The Stolen Girl by Samantha Westlake Read Free Book Online

didn’t rise from his seat right away. Instead, he pulled in a long, deep breath and slowly let it out. Elizabeth had been the one who had first told him that he ought to mediate, back when he had been on the campaign trail and pulling eighteen-hour days. He could remember her face, even though the conversation had been nearly a decade ago, gazing earnestly up at him when he came home late one night.
    “Daddy, I think you need to learn to meditate,” she had announced as soon as he walked into the door, no preamble before getting right to her idea. “I saw a TV show about monks who do it, and they were super calm and smart and could think about things really well. You should do that too so you can think about things really well.”
    Dropping his briefcase at the entrance to the house, Sterling had plodded into the kitchen, his daughter padding along behind him. He remembered that she had insisted on a pair of footie pajamas for Christmas that year, and had religiously worn them every night until they no longer fit. “Shouldn’t you be in bed by now?” he had asked, reaching into the fridge to pull out a bottle of beer.
    The little ten-year-old had put her hands on her fleece-covered hips and glared at him. “It’s not a school night,” she stated, sounding like a teacher correcting an errant pupil. “And you have to be up earlier than me and you’re not in bed, so I win.”
    Sterling opened his mouth to retort, but then closed it, instead reaching over to ruffle his girl’s hair. This had been less than a year after his wife had passed away, and he still sometimes felt himself feeling about to tear up for little to no reason. Seeing his daughter’s earnest face gazing up at him was one of those reasons.
    “Meditate, huh?” he said, making sure that his tone sounded considering. “Tell me about these monks. You have to sell this, have to make it convincing!”
    As he had taken a seat in living room on a couch, Elizabeth had climbed up next to him, pulling up her feet onto the couch beneath her. “The monks do it for hours, but you just have to do it for a few minutes,” she explained, sounding almost like a lecturer as she recited the information. “But you have to do it every day. And you have to not think about anything and just focus on listening to your breath. I tried it and it’s hard but the TV show said that it takes practice. Like riding a bike.”
    The senator had lifted his beer to his lips, but lowered it back down without a sip. “Okay, but are you going to do it with me?” he asked, stretching out one arm.
    His daughter immediately crawled over to snuggle up against him, letting his arm come down to wrap around her shoulders and chest protectively. “Okay, daddy,” she whispered, her eyes already beginning to droop shut. “I’ll do it with you.”
    And so Sterling had sat on the couch, holding his daughter and trying to think about nothing, trying to keep out all the thoughts of the campaign, of his obligations to his constituents, and of his shattered home life. He tried not to think about the trials that his young daughter would face as she grew up and entered her teenage years, tried not to think about how much he felt the absence of his wife. It hadn’t been entirely successful, but when he next looked down, Elizabeth was fast asleep.
    The senator had scooped up his daughter, carrying her upstairs and depositing her in her bed. He had sat at the foot of the bed, the covers pulled up to her chin, and had tried not to think. And although his meditation attempts never grew to be truly successful, like the monks his little girl had watched so adamantly, he had kept on practicing.
    And now, the senator once again focused on just listening to his breath as he sat in the chair and waited for the FBI agent and the reporters to arrive at his house. He would need to haul out the podium in the garage, kept there specifically for conferences at his home. But that would come later. Now, he