After Today (The After Series Book 1) Read online

  After Today

  Jacqueline Hayley

  Copyright © 2021 by Jacqueline Hayley

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  ABOUT

  Also by Jacqueline Hayley

  Dedicated to Kylie Scott, who wrote the

  greatest ever zombie romance novel.

  Chapter One

  Fuck. Fuck-fuck-fuckity-fuck.

  Mackenzie Lyons fell back against the sofa cushions, letting papers from her current case fall haphazardly onto her crossed legs.

  What did it matter if some pages dipped into her wonton soup? What did anything matter now?

  If what she’d just read was true…

  Goddamn Peter for throwing this case into her lap. Shaking herself, she reached for her cell—knocking more papers into her Chinese takeaway—and dialed his number. Her knee jittered when his familiar voice mail picked up. The man couldn’t keep his phone battery charged if his life depended on it.

  And it just might.

  “Peter, you need to call me back. This Northern Memorial Hospital case you handed me, it’s—” She paused. “Just call me back. Unless you’re still coming over tonight…” She trailed off. He could be such a dick boyfriend sometimes. Case in point, canceling their dinner reservation at the last minute and leaving her to drown her feelings in wonton soup. Alone. “Look, I’m not mad about tonight. But this is urgent. Call me as soon as you get this message.”

  Was this actually happening?

  Anxiety bloomed in Mackenzie’s chest, hot and heavy.

  Standing, she turned on the television, flicking channels to find a live newsfeed.

  Just more right-wing male politicians, claiming they had a right to determine what a woman did with her uterus.

  Nothing on Sy-V.

  For several days now, reports had been popping up all over social media on Sy-V—a virus that had originated in the Syrian refugee camps. A virus that was having unprecedented mortality rates. A virus that apparently didn’t rate any sort of mention on tonight’s news.

  Most media outlets were taking their cue from the president of the United States, who was casually dismissing the suspected pandemic as a fake-news media conspiracy.

  Never mind the multiple accounts that hospitals in the UK, Germany, and France were overflowing with people suffering severe headaches, coughing, and nosebleeds.

  Only today the president had blatantly disregarded recommendations from the World Health Organization—his trumped-up media briefing sitting uneasily with Mackenzie. And now…

  Now, Northern Memorial needed Baker & Baker’s legal service to confirm there were no environmental factors that had led to the sudden death of thirty-six patients. Patients who’d all recently returned from overseas and had all suffered severe flu-like symptoms.

  With nose bleeds.

  Nope, Mackenzie wasn’t nearly experienced enough to deal with this situation, and she sure as hell wasn’t prepared for the knowledge that Sy-V was, in fact, in North America.

  Because if Sy-V was in the US—in Chicago—surely she, Mackenzie Lyons, slightly incompetent and definitely inexperienced, shouldn’t be the person to figure it out?

  She wasn’t a heroine in some Hollywood blockbuster. She was a twenty-six-year-old environmental lawyer, living in Lincoln Park and trying to forget Sanford, the hometown she knew had forgotten her the moment she’d skipped out.

  Feeling somewhat suspended from reality, she muted the television and stared blankly at the wall. If it was Sy-V that had caused the deaths at Northern Memorial, shouldn’t she call someone? The mayor? The governor? The Chicago Review?

  Instead, she called Chloe.

  “Mac, what are you doing calling so late?” her best friend asked, sounding wide awake from Sanford. Chloe’s husband, Ash, must be traveling for work. She never slept well when he was away.

  “I need you to tell me I’m not crazy.”

  “Okay. What are you being not crazy about? Is Peter being a jerk?”

  “You’ve heard about Sy-V, right?”

  “That super-flu?”

  “What if I told you it could be in Chicago?”

  “What? I was just on Twitter, the only thing trending was Lady Gaga’s new release.”

  “I’m serious, Chlo.”

  “Hang on, let me turn on the television.”

  “I don’t think anyone else knows about it yet,” Mackenzie said.

  There was a pause, and she could hear Chloe switching through news channels.

  “Honey, how many coffees have you had today?” Chloe gently asked.

  “Three. Okay, five. But this isn’t a caffeine-induced paranoia. Peter gave me this new case, and Northern Memorial has these unexplained deaths…” She stopped.

  She was breaking all sorts of confidentiality clauses, and she did not want to get fired. She wouldn’t be able to afford this overpriced apartment, and she’d have to move back to—oh god. Sanford. Mac shuddered.

  Did she seriously think that she’d know something of this magnitude before anyone else? Maybe that fifth coffee hadn’t been a great idea.

  “Mac, I want you to drink a big glass of water and go to bed. Straight to bed. Do not get on the internet and start doomsday scrolling. Do you hear me? Straight to sleep.”

  “Okay,” she said meekly. “Sorry for calling so late.”

  “Call whenever. You know that.”

  Was it just her imagination, or was the L significantly less crowded this morning? Mackenzie easily found a seat as the automatic doors slid shut, breathing a relieved sigh as she dumped her work files onto the free seat beside her.

