Hour of the Assassin by Matthew Quirk

Author:Matthew Quirk [Quirk, Matthew]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780062875495
Publisher: William Morrow
Published: 2020-03-15T05:00:00+00:00

47

Sam MacDonough walked through the apartment bedroom wearing a pair of boxers and a V-neck T-shirt. After the dinner at his town house, he’d come here to meet Ali Waldron, to forget the campaign for a few hours.

He came up to the side of the bed and looked down into Ali’s eyes, studying the curves of her face, the one dimple that appeared as she smiled.

She laughed and pulled the sheets up. “What?”

“Just looking at you,” Sam said, and ran the back of his fingers softly across her cheek. She shut her eyes for a moment.

“Are you all right, Sam?”

He cocked his head. “What do you mean?”

“I can tell. You seem . . . troubled. Is it work? The campaign?”

He patted her shoulder. “You’re sweet. It’s a lot, but I’m fine. Much better now,” he added, and smiled.

“Come back to bed,” she said, and rolled onto her side. “For a while at least.”

He put his hand on her side, felt her warmth through the sheets. “Maybe in a bit,” he said, then turned and walked toward the door. “You want the light out?” he asked.

“Please.”

He switched it off, left the door open a crack, and crossed the living area, the artfully matched rugs and sofa. It was a four-thousand-dollar-a-month furnished apartment that Blakely leased through one of his dark-money groups—off the radar, discreet.

Ali worked for David’s political operation. She was on the payroll as an event manager, but she didn’t do much party planning.

That was the beauty of keeping things like this within David’s realm. He would make sure they stayed hidden. And with what he already knew about Sam, what was one more secret?

Sam’s wife was down in Richmond, taking care of her mother. That was the official story, but she was sick of DC, the same faces, the same parties. She didn’t like how Sam seemed to retreat into a persona as he prepared for his candidacy, how he wore the mask all the time now, even with her. They still loved each other, but not as they once had. The children were grown. It was a partnership now.

He walked toward the window. The blinds were down, showing only a sliver of the view down the street: the old Carnegie Library in the distance, a Beaux-Arts gem that had been turned into an Apple Store.

His mind went back to the image of Ali’s still form, of her lying in that bed.

The election. The scrutiny. Ali was worried about him. She could see the strain he was under, the sins weighing on him, pressing down so hard he felt like he couldn’t breathe. It was too much.

He put his hand to the molding beside the window and closed his eyes.

A woman lying still.

He was back in that country house that Fourth of July.

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