Chapter One

      The last strains of “Jingle Bells” faded out, giving way to “All I Want for Christmas Is You” as Bellamy Reeves clicked the last email in her inbox. Despite the multicolored lights she’d hung in her office and the music she’d determinedly turned on each morning and kept on low throughout the day, nothing seemed to get her in the holiday spirit.

      Losing both parents over the summer had left a hole in her life and in her heart. She’d braced herself, of course, well aware the holidays would be a challenge. But even with the knowledge the season wouldn’t be the same, she’d diligently clung to the belief she could find some sense of joy, somewhere.

      How wrong she’d been.

      The days seemed to drag, no matter how busy she made herself, and her job at Lone Star Pharmaceutical—a job she’d worked hard at for several years—couldn’t fill the gaps.

      “One more email,” she whispered to herself on a resigned sigh. “I’ll do the last one and cut out early.”

      The company was estimated to finish out the year with stellar earnings, and management had given everyone an extra day of comp time as a reward for all the hard work. Most people had used the time to go shopping for presents in nearby Austin or to take in the pretty decorations scattered throughout downtown Whisperwood. She’d done none of those things, not up for walking the sidewalks and making small talk with her fellow townsfolk.

      Which had also meant she was still sitting on the extra time. Perhaps an afternoon off would provide a chance to recharge and shake the malaise that seemed determined to hover around her shoulders.

      She missed her parents terribly, but it was also the first holiday in more than she could remember that wasn’t encumbered by illness. Her father’s loss of mobility five years before had taken a toll on all of them and her life had been filled with pill bottles, a wheelchair and ramps throughout the house, and bouts of belligerence that telegraphed DJ Reeves’s frustration with his body’s betrayal.

      It hardly spoke well of her, that she was relieved that stage of life had passed, but in her quiet moments of honest reflection she could admit it was true.

      Illness. Suffering. And an endless sort of wasting away that stole the joy out of life. All of it had affected her mother as surely as her father’s loss of mobility in the accident had decimated his. Where her mother had once found joy in simple pleasures—gardening or cooking or even a glass of wine—watching her husband deteriorate had caused a matched response. Ginny Reeves had wasted away as surely as her husband had and nothing Bellamy had tried could coax her out of it.

      The kidney failure that finally stole him from them in June had been the final straw for her mother. Her mental health had deteriorated rapidly after that, and the heart attack that took her in late July had almost seemed unavoidable.

      “And here I am, right back to maudlin and depressed,” she whispered to herself as she reached for the bottle of water she kept perpetually refilled on her desk.

      The water had been another nod to health, her recognition of mortality—a fact of life with her parents, and an equally relevant fact of life working for a pharmaceutical company. Lone Star Pharmaceutical had hired her out of college and she’d steadily worked her way up through the ranks, responsible for any number of financial projects. For the past two years, she’d been part of the team that managed the costs to bring new drugs to market and had honed her skills around price elasticity, working with insurance companies and ensuring LSP had a place on doctors’ prescription lists.

      The role had been meant for her, honing her accounting knowledge and expanding her contribution to the overall business and its bottom line. She’d loved LSP already, but coupled with the professional advancement, her employer had also been understanding of her family situation. They’d allowed for flexible scheduling when she’d needed it and hadn’t asked her to curtail the care and attention her parents needed.

      She’d met enough people in waiting rooms at the hospital to know that flexibility was a gift beyond measure. The fact she’d also had an opportunity to still be considered for and receive promotions had cemented her sense of loyalty to LSP that was impossible to shake.

      The company was a good one, with a focus on making life better for its consumers, its employees and even the community where it made its home—Whisperwood, Texas. Their CEO, Sutton Taylor, was a longtime resident and had stated on many occasions how important it was to him that his company have the same deep roots as he did.

      Deep Texas roots, he usually clarified with a wink and a smile.

      She couldn’t hold back a faint smile of her own at the image of Sutton Taylor, standing tall in his suit and cowboy boots, proudly telling the employees how strong their year-end numbers looked. It wouldn’t bring her parents back, but she could at least take some small joy in knowing she’d worked hard and contributed to a job well-done.

      Satisfied she might leave the office on a glimmer of a bright note, Bellamy returned to her email, determined to tackle the last one before leaving for the afternoon.

      The missive still bold because it was unread, Bellamy scanned the subject line, registering the odd description. RE: Vaccine Normalization.

      Normalization of what?

      The sender said INTERNAL, a company address she didn’t immediately recognize, but she clicked anyway. A quick scan of the header information didn’t show a named sender, either, nor was there anyone in the “To” list. Intrigued, Bellamy leaned forward, searching for anything that resembled usable details to describe what she was looking at.

      Was it a virus?

      That subject never failed to make her smile, the fact they had a department that battled real viruses housed in the same location as one who battled the digital kind. The humor quickly gave way to the sobering details that filled the content of the note.

      Bellamy caught the subject in snatches, the words practically blurring as she processed the odd, bulleted sentences.

      LSP’s virus vaccine, AntiFlu, will be distributed in limited quantities, with release schedule held in the strictest confidence.

      Quantities are throttled to highest bidder, with market pricing increased to match quantity scarcity.

      Management of egg supply has been secured.

      If those points weren’t bad enough, the closing lines of the email left no question as to what she was reading.

      Lone Star Pharma has a zero-tolerance policy for discounted distribution of AntiFlu for the annual flu season. There will be no acceptance of annual contract prices with existing accounts.

      Bellamy reread the email once, then again, the various details spiking her thoughts in different directions.

      Throttled availability? Controlled pricing? Fixed scarcity?

      And the fact there was mention of the egg supply—the incubation engine for production of the vaccine—was shocking.

      What was this?

      She read the note once more before scrolling back up to review the header details. The sender was veiled, but it did originate from an LSP email address.

      Who would send this to her?