  Although unrepentant about wearing heels on public transport, she was grateful for the rare opportunity to sit on the commute to her office downtown.

  “This is a complete shit show,” muttered the passenger to her right.

  Mackenzie glanced over, realizing the man had been talking to himself, his bespectacled eyes glued to the screen of his smartphone. It appeared the White House was holding yet another press conference and, in what was becoming an increasingly common scenario, it had quickly deteriorated into chaos.

  “And it will go away,” said the president as he gestured wildly, distinctly lacking any calm himself. “Just stay calm. It will go away.”

  The same anxiety that sat heavily in her chest last night threatened to creep up her throat. Forcing herself to look away from the media briefing, Mackenzie brought the heel of her hand to her chest and rubbed. She swallowed as her eyes came to rest on the work files.

  “Is it unpatriotic to admit our president is a dickhead?” Bespectacled said, putting his phone away.

  “What’d you say?”

  Mackenzie jumped in her seat. Another passenger turned to confront Bespectacled, spittle flying from his fleshy mouth. “You’re damn right it’s unpatriotic. This whole Syrian Virus is a hoax—it’s a conspiracy to control us.”

  Relieved the L was pulling in at her stop, Mackenzie stood and made eye
contact with the bespectacled man. Shaking her head slightly, she tried to warn him against any further engagement with the enraged passenger.

  She and Bespectacled made a hasty exit, both of them wincing at the booming voice that followed them.

  “It’s a plan-demic! Big pharma is behind it!”

  Shifting the heavy files in her grasp, Mackenzie gritted her teeth against the irony. Environmental law wasn’t the least bit environmentally friendly when it came to paper consumption.

  It was only a short walk to her office building, and usually she’d heed her body’s craving for caffeine and stop for a tall, nonfat latte. With caramel drizzle.

  This morning, however, she bypassed Starbucks, ducking instead into the drugstore next door. She tried to shrug off her self-consciousness at buying hand sanitizer and a few disposable face masks, momentarily wondering if she was completely offtrack with this case.

  But her gut told her she wasn’t wrong.

  Mackenzie had awoken this morning convinced she’d been correct about Sy-V causing the deaths at Northern Memorial. With international travel a way of life, it was insane to think the US would be immune. Stashing her purchases at the bottom of her purse, she resolved to message Chloe as soon as she got to her desk. They all needed to be careful.

  But first, she had to talk to Peter.

  The lobby of her office building was unusually subdued, and Mackenzie noted a stressed receptionist reporting sick calls to HR. After taking the elevator up, she headed straight for Peter’s corner office and found it empty save for a ringing telephone.

  It rang out and then started again. She sighed, regretting the decision to skip coffee. “Hello, Peter Johns’ office.”

  “I need to speak to Peter right now!”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Johns isn’t available right now. Can I take a message?” Mackenzie raised her eyes to the ceiling, wondering where Peter’s secretary had got to.

  “Yes, Hilary needs to be picked up from school. She’s got a nosebleed.”

  “I’m sorry, who is Hilary?”

  “His daughter. Who is this? Where’s Mary Beth?”

  Mackenzie’s first thought was that all this time she’d been calling Peter’s secretary Mary Ann, which may explain why the woman was distinctly unfriendly.

  “His daughter? Are you sure you’ve got the right extension?”

  “If this is the office of Peter Johns, then yes, I have the right extension. I’m Julie, his wife, and I’m currently out of state. I need him to collect Hilary. The school nurse has already called twice. Apparently, there’s some kind of virus going around. Now, can you get him for me or not? He’s not picking up his cell phone.”

  Her boyfriend’s wife sounded harried, and Mackenzie could hear the background noises of an airport with repeated canceled flight announcements.

  “Hello? Are you still there?” Julie asked.

  Ringing ears and rising nausea had Mackenzie sliding off the desk and onto the floor, her head hanging between her knees. She didn’t know if she could answer.

  “Hello? I’m trying to board a flight before they’re all canceled. I need to know that Peter is going to get Hilary.” It was Julie’s mounting hysteria that snapped Mackenzie from her shock.

  This woman needed to know her child was being taken care of.

  “Yes, I’m here,” she replied, raising her head. “Does Peter know what school she’s at?”

  “Are you on crack? Of course he knows her school. Is he there? I don’t care how busy he is. He needs to pick her up. Right now.”

  Mackenzie smiled at the crack comment. It was something her friend Kat would say. Not that she was going to be making friends with Julie any time soon.

  “Yes, sorry. Of course he does.”

  “Okay, well, I’m putting my faith in you. What’s your name?”

  “Mackenzie.”

  “Mackenzie, make sure Pete gets this message and picks up our daughter. Do you understand?”

  Her boyfriend of seven months was a father. A husband. To a wife who called him Pete. Well, fuck.

  The clammy dizziness dissipated in a flash of acknowledgment. Yes, he was a lying piece of shit. But wasn’t she the stupid one who’d fallen for him?

