Death's Last Run by Robin Spano Page A

he was at work.”
    â€œHe probably is.” Martha pushed past Daisy and left the younger woman standing with one hand on the door. “I’ve just left him in the financial district.”
    Daisy remained in the doorway. She nodded to the two Secret Service men in the hallway. “Are they coming in?”
    â€œNo,” Martha said. “I’ve told them it’s not necessary. You’re not planning to kill me, correct?”
    After Martha stood staring at her for a long moment, Daisy shut the door slowly and asked, “Did you, um, want a cup of tea?”
    â€œCoffee would be better.”
    â€œOh. Well. Fraser drinks the coffee. I’m not even sure how to work the machine. But I’ve just boiled the kettle.”
    Martha stared. No wonder things hadn’t worked between her and Fraser. Clearly he’d been lusting after geniuses the whole time. “I can work the coffee machine.”
    Daisy’s top lip curved slightly over her bottom one. She looked like she was trying to find an alternative to inviting Martha into her kitchen. After a few seconds, when apparently no inspired solution came to her, Daisy pushed through the swinging kitchen door. Martha followed.
    â€œYou must be gutted.” Daisy pulled grounds down from a high shelf. Martha would have needed a stool. “About Sacha and everything.”
    â€œYes. Fraser mentioned you were psychoanalyzing my grief.”
    â€œUm. I know I’m supposed to be an expert in psychology by now. And I have learned a lot of stuff — like did you know that our minds and our bodies are connected? For example, if you get the flu, it’s probably because you’re stressed, not because you’ve been around a virus?”
    Martha wondered how Ebola patients would respond to this sage observation.
    â€œBut — and please don’t tell Fraser; he’s spent a fortune on these courses — I feel like the lessons never prepared me for Sacha’s death. The stuff in the textbooks is too simple for all the complicated emotions floating around right now.”
    â€œThat’s the most intelligent thing I’ve ever heard you say.”
    â€œIt is?” Daisy brightened, turned to face Martha, and frowned again. “Oh, you mean because you think I’m really dumb.”
    Martha slid the filter drawer out from the side of Fraser’s coffee maker. It
was
a funny machine — it had taken Martha awhile to figure out, the first time she’d used it.
    â€œI meant to ask, how long are you staying?”
    â€œIs that what you asked Sacha? How long she planned to stay? In Fraser’s life, that is.”
    â€œOh.” Daisy took a seat at the round wooden table that Martha had found at a Connecticut craft fair. “You want to have
this
conversation.”
    â€œI didn’t come to learn about the human brain.”
    Daisy twirled curly blond hair around her finger. “Sacha would have been welcome in our home anytime as a guest. She could have kept her key.”
    â€œOh good. A tiny metal key would compensate for taking away Sacha’s sense of belonging.”
    â€œI didn’t drive Sacha to suicide. You can’t make this my fault.” Daisy pulled a sparkle-covered phone from her pocket and glanced at it. “I have to meet a friend in SoHo. And I need to change clothes — I’m not pregnant enough that I can get away with bad fashion. So, um . . . I guess I’ll see you out?”
    Martha started the coffee machine and sat at the round table with Daisy. “You might want to cancel with your friend.”
    â€œYou can’t tell me to cancel my social life. You’re not senator of this apartment.”
    â€œSure I am. This apartment is in New York, no?”
    Daisy’s shoulders fell. “Why are you doing this?”
    â€œBecause you’re the only person I know who visited Sacha in Whistler, who saw firsthand what her life was