Page 23 of Whistleblower

“Of course,” she says, her eyes flickering with contempt. “I wouldn’t lie to you.”

My chewing slows, then stops, but before I can say anything in reply, she turns on her heel to take her place at the front of the table. Immediately, the chatter settles and she peers down the long meeting table, a composed smile on her face.

“Okay, now that there is some food in your stomachs, how about a game?”

Without a doubt, this woman has worked at a corporate company. Probably in a fancy office on the top floor. She has a presenter’s voice and a boss’s bravado. I force my eyes to rest on my half-eaten muffin so I don’t look like I’m leering.

“I like games,” Lance says through a mouthful of food, crumbs flying everywhere, making him look like a mannerless Neanderthal. But Eden smiles anyway.

“Glad to hear it. Everyone if you would grab your pen and the paper in front of you. I think we should start by getting to know each other a little better.”

SEVEN

EDEN

He got me good.

When I saw Chandler—actually Linc—at first, I was pleasantly surprised. I didn’t realize this was an all-hands meeting. I was already preparing a quippy remark about another conversation so soon… Until it hit me.

There was something about the way the agents in the room didn’t want to look at him. Even Callen seemed a bit more tense when Linc entered the room. He isn’t a maintenance man who changes light bulbs and empties waste baskets, he’s the pictureless man that Callen seemed a little afraid of. But why am I so surprised? Why do I even care?

Because you instantly liked him.

I ignore my internal musing and refocus as I uncap the hot pink Expo marker in my hand and begin to draw on the enormous whiteboard. A burst of strawberry scent fills my nose and I chuckle to myself as a memory comes to mind.

I think of the very first time I gave this presentation. I was only twenty-two, still in grad school, and building my portfolio as a consultant. I was so damn nervous. The net worth of that company was in the ballpark of billions. The executives in the room made more money in a year than I would ever see in my lifetime. Their smart suits and dress shoes probably cost more than my car and yet, they were looking at me like I had the solution to the severe morale problem within their company. I was shaking as I drew the triangle on the whiteboard until I smelled something fruity.

It took me a minute to realize the smell was coming from the marker in my hand. Grape. A girly grape whiteboard marker. A bunch of rich, middle-aged white men, full of scowls and skepticism, used a sickeningly sweet, grape-scented marker to conduct their meetings.

For some reason it made me feel better. So much better.

I knocked that presentation out of the park. Morris and Hauser Inc. still recommend my consulting services to this day. Or at least they did—until last year.

I breathe in as the memory fades and I’m brought back to reality by the scent of strawberries this time. It’s far more tolerable than the grape.

I feel his eyes on me as I draw a triangle on the whiteboard. His gaze is scorching. Not Callen. Not the goofball playboy, Lance. Not any of the FBI agents in the room whom I’ve secretly nicknamed Agent Smith one through seven. No… Him.

Lincoln.

I resist the urge to turn around and peek, and instead write the power words on each side of the triangle.

Okay, yes—you were attracted to him. Honestly, any woman would be.

He’s incredibly handsome—broodingly sexy. He has sandy-blond hair, with just a touch of scruff on his cheeks that’s neatly trimmed. All the angles of his face are perfectly chiseled, like his maker spent extra time on this prize creation. He’s like a GQ model in a suit, but far more athletic-looking.

But I don’t do liars.

He didn’t even flinch as he looked right into my eyes and skillfully misled me about who he was. Speaking of his eyes—his light eyes–the faintest hue of baby blue, and a charcoal rim surrounding them. I can picture them with perfect accuracy because they are ingrained in my brain.

And I certainly don’t do killers.

I purposely avoid Linc’s gaze when I spin around.

“Okay, everyone, I promise this isn’t a lesson in rudimentary shapes.” There’s a low murmur of chuckles. Okay... That joke usually does a bit better, but let’s move on. “As you know by now, I’m Eden Abbott. I’m going to skip the introduction about my education and experience because while I don’t find it particularly boring, you all will.” There’s a louder rumble of chuckles. There we go. Much better. “Callen asked me to come here and help with PALADIN because obviously this team is going through a big…let’s say, merger?” I glance Callen’s way and he shrugs. Unhelpful. But “merger” is the closest business term I can think of for this bizarre situation. “Essentially, I work as a liaison. You guys tell me what you need, then I tell the people who sign your paychecks how to fulfill that need, within reason. I’ve tried in the past, and I’ve only once been able to secure one margarita machine for a company’s break room, so please don’t hold your breath on that.” That earns me a full round of laughter and I’m officially satisfied that the crowd is warm.

“I’ve studied quite a few companies and what I can say with confidence is that, while every business functions a little differently, the motor is the same. Successful companies have happy employees. It’s as simple as that. So, I’m here to figure out a way to make everyone happy. In my experience, it boils down to three different core needs.” I point to the words on the board, one by one. I drew such a large triangle that I have to rise to my tippy toes to touch the top point.

“Fun. Communication. Safety,” I recite the words on the board. “It’s a well-known fact that architecturally speaking, triangles are the strongest shape. They are able to withstand a tremendous amount of pressure without shifting. My personal philosophy is that every team should build its strategy with a triangle approach.”

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