At Any Cost by Cara Ellison Read Free Book Online

was intently on Cameron Chapman. Fallon picked up a towel from the chair where she’d placed flip-flops and white terrycloth robes for herself and Gwen.
    â€œI’m going home to shower and change. Do you want a ride to the hospital?”
    â€œYes, please,” Gwen said, savoring a glance at Tom Bishop, still chatting with Cameron. Under her breath she uttered, “Yes, I definitely would like a ride to the hospital.”
    Fallon rolled her eyes. Gwen was engaged; shouldn’t pre-marital women have more control? “No sense walking in the cold and dark when there’s a nice warm car, right?” Gwen smiled.
    And it was cold. Snow was forecasted late tonight; the air was black and pure as menthol in the lungs. The two women piled into the backseat of the SUV with their gym bags and purses, grateful for the instant, luxurious warmth of the leather seats. The drive to George Washington University Hospital took only two minutes. Agent Rowland drove the truck directly to the emergency room entrance. Gwen gathered her belongings and jumped out. “I’ll call you later,” she said and slammed the door shut.
    As soon as Gwen was inside the electronic double doors, Fallon’s phone buzzed, indicating a text. Fallon fished it out and read: OMG, HE IS PISTOL HOT!
    No kidding , Fallon mentally answered as she put the phone away.
    Presently, the motorcade arrived at Fallon’s redbrick building on K Street in the riverfront sector of Georgetown. It was a new building set in an old, stately community of patrician doctors and lawyers and lobbyists. At this hour, the neighborhood was dead silent, dark, and with damp cobblestone streets looked like a place from a different, gaslit era. Fallon pulled the robe tighter around her body and stepped outside with Cameron, who would walk with her to her door to make sure she was safe. Intense halogen headlights of the follow-up SUV illuminated her in the dark morning. She blinked back toward the limo as she hefted her gym bag onto her shoulder, able to make out the silhouettes of the agents—one of which was Tom Bishop—in the front seats. It was nice to have a fantasy, she thought, and walked inside.
    After a hot shower, Fallon filled a teakettle with water from the tap and placed it on the stove. Waiting for it to boil, she set out the milk and searched for the tin of chocolate biscotti in her larder she’d bought last time she was in Italy.
    She’d like to go again, one day. She missed her travels.
    Engrossed in preparing breakfast, she nearly missed it. Something uttered on the television in the living room snapped her attention. It took only a second—a satellite uplink pause—for the name Antoine Campbell to penetrate her erotic daydreamy memories about Tom Bishop. She wandered into the living room, upping the volume with the remote, but the live action segment was finished and the newscasters were back in the studio.
    â€œA terrible tragedy, Plymouth,” the blond news anchor said.
    The male counterpart nodded in agreement. “Indeed, Greer. Up next, Dr. Marge tells us the extraordinary story of treating a woman for breast cancer, only to learn it was her own birth mother.”
    Fallon switched channels, hoping to catch the name again. The story had evaporated.
    She sat down at her computer and navigated to the television station’s website. On the right column of the screen, beside a headline announcing president-elect Hughes would be visiting Walter Reed Medical Center today, was a list of local headlines:
Big Rig Falls Off Freeway Ramp, Killing 3
Caught On Camera: Man Takes Toddler To Robbery
After High-Speed Chase, District Man Commits Suicide
    Her breath suddenly a little restricted, Fallon clicked the last link and read.
Antoine Campbell, 22, committed suicide yesterday in Washington, D.C., witnessed by midday crowds. After a high-speed chase through Southern Maryland, Mr. Campbell drove to the corner of M