Lethal Little Lies (Jubilant Falls Series Book 3) by Debra Gaskill Read Free Book Online Page A

turned off County Road 122, I had a minute of watching crops growing or the Holsteins grazing— a full 60-second decompression session—before my Taurus found its way up the gravel drive to the kitchen door.
                  Duncan had a pot of coffee already made and was pouring Fisher a cup at the kitchen table as I came in the door.
                  I dumped my purse and keys on the counter, took a cup of coffee from Dunk and slid into a chair at the kitchen table across from Fisher.
                  “Another late night?” he asked.
                  I took a sip of coffee and shot a look at Duncan. “There have been later nights. This isn’t too bad,” I said, smiling. You have no idea , I thought to myself. The night is young, and a reporter’s wife is missing.
                  Fisher was silent for a moment as he turned his coffee mug between his hands.
                  “I don’t believe in beating around the bush, Addison,” he said. “I’ll just lay it out on the table and let you and Duncan talk it over. Like I told you last week, I need a public relations manager at the hospital. I can pay you a helluva lot better, increase your insurance benefits for less than what you’re paying now and just about guarantee you hours that will allow you to have a life of your own. Family members who want to study healthcare in college could get tuition reimbursed.”
                  “What will my responsibilities be?”
                  “You’ll be responsible for generating content for the monthly newsletter that goes out to all the county residents and local businesses, providing press releases as needed to the local media—both the J-G and the local TV stations— and writing speeches for me. In the event of a large media event, you’ll serve as spokesman and media coordinator for the hospital.”
                  I nodded. “OK. And you understand that what you get when you get me is someone who doesn’t play the corporate game very well. I smoke. I swear—and I don’t tolerate assholes very well.”
                  Fisher laughed. It was the easy, polished laugh of a man who spends a lot of time at public events, shaking hands and schmoozing. “You sell yourself short. You have a lot more poise and professionalism than you think. I’ve been on the other side of your questions and I’ve been impressed.”
                  Duncan looked at me and raised his eyebrows as if to say, “See?”
                  “And I know that ‘large media events’ don’t necessarily mean a mass casualty drill,” I said.
                  “No. We have three fund-raising events each year for the hospital: the annual Holiday Ball the first weekend in December, the Founder’s Day dinner in the spring and the Valentine’s Day event for the cancer wing.”
                  “If I took this job—and I’m not saying I will—I’d like to see some fund raising for the mental health wing.”
                  In high school, our daughter Isabella was diagnosed with bipolar disorder after slitting her wrists. Stable now with the help of Lithium, her disease was likely a cruel sentence from the law of genetics. My mother June screwed her way through the Ohio State Highway Patrol post roster and shopped her way through every store in town before my father, an OSP trooper, threw her out and I lost contact with her forever. The hospital psychiatrists had saved Isabella’s life—and diagnosed the genetic component of my daughter’s misery.
                  “If it wasn’t for the hospital, I don’t think we’d have our little girl today,” Duncan said softly.
                  “We can do that,” Fisher said.
                  My cell phone began to buzz in my purse.
                  “Excuse me.” I dug