Here’s a sneak peak at
THE BODY BUSINESS
by Gay Yellen
One click of the mouse could change Samantha Newman’s life forever. The cursor hovered
over Send. The slightest pressure from her index finger, and her message would fly into
the hands of the FBI. So simple, and yet . . .
She reread the first part again.
Peculiar things are happening at De Theret International. High-level people disappear
without explanation, and nobody cares. I am afraid who might be next.
It still sounded like the hallucinations of a conspiracy-theory nut job. Is that what
she was, or was the danger real?
After a rough flight home, she’d spent most of the night hunched over the keyboard of her laptop, struggling for the right
words. How ironic was it that she, the stellar V.P. of Media Relations for the global staffing firm, couldn’t write a simple e-mail?
If she weren’t so jet-lagged, she could think more clearly. Maybe Lista was in South America, beyond the reach of a good
phone signal, like their boss insisted.
For what seemed like the hundredth time, she speed-dialed Lista’s number. And for the hundredth time, she got the same
cheery greeting: “Hi! This is Lista. Sorry, but you’ll have to leave a message.”
She pushed away from the table and paced the kitchen. No way her best friend would pack up, move away and not
say goodbye. Not Lista, anyway, unless something was terribly wrong. She’d been missing for weeks.
With no evidence of foul play, the police backed off. But Samantha knew better. Somebody had to find Lista before. . . before . . . what?
Her eyes begged for sleep. She searched the pocket of her robe for a scrunchy to hold back the curtain of hair that had fallen
across her face. No luck.
The tepid coffee in her mug didn’t help. She eyed the pot, but the tar-like remains offered no solace. She turned it off and
put the carafe in the sink. Murky dawn crept through the window.
This is ridiculous. Stop being afraid. Put up or shut up. Get it over with.
She returned to the table, slumped down and scanned the rest of what she had written.
You must find out what happened to Lista Pearson, the last paragraph began. Please, please help.
It still didn’t say all that it should, all that she knew. But she hoped it would be enough to get somebody’s attention. If the
FBI knew how much she hated asking anyone for help, least of all them, they had to take her seriously.
The oven clock read six-thirty. Derek would arrive soon to pick her up. It was now or never. Holding her breath, she
sat up, gripped the mouse and re-centered the arrow over Send. This time, she clicked, and the message disappeared into the ether.
Her pulse pounded in her ears as she stared at the empty screen. A jumble of thoughts sped through her skull at warp speed.
She closed her eyes until the mental roller coaster stopped.
She opened her eyes. The kitchen looked familiar, yet strange. Like the eerie hush that descends when the eye of a hurricane hovers,
she was weirdly calm. The worst of the storm was sure to come. But for now, she had to drag upstairs and get ready for another
dreadful day at the office, where the escalating hostility was like a pair of clammy hands closing around her neck . . .
What happens next?
Get the rest of the story at Amazon