  “Mackenzie? Are you there?”

  Mackenzie realized she wasn’t inspiring confidence in her ability to pass this message along. Suddenly, she couldn’t wait to tell her boyfriend that his wife wanted him to pick up their daughter.

  “Yes, I’m here. I’ll personally make sure he gets the message.”

  “Thank you.” Julie’s relief was palpable. “Ask him to call me when he’s got her, okay?”

  “Uh-huh. Sure, no problem.”

  With a cultivated air of mystery, Peter was an enigma. Mackenzie had been beside herself when he’d shown interest. No one noticed her. Anonymity was one perk of having left Sanford.

  They’d developed a comfortable and steady relationship that, Mackenzie now realized, had made her stupid. All those weekends he had to “visit his mother in the country,” his unwillingness for her to meet the brother she knew also lived in Chicago, the phone calls he had to take in private—she bet they covered those topics in Having an Affair 101.

  “Holy shit. I’m the other woman,” she muttered, rubbing sweaty hands against the front of her pencil skirt. Lost in thought, Mackenzie startled when Mary Ann—sorry, Mary Beth—appeared in the doorway.

  “What are you still doing here? Everyone’s leaving, they’re evacuating the building,” she said, her words rushed as she gathered up her belongings.

  “Why?” Mackenzie scrambled to her feet.

  “It’s that super-flu. They’ve closed Disneyland. And there’s rioting at O’Hare International,” Mary Beth said, picking up her purse.

  “The airport? Wait! Where did you hear this?”

  But Mary Beth had left, and Mackenzie could see a stream of her colleagues heading for the elevator.

  “They’re trying to contain it—”

  “Quarantine—”

  No one appeared overly panicked, but there was a definite buzz of confusion.

  Undecided, Mackenzie glanced out the impressively large windows onto Roosevelt Road five floors below. The sidewalk was uncommonly crowded for this time of day and traffic was choked to a standstill. The wail of an approaching ambulance had vehicles attempting to pull to the side, which only added to the turmoil.

  She needed to tell Peter about his daughter, and then—what? Get some groceries and hole up in her apartment until they got everything under control?

  Her cell chimed with a text message.

  Chloe: Shit is getting crazy, get out of the city. Come home.

  Mackenzie grinned wryly. It was no surprise that at the first hint of trouble, Chloe would urge her to come home. Her phone would blow up with messages from Kat and Rachel soon.

  The four girls had grown up together in the small rural town of Sanford, two hours from Chicago. While Chloe, Kat and Rachel constantly begged her to come back, Mackenzie had no intention of subjecting herself to that judgmental community ever again. Having escaped for college, she could count on one hand the number of times she’d been back.

  Sure enough, before she could respond to Chloe, another message came through.

  Rachel: Chloe thinks we should send Jake to come and get you.

  Mackenzie: I don’t need anyone to come and get me.

  Rachel: You don’t have a car, how are you going to get home?

  Mackenzie: I am home.

  That would definitely piss Rach off.

  Her face fell when she spied Peter from the window, exiting beneath the building’s awning and bolting into the foot traffic. Her stomach sank at the confirmation that she meant so little to him he could leave without finding her first.

  Recalling her conversation with Julie, Mackenzie tried to call his cell. Regardless of how hurt she was, there was a little girl waiting to be collected.

  When he didn’t answer, she swore under her bre
ath, sending him a text and hoping like hell he was on his way to the school now.

  Slowly, she walked back to her own desk, collected her belongings in a daze. She’d been right. Sy-V was in Chicago, only she wasn’t sure what the hell that meant.

  Rioting at the airport? That was batshit crazy.

  It wasn’t until Mac was heading to the elevator that she clocked the eeriness of the silent, deserted office. She was the only one left on the floor, and as the hairs on the back of her neck prickled, she quickened her pace.

  When the elevator door slid open, it was crammed to capacity. Her movement forward was halted by a brusque, “No room, catch the next one.”

  Stepping back, she answered her ringing phone. “Hey, Jake, let me guess. Chloe wants you to come and get me?”

  Today was crazy enough without adding pointless drama involving her best friends. Jake was Chloe’s younger brother, and at twenty-three he was three years her junior. It was a running joke between them that although she referred to him as Chloe’s ‘little’ brother, he’d been towering over all of them since he turned seventeen.

  Mackenzie jabbed at the down button of the elevator again.

  “I’ve already left. I’ll meet you at your apartment.”

  “What! You’re not serious?”

  He was silent.

  “You aren’t really coming here, are you?”

  “I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s not good.”

  “So, I can just wait it out. There’s no need to come and rescue me,” she protested. “And if it gets serious, then you shouldn’t be out driving in it. Stay home, Jake.”

  “Two hours, Mac. Be ready.”

  The elevator door slid open again, and Mackenzie disconnected the call.

  She wasn’t a damsel in distress who needed rescuing.

  This time, the only occupant of the elevator was Richard Drammel, a paunch-bellied senior partner at the firm who Mackenzie had never actually spoken to.