Lies To Forever by Marlene M. Bell

Chapter One

I was evicted twenty minutes ago. The notarized rent-to-own contract sitting in my desk drawer can’t stop it, but my landlord, Glenn, can. Three weeks from today, everything in my name will be sold at a yard sale or hauled away in a trailer destined for a storage unit I can’t afford.

When I temporarily set aside my job at Marsh Architects with the option to return, Damian Marsh asked for an update in January. I set up today’s appointment with him weeks ago without the knowledge of how eager I’d be to get back to interior design. The meeting can’t come soon enough.

The elevator in the Damian Marsh Group’s offices, in what we call the icebox, hasn’t changed in almost a year. Shivering does little to cool my anger over being homeless. I trusted a landlord to abide by his lease agreement and not go back on his word. My livelihood was set aside to care for Glenn Sutton, a burn victim, when he was flat on his back following rehab from an explosion. Glenn had been in a bad way. Because I live in the spec house he built, I helped him out when he had no one else. Our verbal deal outside of the payment contract was free rent in exchange for helping him recover.

He ended our casual arrangement today with a tacky notice on my door.

Without so much as a warning.

My temple thuds against the elevator wall, the mechanical hum soothing my misery and preparing me to pitch myself like I would to a client. I haven’t a clue how to talk to Damian with dignity when I’m so needy and desperate for a job. Our ten o’clock meeting holds my immediate future by thin threads of hope, and I’m fresh out of miracles.

The elevator pings, and the doors split apart to reveal creamy floor tile and wall art in five shades of taupe. The lobby-scape of the 1990s—a decade to run from whenever possible—boasts neutrals instead of bold florals for posh designer homes, now all the rage. Shouldn’t an architect’s foyer mirror the current trend?

“April.”

My spirits climb as I catch my name and a whiff of cheap aftershave. Being recognized by colleagues after nine long months in seclusion is a good sign, and I confidently step forward, one hand on the empty billfold in my coat pocket and the other through the handle of my portfolio case. I wiped its leather cover free of dust moments before the elevator ride to the office.

Whang.

A teeth-jarring jolt from an inconsiderate oaf with a clipboard nails me. Force of impact and surprise take us both off our feet. Blood swirls in my mouth as I plant a knee and palm to the tile, rolling off to my left. My snow boots clear the closing elevator doors just in time. The guy’s weight, and shooting pains in various areas of my body, knock the breath from me. If not for the thick wool coat taking the shock, I’d be hurt worse, but even so, I can hear the sick crunch my right knee makes on the floor’s hard surface.

A pair of stiletto heels clacks in our direction, belonging to Damian’s receptionist, Solana Soto, I suspect. Her desk faces the elevator. We aren’t close friends by any means, and I recall in two words how well Solana does her job: cool and efficient.

“I… I need to breathe,” I manage to grind out in two quick breaths. “Get off.”

The man lifts his torso and whirls away, a blur of brown overalls and dirty gym shoes.

“Klutz,” he says. Tall doesn’t begin to describe his height, and his arms appear to be as long as his legs. “Are you hurt?” Fully dilated eyes glare at me with such disdain, his question feels phony somehow. It’s as if I’m at fault, and Klutz is my name.

My kneecap is begging for attention, and my upper arm aches where he plowed into me, but I keep that to myself. Instead, I offer a feeble smile and scramble to my knees.

A familiar hand reaches down and takes mine. “I’ve gotcha. If you can walk, we’ll assess the damage in my assigned cubby. Take your time, babe.”

Haven’t heard that in a while.

Hunter Ellis, lead architect on Damian’s team, guides me to his glass-walled office, away from the collision scene and the guy wearing work clothes.

I sit in front of Hunter’s drafting table, with one of those frozen gel ice packs used for shipping pressed against my knee, and watch Solana stroll in with my discarded portfolio. She’s dressed in a black suit and a red floral blouse with pink undertones, a complement to her dark outfit and thick ebony hair that falls to the middle of her back. She sets my drawings against the jamb, leaves Hunter’s door open to the foyer, and returns to her post without a word. I can’t help but smile after her. It’s Solana’s cool, capable way.

Hunter returns with a packet of frozen vegetables. Another cold shoulder inbound. I haven’t the faintest idea where he got them and hope I’m not stealing someone’s lunch. His hair is much shorter and a lighter brown than when we dated. The new style makes him look five years younger. That, and he’s been working out in the gym. He looks fit and ripped.

