritating but harmless. As he smiles at me, I’m sure he’s going to give me a normal answer, telling me about taking his family’s boat on Saratoga Lake, or having dinner at that new restaurant downtown. A moment when I think, yes, it was all in my imagination. No one is looking at me differently.

A second later, his lips curve into a smirk, and my stomach does a queasy little flip. Then his eyes narrow, darkening, the smugness turning to something more sinister. “Charlie,” he repeats, this time almost silkily. “I’m sure my weekend couldn’t compare to yours.”

I’m not sure what he’s talking about, and my stomach is fluttering now, but I’m not going to let on to my confusion. So I force a smile back at him before saying, “My weekend was pretty low-key, actually. Nothing too exciting—”

He snorts, low and disbelieving. “Is that what you call it? Low-key?” He pauses, his voice dropping, almost suggestively. “I have to wonder, what does an exciting weekend look like for you, then?”

What?

Shane glances at a paralegal a few workstations down and calls over to him. “Greg. Charlie says her weekend was”—he makes air quotes with his fingers—“low key. Makes you wonder what she considers exciting, doesn’t it?”

Greg spins in his chair, his gaze landing on me.

I don’t like Greg, he always drags his eyes over me like he’s trying to imagine what I look like naked, and I always try to ask one of the other paralegals to help me instead. But this time when he looks at me, it’s worse than that. It's greasy and dirty and clinging.

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