Free Private Indiscretions by Susan Crosby Page A

about it.
    â€œI don’t know what to make of it,” she said. “In fact, I almost thought the first one was a hoax. My office gets threats on occasion. They never amount to anything.”
    â€œThese came to your home.”
    She hesitated. “Yes.”
    â€œYou took precautions to preserve evidence this time?” he asked.
    â€œI did.”
    â€œYou have no theories about who’s behind it?”
    â€œNone.”
    â€œDo you think there’s truth to it? That your late husband had a secret?”
    He’d voiced her fear out loud. “He was a good man, Sam. The best. I know it. I believe it. I don’t believe Randall had anything to hide, but…”
    â€œBut how would you know for sure?”
    She nodded. “Look, I get hate mail like any other politician, and my staff handles that. This is different. This is personal. I won’t allow anyone to tarnish Randall’s legacy. He’s not here to defend himself, so it’s up to me.”
    â€œAgain, I remind you that these letters came to yourhome, not your office, which puts a different spin on things. Even though there’s no death threat, it’s a threat, nonetheless.”
    â€œWho can I trust? This is a stab at me more than Randall.”
    â€œWhy don’t you just announce now you’re not running?”
    â€œBecause then the blackmailer wins. And—I’m trusting you with this part—the party leaders asked me not to announce yet.”
    â€œAsked or told?”
    She waved a hand. “Both, I suppose, but I’m respecting their wishes. We know who’ll run if I don’t. He’s divisive, and the party needs cohesion. The opposition will be particularly strong without an incumbent to run against. We need our guy in place first, with my full support as well as the party leaders’. As long as everyone thinks I’m running, we keep a level of control. And the longer we wait, the shorter the time for others to campaign.”
    â€œCan’t the process be speeded up?”
    â€œI don’t know what time frame I’m working within, but the notes seem to indicate I don’t have much time at all. Plus, the party leaders would need to know why I wanted to push things up by two months,” she said, noticing he hadn’t moved since she’d started talking but rested his arms on his thighs and never took his eyes off her.
    â€œSam, Randall was forty-eight years old when we married. He’d lived a life already. If he had secrets, they stayed secret. He seemed genuine, but how can I be sure?”
    â€œDo you want to call Abe and include him in this discussion? He may know something he doesn’t realize he knows.”
    She smiled, grateful she could. “That actually made sense to me. No. He wasn’t happy about being given the task.”
    â€œAll right. Let’s start at the beginning.”
    Â 
    Sam finally sat back and looked at the room they had shared for an hour. Her bedroom was clearly Mediterranean-style—dark wood, the same antique-gold walls as the foyer, heavy drapes and ornate architectural details. But the sitting room was blue. Light. Feminine. Dana.
    He’d sent her for a snack because he needed a few minutes alone to sort through what she’d told him. He ran down the facts in his head. She’d met then-Congressman Randall Sterling when she was a junior at UC Berkeley and he was a guest lecturer. Believing in his platform and his ideals, she worked on his campaign for Senate. After he won she volunteered and interned in his San Francisco office while she earned her B.A. in political science then became a paid staff member during the six years it took to get her master’s and Ph.D. She married the senator the same month she finished her studies, and he died a year and a half later.
    She said they hadn’t been more than friendly until three months before their marriage, when they suddenly took a