Scared to Death Read Free Page A

stirring…
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    Leaning on the terrace railing, gazing at the smattering of lighted windows on the Queens skyline across the East River, Marin Hartwell Quinn finds herself wishing the sun would never come up.
    When it does, she’ll be launched headlong into another exhausting, lonely day of single motherhood, a role she never imagined for herself.
    At this time last year, the storybook Quinn family was all over the press: Marin, Garvey, and their two beautiful daughters—Caroline, a striking brunette with her father’s coloring, and Annie, a blue-eyed blonde like her mom. They were destined to live happily ever after on the Upper East Side, and—if the expected nomination came through and the election turned out predictably—in the governor’s mansion…and someday, perhaps, the White House.
    But in a flash—a flash, yes, like those from the ever-present paparazzi cameras—Garvey was transportedfrom Park Avenue to Park Row, the lower Manhattan street that houses the notorious Metropolitan Correctional Center.
    Naturally, the photographers who had dogged Congressman Quinn along the campaign trail were there to capture the moment he was hauled away in handcuffs on a public street. And when the detectives had driven off with their prisoner, sirens wailing, the press turned their cameras on Marin, still sitting, stunned, in the backseat of the limousine.
    Later, she forced herself to look at the photos, to read the captions. One referred to her as the humiliated would-be first lady , another as a blond, blue-eyed Jackie Kennedy, shell-shocked at witnessing her husband’s sudden downfall on a city street .
    That wasn’t the first time the press had drawn a Kennedy-Quinn comparison. But while the slain JFK had remained a hero and his wife was lauded as a heartbroken, dignified widow, the fallen Garvey Quinn was exposed as a coldhearted villain—and his wife drew nothing but scorn from his disillusioned constituents.
    No one seemed to grasp—or care—that Marin herself had been blindsided; that the man she loved had betrayed her—and their children—with his unspeakable crime. That Elsa Cavalon wasn’t the only mother bereaved by Jeremy Cavalon’s kidnapping and murder. Marin, his birth mother, grieved as well. And, unbearably, her own husband—Jeremy’s own father—was responsible for his death.
    What the hell is she supposed to do with that knowledge, and the accompanying guilt? How the hell is she supposed to move past it?
    So far, she’s come up with only this: Force herself to get up every morning—if she manages to stay in bed that long—and face the wreckage of her life.
    One foot in front of the other, one day after another. Just move on, blindly, preferably not looking back, not looking ahead.
    With a sigh, Marin turns away from the railing. Still no hint of sunrise on the eastern horizon, but it will appear any moment now, and the day will be under way.
    Time to get moving: Shower and dress, make some coffee, check her e-mail…Oh, and the cleaning service comes today.
    Marin had felt only mild disappointment when Shirley, their longtime housekeeper, gave notice two months ago. She wasn’t one of those warm and fuzzy domestic employees who become part of the family. No, she kept her distance, even amid all the upheaval—not as much out of professional discretion, Marin suspects, as because she just didn’t give a damn.
    It’s just as well. The last thing her daughters needed was another shakeup on the home front, however small. Marin was pretty sure no one was going to miss Shirley, and she was right. It took a few days for the girls to even realize she was gone—and even then, it was only the growing pile of laundry that tipped them off.
    â€œAren’t we going to hire a new maid?” Caroline had asked, dismayed.
    â€œNope,” Marin heard herself say, shocking Caroline—not to mention