A glance through his third-floor office window confirms that recent snow covers the parking lot and surrounding cedars. My teeth chatter at the visual, even though I’m in a climate-controlled room. I’ve lost track of time and eye his desk in the corner, finding what I’m after. It’s twenty minutes to ten and no sign of Damian. Good. I’m early.

“Slide this between your shoulder and the inside of your jacket. We don’t have another icepack.” He passes the bag over. “It’ll help with the swelling, but the bruising, not so much.” Hunter’s grin is even more inviting than I recall. I’m a pushover for his native Tennessean charm.

“Who was that guy at the elevator?” The vegetables shift beneath my coat to numb another area.

“Works in building maintenance. Never met him officially.”

“He must have a lot on his mind.”

Hunter’s gaze shifts to a spot behind me. “You can ask him yourself.”

I swivel on the drafting chair and face my assailant.

He’s not recognizable at first. His brown garb has been replaced by a faded, fleece-lined jacket too short for his arms and a pair of tan camo pants rolled at their hems. The kind deer hunters around Smoky Crest wear on weekends. A much younger guy than I first thought.

“Sorry about what happened out there. I didn’t see you.” The man’s fair complexion looks harsh against his spiky, dark hair.

I wave off his comment. “The victim is going to live. No problem.”

From his drawl, he sounds like a local, and he’s at least six foot eight, in my estimation, mere inches from reaching the door’s threshold. Basketball player territory. He forces a flat smile, but his leer and flared nostrils make me uncomfortable.

I remove the ice pack from my pant leg and stand to allow the captured frozen produce to cascade down the inside of my coat and into my palm. “Thanks for the rescue, Hunter. It’s been great seeing you.” My fingers are icy when I hand the frozen packs to him. “Love the cobalt Oxford you’re wearing. It crackles against your blue eyes.”

“Miss.”

I turn toward the voice.

“I’d like to make up for the bum’s rush back there. I’m Blake, Blake Owens.” He extends his business card toward me. The same saccharine scent I noted at the elevator drifts by. “If you’d like to go to lunch sometime.”

My first slam-and-crash date request.

It’s rude not to take the card, so I do. I study his handyman job title and picture myself walking into a restaurant next to a guy a foot taller than I am. By the time I dismiss the image and look in his direction, he has disappeared.

Hunter shrugs. “His loss. My gain?” His elbow bumps my arm in jest.

“If I don’t leave right now, I’m going to miss my meeting with Damian.” I favor my right knee slightly and push the seat closer to Hunter’s drafting table.

“Damian set up a meeting with you here? Today?” Hunter arches his brows. “Are you sure it’s for today?”

I chomp down on the same cheek lining destroyed in the fall. “That smarts,” I mumble, my palm affixed to the side of my face. “We have a ten o’clock.”

“April, he’s not coming in.”

“That’s not funny, Hunter. I’m on his schedule for today. I need this to happen like you can’t believe.”

“Better check with Solana. I might have my dates wrong.”

With a wave backward, I limp past the doorway, heave up my portfolio, and make a beeline to the reception desk.

“I overheard.” Solana opens her appointment calendar and presses an index finger on the page. “Here it is. I left you a message yesterday about rescheduling with Damian. Didn’t you get it?”

“You’re kidding, right?” A heated flush creeps up my neck. “Where is he?”

“Having a meeting of the minds with his hot tub. His words.”

“Damian blew off his appointment with me for a hot tub tryst?” On a snow day, no less. “Solana, I have to talk to him ASAP. It’s vitally important.”

The door to another architect’s office across the foyer swings inward, and my ally and bestie rushes to my side. “I thought I recognized your voice. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming in? Let’s do an early lunch. We haven’t done spur-of-the-moment in—forever.”

Kelsey Clark’s makeup is flawless, and her suit is a stunner. She wears a fitted peplum jacket the color of mahogany, set off by a crisp, white blouse. The matching pencil skirt shows more thigh than her usual ensemble, though. Kelsey must be meeting a new client later. My guess, a male client she’s out to impress.

“Hey, girl. You’re crushing it.” I reach over and we hug. “Rain check on lunch. My day has turned into a disaster. I’m off to track down Damian.”

“You’ll have to go to his house for that. His broken pool pump has the upper hand.” Kelsey laughs and flips back a few stray curls from the almost-perfect layered hairstyle I envy. Blondes seem to have more fashion options than brunettes. Everything she wears looks good on her, including the bangs.

