Live to Tell (Live to Tell #1)(91)

“No!” Sadie bellows. “No, no, no! It’s mine and you can’t have it!”

“Shut up! Shut up now!”

Ryan sees that the gun is dangerously close, and pointed right at his little sister.

Lucy puts a protective arm around Sadie, and her hand comes to rest on Ryan’s shoulder. He feels a lump rise in his throat.

“Please,” Lucy says in a small voice, “don’t hurt us.”

“Believe me, I don’t want to. And I won’t, if you just tell me where it is.”

Ryan closes his eyes and tilts his head back, willing Sadie to give in before she gets them all killed.



“Sam, this is Lauren Walsh,” she says in a rush. “Do you remember me?”

“Lauren! Good to hear from—”

“Are you at home?”

“Yes. What—”

“Please just listen to me. I need your help. My kids are at my house, and someone is there with them. Someone who’s armed with a gun and taking them away.”

“What?”

“Whoever it is wants something from me, and he’s going to hurt my kids if he doesn’t get it, or if I call the police.”

The elevator arrives. The doors slide open. Still talking to Sam, Lauren steps in.

“They were still in the house a minute ago.” She repeatedly jabs the lobby and door close buttons. “Can you see if you can tell through the yard what’s going on? Don’t let them know you’re there—he’s got a gun pointed at my son’s head, and he’ll shoot. But if you can get a description of the person and the car and a license plate—”

“Are you sure there’s only one?”

“Car?”

“Person.”

“No.”

“But you know that it’s a man, and—”

“I’m not sure of that, either.”

“I’ll check it out. Where are you, Lauren?”

“White Plains, but I’m on my way home. Call me when—”

The elevator descends abruptly, cutting off the connection.

Knees wobbling, head spinning, Lauren catches a glimpse of herself in the mirrored wall. Deer in headlights—a stark contrast to the self-assured reflection she saw upon her ascent.

It’s going to be all right, she tells herself.

If only there was someone here with her; someone who could say the words aloud and make her believe them. She’s never felt more alone in her life.

But you’re not.

Thank God, she thinks. Thank God for Sam.



Brooding, Garvey sits in his office, one eye on the clock, the other on his silent cell phone, clutched in his hand. All morning, he’s been waiting for word.

Today. It has to be today.

Don’t let me down. If you do, you’ll be sorry.

And I’ll be sorrier, he thinks grimly.

“Garvey.”

He looks up to see Marin standing in the doorway. Her hair is pulled back in a prim chignon and she has on a navy blue suit with pumps.

“I’m ready to go.” She tucks a compact into her clutch purse and snaps it closed. “Do you have an umbrella?”

“The driver will. That’s what you’re wearing?”

“No. I’m wearing jeans and sneakers. I was about to change.”

He forces a smile at the quip.

“Trust me,” she tells him, “I didn’t pick it out.”

Of course she didn’t. She rarely chooses her own clothes for public appearances these days. His campaign staff has taken over his wife’s wardrobe, along with everything else. They organize Marin’s clothing well in advance, according to what’s on the calendar.

Garvey looks her up and down. “It’s not bad. Just kind of…boring, and buttoned up. But it matches your eyes.”

“Beverly said the same thing.”

Beverly. He keeps his expression carefully neutral.

Funny—his longtime campaign aide didn’t mention that she’s dressing his wife these days, going around telling Marin that her blue suit matches her blue eyes.

Once, a long time ago, Garvey told Beverly that her own eyes were the color of the summer sun—and just as warm and welcoming.

He honestly believed that, then.

“Beverly thought this outfit presented the right image for this event,” Marin tells him. “So where’s it being held, in a nunnery?”

“Close. It’s—”

“I know where it is,” Marin interrupts, giving him a look. “And I know what it is.”

Yes. Of course she does.

“Okay. So let’s go.” Garvey pushes back his chair and stands. He’s been dreading it all morning: a luncheon with religious leaders opposed to stem cell research.

The bitter irony doesn’t escape him—nor does it escape Marin. He can see the tightness in her expression; can sense the tension in her posture as they walk, side by side, to the door.

He knows what she’s thinking; he’s thinking the same thing.

Just another hypocritical incident in the lives of the wholesome, conservative Quinns.

“It’s fine. We’re the only ones who know, Marin,” he reminds her in a low tone as they ride down to the lobby in the elevator.