Chapter 1The Phantom Payroll Murder Plot

I was just a mid-level HR rep, but I managed to hire a ghost. A phantom employee who didn't exist.

This employee never clocked in, never worked a shift, and yet, every single month, I used his name to siphon two thousand, eight hundred dollars in base pay and attendance bonuses straight out of the accounting department.

I got away with it because I was the one who generated the timesheets. I ran the payroll. Even the photocopy of his driver’s license and Social Security card were top-tier forgeries I’d paid a guy on the dark web to mock up. On the rare occasions the owner did a spot-check, I’d casually mention the guy was out sick or running a delivery route.

The only reason I had the nerve to pull this off was because the meat processing plant where I worked was an absolute circus. The owner was a pathological cheapskate, the turnover rate was catastrophic, and the guys on the killing floor barely knew each other's first names, let alone the faces of the night crew.

For three years, I lived off this phantom. I hoarded every single stolen cent, burying it in a savings account. It was blood money, sure, but it was going toward a literal bleeding heart—my daughter’s. She was born with a severe congenital heart defect, and her life was measured in the price tags of experimental surgeries.

My plan was simple. Next month, the minute her final surgical fee was fully funded, I was going to process a quiet resignation for my ghost employee, wipe the digital footprint, and wash my hands of the whole grift.

But last night, the plan shattered.

John Miller—my fictional, non-existent employee—had a fatal workplace accident.

...

* * *

At 3:00 AM, the frantic buzzing of my phone vibrating against the nightstand jolted me awake.

I squinted at the caller ID. Gary Walsh. The plant owner.

My stomach plummeted. Gary didn't even reply to my emails during business hours. Why the hell was he calling me in the dead of night?

I slipped out from under the covers, tiptoed past my sleeping daughter’s bed, and stepped out onto the freezing balcony before hitting accept.

The second the call connected, Gary’s voice slammed into my ear—a manic, terrified roar.

"Harper! What kind of blind, incompetent morons are you hiring?!"

"That new guy, John Miller! He bypassed the safety guard on the industrial meat grinder during the night shift! He got pulled in!"

"By the time they cut the power, he was... Jesus Christ, Harper, he’s ground to a fucking pulp!"

A high-pitched ringing erupted in my ears, like a flashbang had gone off inside my skull.

My knees gave out. I collapsed onto the freezing ceramic tiles of the balcony, the phone trembling against my cheek.

It’s over.

That was the only coherent thought my brain could form.

John Miller was a figment of my imagination. A name on a spreadsheet. How could he possibly be working the night shift?

And how, in God's name, could he be in the grinder?

"Harper?! Are you there? Say something!" Gary was practically foaming at the mouth through the speaker. "Get your ass down to the plant, right now! We have to bury this before the sun comes up!"

My entire body shook violently. I bit down on my lower lip so hard I tasted copper, desperately stifling a scream.

If John Miller didn't exist... then who the hell was dead in that machine?!

But I couldn't say that. I would take that secret to my grave. The second I admitted John was a phantom, my embezzlement would be exposed. I wouldn't just be looking at federal wire fraud charges and a prison cell—the funding for my daughter’s heart surgery would vanish. She would die.

For her, I had to keep playing the part.

"Mr. Walsh," I choked out, my voice raw. "I'm on my way."