“It’s a spa pump,” Solana adds.

“Spa, pool, it doesn’t matter.” I haul my heavy portfolio case over to Kelsey. “Would you keep this for me? Doubt that Damian will be up for a long meeting, all things considered.” I flex my sore knee a couple of times. “I’ll be back this afternoon to retrieve it. Thanks.” Another quick hug passes between us. “I owe you big.”

“Remember how to get to Damian’s place?” Kelsey asks.

“Been there a few times.”

“You might want to change your outfit. You look like a frump going to a funeral. Black on black and all. Just a suggestion.” Kelsey lifts my case above her head with ease and twirls it like a lasso.

Perfect. Poor wardrobe choices. How I long for the day when Kelsey can bring herself to pay me a compliment.

Damian’s home is one of many he owns, from Massachusetts to Tennessee. When he works out of the Smoky Crest building, he stays at his quiet place in the woods, about twenty minutes away. It’s his meditation abode, he likes to say.

When I arrive at the base of the incline, his house has the appearance of an ice castle from a children’s book. Spires break the uneven roofline, each shrouded in long icicles. A single-story transitional home with low-hip roofs that sprawl into infinity. It’s quite the spread for a bachelor to ramble around in, but I’m not surprised. Damian loves his space and solitude.

The red-and-white eviction notice crumpled in my cupholder is a grim reminder of the predicament Glenn has put me in. Soon, I won’t have any place to call my own. Options are few if Damian doesn’t welcome me back into his organization. Sending résumés out in winter is as risky as parking in Damian’s snow-covered driveway unannounced. He can be moody, and not big on surprise visitors, especially if his hot tub in on the fritz. A risk I have to take.

Fat snowflakes stick to the Ford Escape’s windshield at a heavier rate than minutes ago, and the wind has picked up. Getting stuck in a major snowstorm, miles from my house in a two-wheel-drive vehicle, can’t happen. I’ll zip in, meet with Damian, and be out.

While I’m still comfortable, I place a call to Glenn’s phone. It goes straight to his voicemail, like all the other calls I’ve attempted since the eviction notice showed up. He hasn’t checked in with me since his flight to the contractors’ conference two days ago. Not hearing from him breaks from routine, but so does the eviction notice. He has plenty to explain…

A deep breath, and I kill the ignition and snug the belt on my coat. Surely Damian isn’t outdoors in this weather.

I jog past a steady trail of footprints left in the snow from earlier. His redwood hot tub sits next to the walkway that connects his sunroom with the main house. It’s uncovered and filled with more of the floating frozen stuff. No sign of Damian. As I approach the tub, the snow prints go from pristine to a range of colors the dirty soles have left behind. Mud or red clay, perhaps.

Where would he get red clay on the bottom of his shoes in snow?

A murmur on the breeze breaks my concentration. A pine limb drops fresh accumulation from its needles, and a mound of slush hits the ground beyond me with a thump. I stop where I stand and glance around the area. Every sound is magnified in snowfall temperatures. My knitted gloves are too thin for this bitter cold. Blowing on my fingertips doesn’t help the burn, either. All I care about is finding Damian and a warm-up in front of his fireplace.

I don’t smell burning wood.

My labored breath fogs in front of me as I survey the area around the tub.

Flakes fall on my hair, a few icing the back of my neck.

That’s when I catch a glimpse of what may be a shoe behind the spa.

“Damian, it’s April.” A faint echo returns to me. “How can you crouch there? Aren’t you frozen?”

I close the distance between us. “It borders on silly to be out here. Why—”

A metallic odor hits me.

“Damian!” Lying in the fetal position, he’s covered in an inch of snow, some of it fresh. Some of it has merged with the pool of crimson behind his head and neck. Blood spatter stains the snow around his upper torso. His lips are blue, and barely a blond sideburn is visible beneath his lopsided fisherman’s cap. I crouch and clear his nose and mouth, listening for a breath silenced long before I arrived.

Bile reaches the back of my throat while I carefully swipe away ice crystals with my glove. Sour toast and coffee from breakfast are dangerously close to soiling a crime scene.

I can’t be implicated in this.

***

Excerpt from LIES TO FOREVER by Marlene M Bell. Copyright 2026 by Marlene M Bell. Reproduced with permission from Marlene M Bell. All rights reserved.