These White Lies (Elite Security #1)

Chapter 1

ELIZABETH

Frozen in place, I cock my head to get a better look at my ex-husband. At first, I thought I was hallucinating… that my brain was playing tricks on me after a very long and stressful day.

But, no, Keith is actually sitting in my living room, on my brand-new cream sofa.

He’s more bloated than the last time I saw him… and pasty.

I bet he’s drinking too much again.

How did he even get in?

My stomach flips unpleasantly, and the buzzing in my ears joins the weird, floaty feeling that’s taken over my head. The stem of my wine glass trembles so hard the merlot sloshes up over the rim onto the cuff of my silk blouse.

I stare at the crimson stain for a second before, almost as if pulled by a magnet, my gaze rises again to Keith’s unblinking stare. It drifts lower to the torn piece of paper pinned to his shirt.

Thick rust-colored smears make up the three-word phrase.

GIVE IT BACK

My heart is in my throat, and I can’t seem to draw a full breath. A full body shiver rolls over me as goosebumps cover my skin.

On autopilot, my legs carry me back to the kitchen, where I set the wine glass on the stone counter with a quiet clink. My chest is rising and falling way too fast, I pivot back to my ex-husband.

Everything is fine. This will be just one more mess he’s brought into my life.

I curl my tingling fingers into fists.

I can fix this.

It’s what I do. No matter how bad it looks, I can find a reasonable way to control the outcome.

It’s what my clients pay me so much for.

But this…

Keith stares silently at me from the living room.

He really doesn’t look good.

Probably because he’s dead.

In my house.

A giggle escapes, and I immediately clamp my lips together at the hysterical sound.

I mean, the obvious bullet holes in the middle of his otherwise pristine white dress shirt are a dead giveaway.

Dead giveaway.

I snort.

That’s terrible.

As if my brain and body have finally linked up again, simultaneous waves of heat and ice wash over my body, making me stumble forward. I catch myself on the back of the armchair opposite Keith.

Do I still call him by his name? That implies something of Keith is left. This waxen figure looks like it belongs on one of my director clients’ sets.

Deep in my head, sirens are going off, but I can’t seem to focus.

It feels like the time I almost drowned in the lake. I was thirteen, and my cousin dared me to jump off the high, clay bank. I knew it wasn’t safe… She knew it, too.

It’s why she suggested it—she wanted me to back down. But she’d underestimated—my then—reckless approach to life. Particularly with Colton Weaver watching.

God, he had been beautiful. Tan skin and bleached, summer hair. My cousin knew I had a crush on him. She did, too. I think everyone at our school did.

So of course, with a fuck-you smirk in her direction, I leaped.

I still remember the weightless feeling of falling and the sharp pain when my head hit something in the too-shallow water. Even as my body tumbled, pulled by the underwater current, my brain told me to swim to where the sun was breaking through the blue water.

My body hadn’t responded. Instead, I’d floated like dead wood beneath the surface, allowing the current to pull me farther away.

It had been peaceful in a way, before my lungs started to burn. Before Colton and his friend Elijah jumped in to pull me out.

That’s what this feels like.

I’m here.

But I’m not.

The light through the water in this case is figuring out why my ex-husband is sitting in my house with two bullet holes in his chest.

He looks surprised.

The absurd thought hits me just as the wine makes an unceremonious return in my throat. With my hand clamped over my mouth, I bolt for the bathroom, bare feet slapping against the hardwood floors.

Clutching the porcelain rim after emptying my stomach, the blissful, numb shock retreats.

There’s a dead body in your house, Beth.

This is not good.

Neither is the fact you’re mentally referring to yourself by a childhood nickname.

No one is going to jump off a cliff and save you this time.

I have to save myself.

That thought finally breaks through the remaining fog. Taking deep breaths slowly through my nose, I wash my hands, rinse my mouth, and do what I do best. Think.

All emotion is banished to a box deep inside me, and my logical brain takes over. There’s a certain relief in it. This is just another problem that needs to be solved.

You’re on a clock, it tells me. Pull your shit together.

The security system will have recorded when the interior door from the garage opened. I’m not sure exactly how long I stared at Keith in a stupor, but there is nothing that can be done about that now.

I need to call the police.

If I let more time pass, it will be suspicious.

Your ex-husband is dead in your house. That’s pretty fucking suspicious, Beth!

Shut up.

I suck in a shaky breath and squeeze the hand towel I’ve pressed to my face tighter.

Not enough.

I shove it in my mouth to muffle my scream.

My chest heaves as I meet bloodshot eyes in the mirror.

This is really bad. Really, really bad.

Someone murdered him. Pinned that note…

What do they want back? Why leave him here? What else have they done to implicate me?

Why? My brain wails.

I don’t have enemies, and I haven’t had any real contact with Keith since we signed the final divorce papers four years ago.

No time for this, my logical voice hisses.

Think, Elizabeth. Think like a lawyer.

Dropping the towel on the floor, I walk on unsteady legs back into the lower level of my house. Now that the initial shock is wearing off, I can’t bear to look at the still figure.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“He’s dead.”

“Who’s dead?”

“My husband. I came home. He’s been shot.”

A new level of alertness comes through the phone. “Is he breathing?”

“No.” I swallow past the bile in my throat, and block the image of his mottled, pale face from my mind. “He’s been dead a while.”

I answer all the questions she asks. “Yes, I’m alone… Yes… a gun in my purse… on the kitchen counter... No, I can’t stay on the line. I’ll wait outside.”

Ending the call silences her objections. Reality is rushing through my brain like a sound wave, and years of legal knowledge are directing my next actions.

“Luke,” I say when the man answers the phone. “This is Elizabeth Gowan. I need you to come to my house.”

“Elizabeth?” He sounds understandably confused. We aren’t the kind of friends who call each other, but I represent his Hollywood actor wife, so he should have my number saved on his phone.

“I need to retain your services.”

Luke’s voice is suddenly deadly serious. “Without any detail, can you give me the nature of what the problem might be?”

A laugh bursts from my throat as I sink to the steps of my porch, and I press my palm to my forehead. “I think I’m about to be charged with murder.”