Death's Last Run Read Free

window of her West Seventieth Street brownstone. A few stories up, in an apartment that backed onto Martha’s courtyard from West Seventy-first, a naked, fleshy fortysomething contemplated her wardrobe options. In other windows, a retired couple drank tea with no animation and a shirtless man, maybe in his twenties, danced around his bathroom as he shaved. Her constituents. She hated them right now, probably because they were alive.
    How had she failed so completely?
    She had a zillion phone calls to return and her email inbox was bulging to the point of overflow, but all Martha wanted to do was sit and stare at photographs.
    She opened the fourth giant album, the one where Sacha was three. There should have been twenty-three years to go through, but somewhere along the way the world had gone digital and now no one printed photos anymore.
    She touched the photograph on the first page, traced her finger along Sacha in her brown plaid trench coat, marching through Central Park and looking like a tiny reporter. Martha remembered the day she’d taken the picture. One of the rare full days she had spent with her daughter. The nanny had the flu and Fraser was out of town, so Martha was stuck — she felt that way,
stuck —
looking after Sacha. Near the park entrance, she and Sacha passed a homeless man with a three-legged dog. Sacha looked up at Martha with her big brown eyes and said, “Mommy, can we bring that man home tonight? If I give him my dinner, he won’t have to eat his dog’s other legs.” Martha had hurried Sacha along with some brusque explanation of why inviting strangers into your house was unsafe. She wished now that she’d helped Sacha take the man a sandwich.
    She reached for her coffee and took a sip — lukewarm. Why could she not shed a single tear? Martha had always suspected herself of being a cold bitch; now she knew for sure. She touched the photo again and closed her eyes.
    Martha’s BlackBerry rang. Ted. She’d been ignoring his calls for over a week. She sighed and picked it up.
    â€œMartha. So sorry to bother you. Kearnes is pulling tricks in Michigan.”
    â€œWhat kind of tricks?”
    A metal snapping sound came through the phone. That would be Ted cracking his first can of Red Bull for the day. Or maybe his second, judging by the speed he was talking. “He’s been making phone calls to your supporters. In particular, he’s aiming to snag Hillier’s endorsement.”
    â€œHe can aim all he likes. Reverend Hillier and I had dinner three weeks ago. We shook hands and agreed that I have his support.”
    â€œThat was before . . . Kearnes is implying that it’s a good thing this happened now — Sacha’s death — so the Republican Party can see your so-called true colors before making the mistake of electing you as leader. He’s trying to prove that if you’re taking this much time off over one death, how would you handle the presidency in wartime?”
    â€œFor Christ’s sake, this is my daughter. Can’t Hillier see that? Can’t Kearnes?”
    â€œYeah, but you’re not there to defend yourself.”
    â€œHow do you know what Geoff Kearnes is saying on the phone, anyway? Or do I not want to know?”
    â€œA college friend is involved in Kearnes’ campaign. He and I grabbed a coffee after the all-candidates town hall meeting in Flint . . .”
    The meeting Martha should have been at
was the implication and why Ted let his sentence trail. She eyed her photo album and wished Ted would get to the point.
    â€œIt’s disgusting,” Ted said. “And don’t worry — voters disagree with Kearnes, if your new popularity is anything to gauge by.”
    Martha willed herself not to comment on the absurd stupidity of that statement.
    â€œBut . . . and this is bad . . . I called Hillier’s office half an hour ago to make sure things are still good, that we still