Scared To Death (Live to Tell #2)(42)

Marin was tempted to turn back when she hit bottleneck traffic on the northbound FDR, but that would be the easy way out. She forced herself to keep going, reminding herself—once again—to stay strong.

Now she’s moving along pretty well, finally heading north on the Triborough Bridge.

Wait—not the Triborough anymore, she reminds herself. Now it’s the Robert F. Kennedy.

She remembers Garvey’s reaction when the span was renamed a while back. Publicly, he called it a shameless Democratic photo op at the taxpayers’ expense, and was roundly applauded by his constituents.

Privately, he promised Marin that one day, a bridge or tunnel here in New York, or perhaps in Boston, would bear his own name.

Typical hypocritical, egotistical Garvey. To think there was a time when she’d been invigorated by what she convinced herself was admirable confidence and ambition.

Just remember—you weren’t the only one who was fooled by him.

Cold comfort now, though, to think of the thousands of people who believed in Congressman Quinn.

Ordinarily, Marin enjoys the skyline views as the highway curves away from the city. Today, however—the first time she’s been here in months—she can see nothing at all. The landscape is shrouded in mist. It feels like a bad omen.

She’s traveled this route out of the city hundreds of times over the years, heading to and from her home-town, Boston, or the nursing home in Brighton. But it’s been a while since she’s visited any of those places, and she feels a twinge of guilt thinking of her father.

John Hartwell’s condition has steadily deteriorated over the past year or so. Dementia, the doctors are saying, though he’s only in his late sixties. He’s been talking to invisible people, hearing things, seeing things.

Some days are worse than others.

Once in a while, when Marin calls to check in, the nurse will say, “Mrs. Quinn, your father is having a good day,” and she knows that’s a hint for her to come visit.

Bur her own good days are fewer and farther between than Dad’s; she’s never quite up to a spur-of-the-moment drive or the curious stares from the eavesdropping staff, let along having her father ask about her husband.

Dad has always adored Garvey, and until recently, frequently exercised bragging rights that his only daughter married into the illustrious Boston Quinn family. He liked to wait until someone—preferably, as many people as possible—happened to be in earshot before he’d ask, “How’s my son-in-law, the congressman?”

Marin felt obligated to explain to him, last September, what was going on with Garvey. But she waited until no one was around to overhear, and she left out as many of the details as possible. She knew her father didn’t really comprehend. Sure enough, he’d forgotten all about it by the next visit, and she didn’t bother to reiterate.

Today, as she bypasses the exit leading to Interstate 95 and New England, she promises herself that she’ll get back up to Brighton soon. Or someday maybe even to Groton, to meet Elsa Cavalon.

She wonders whether Lauren would think that’s a good idea. Then she wonders whether it’s even a good idea for her to visit Lauren in Glenhaven Park.

Maybe exposing herself to the scene of one of Garvey’s many crimes will be another healthy step in the healing process.

Or maybe, Marin thinks grimly, it’ll convince me to leave well enough alone.



“Please, Mommy…I want to get off!”

“I know, I know…shh, it’s okay.” As she tries to settle Renny into the window seat, Elsa wonders how on earth she could have thought the train was a good idea for a claustrophobic kid.

She wasn’t thinking when she made the decision—that’s the problem. Back at the house, reacting to the frightening series of photos, she was in full flight mode. Driving to New York seemed like a terrible idea. But maybe this is worse.

Still, the alternative would have been…what? A commuter flight between Groton–New London airport and New York is half an hour at most—Maman always flies in when she visits, sans luggage, of course—but Renny trapped in the cabin of a tiny plane several miles above the ground? Forget it.

Staying at home, waiting for someone to snatch Renny away? Not an option.

Brett wanted to drive them to Manhattan himself, but Elsa talked him out of it.

“I’d feel safer going to New York on public transportation,” she told him. “Someone might be lurking around here, waiting to follow our car. But there’s no way anyone can follow a train.”

He looked at her for a long time before saying, “Someone could follow us from here to the train station, and it wouldn’t be very hard to figure out where you’re going from there.”

“But even if they saw us get on a southbound train, they wouldn’t be sure where we were getting off. It could be anywhere from Old Saybrook to Washington, D.C.”

Again, he gave her a probing gaze before nodding.

She was right, of course. Unless whoever was following them managed to hop on the train, too…and then follow them through the city to Sylvie’s doorstep…and then—

No. She refuses to let her mind go there. Everything is going to be okay.

But it wasn’t okay before, with Jeremy…

That’s why it has to be okay this time.

“Mommy! I don’t like this!”