to prioritize his comfort. This kid must have spent the past thirty-six hours scrubbing floors and washing walls. “Listen, Brendan, I can put you up at a hotel. I’ll cover the cost myself. You might have to choose a motel in a neighboring county, so you’ll have to commute back and forth each—”
“You don’t like it?”
“Oh. You’ve done great. Honestly. I’m grateful,” Andre says. “It’s just not fair to ask you to stay here.”
“And where will you stay?”
Andre won’t give Alenushka the satisfaction. “I’ll stay here.”
“Then I’ll stay too.” Brendan nods. The subject is closed.
Maybe his new assistant isn’t all bad. The kid’s already proven himself hardworking and well mannered. Mrs. Fitz should be proud. She’s got an all-American boy. Andre hopes the kid isn’t a mental case—the kind too often attracted to politics—who’s clean and sunny outside yet dark as a mine inside. Last year, one of the firm’s senior associates, a petite blonde with a penchant for puns and limericks, got caught fighting pit bulls along the Eastern Shore. She took photos of herself, laughing, winking, as she drowned muzzled dogs, her kitchen-gloved hands clasping their collars, submerged deep in a hot tub brimming with bloody water. She got herself a good lawyer, a plea deal with two years stayed and suspended, promising the judge that she’d dedicate her life to public good. She still works at the firm. Just made junior partner. Shit. Crazy bitch wins elections. Plus, she bakes a mean-ass strawberry scone. Who cares about anything else?
“I think I should get some sleep. I’ll cook something special for breakfast.” Brendan rolls his head around. “And, again, I’m sorry about the gas station.”
“Already forgotten.”
“You gonna tell my grandmother?”
“In the field, teams live by rules. Road rule number one: what happens on the road stays on the road.”
“Do people actually follow the rules?”
“I do.”
The answer seems to please Brendan. Perhaps because now the two share a secret. Now they are brothers keeping mischief from their nana. Brendan makes his exit, closes the door.
Andre sits, exhausted, on the bed’s edge, hopes he can fall asleep. He’s been working all day, on full alert, shuffling from place to place, but now, alone in this strange dank room, he feels the sudden evaporation of adrenaline, a sensation not unlike drowning that leaves him off balance and hollow. The end of each day, he knows, makes every traveler feel a little lost, a little lonesome, a little homesick. Travel, by its nature, disorients. And yet, the barrenness he feels isn’t just about loneliness or fatigue. He also feels a hint of dissatisfaction, about himself, about his life. He’s worked hard, achieved much, his professional life the envy of others. But the truth is, even if he weren’t on the road, even if he were lying beneath the blankets of his own bed, Andre would still spend this night alone, restless, a drink in one hand, the remote in the other, a vain attempt to distract himself from the cold reality that he needs something more than this disappointing, peripatetic life.
Chapter Three
Andre sleeps maybe four hours in restless shifts that never exceed fifteen minutes. He usually sleeps better on the road, but then again, he usually enjoys accommodations where the mice don’t skitter so noisily inside the walls. His sleeplessness, however, has provided the opportunity to plan this campaign, and now, he concludes, he doesn’t need a larger team. Sure, a private investigator might be nice, and yes, a volunteer coordinator would help. But Brendan’s qualified to analyze their data, and Andre’s mastered the skills required to win with less.
He’s studying recent election results when a smoke detector sounds in the next room. Andre hurries into the kitchen to find Brendan standing atop a stool, arms flailing, the alarm beyond his grasp. The high-pitched beep grates on Andre, who grabs a broom, sweeps the ceiling, knocking the alarm to the ground, where it breaks into pieces.
“The sensor must be sensitive,” Brendan says. “I wake you?”
Andre helps Brendan down, notices his assistant’s buzz cut. The haircut brings into focus Brendan’s new look: a face now textured by thin, uneven patches of blond stubble, contact lenses that turn blue eyes gray. Did he bring those with him? For sure, Brendan appears older, slightly more masculine, but apparently no mask can hide his baby face.
“I thought about what you said,” Brendan says. “Our job is to blend in.”
Brendan returns to his makeshift kitchen, where a pine door atop cinder blocks serves as a counter for