Chosen for Death Read Online Free PDF

bark mulch. I think of it as the browning of America. Still, it was stylistically consistent with the condo complex. My condo is serviceable and impersonal—a civilized form of living out of a suitcase, and it's just minutes off the highway and only a few more minutes from the office. The office is my true home.
    The condo smelled stale and musty. I had left in a hurry, and last week's mail and dishes were still piled up on the counter, while several pairs of shoes I'd kicked off lay in front of my favorite chair. A trio of glasses representing my nightly shot of bourbon were stuck to the glass coffee table. My cleaner only came every other week, and this had not been her week. It hadn't been anybody's week. At least, now that I was home, I could lose myself in work. Work was all that kept me sane.
    I got a diet soda, sank into the chair, and pressed the message button on my answering machine, kicking off my shoes beside all the others. There were a few condolences from friends, the usual collection of gasps and clicks from people too shy to talk to a machine, a dinner invitation from a guy who wouldn't take no for an answer, a bad joke from David's friend Larry, who worried about my morale—"What do you get when you pour boiling water down a rabbit hole? Hot cross bunnies,"—followed by a long message from my boss, Suzanne, explaining that she'd made a mistake about the date our report was due for Acton Academy.
    Suzanne is small and dynamic. A workaholic, like me, but unlike me, she tries to lead a normal, satisfying life. We do consulting for colleges and private schools, focused primarily on identifying and attracting new pools of applicants. I met Suzanne a few years after college. I was wandering blindly about, trying to figure out what to do with degrees in sociology and journalism. I'd tried working for a small-town weekly, getting paid in peanuts, and discovered that it wasn't for me. I couldn't get used to being pushy and intrusive just to report some minor story, even though I liked to write.
    Then I'd tried the sociology angle, working for the Department of Social Services, but that didn't suit me either. It took me less than a year to burn out, sick of processing desperate, unhappy people, never getting enough done, and worrying constantly about some serious case falling through the cracks. Salvation came in the form of an ad in the paper for a self-starter who liked people and liked to write.
    I answered the ad, liked Suzanne, and quit my job the next day. That was five years ago. Our work styles are very compatible. We're both independent, overachieving workaholics, but we can work well together. And the business is quite successful. There was some friction after I met David. He objected to my working all the time. David liked to play, and I discovered I liked to play with him, so for the two years we were together, I practiced being efficient about work at work and leaving it behind when I went home. David and Suzanne liked each other, and were good-natured about their attempts to get a larger share of my time. When David died, it was a lifesaver for me to have a job I could throw myself into. I've been throwing myself into it ever since.
    Suzanne's message, once I got over my shock at having only one week instead of the three I'd expected, offered just the opportunity I needed. I'd planned a leisurely week, starting to work on the report and writing a couple of proposals. A fifty-page report due on Friday meant an eighty-hour work week, and that was if things went well. I wouldn't have time to think about Carrie. My cleaner could worry about the shoes, dishes, and dust, and by Friday I was bound to find another distraction to take me through the weekend.
    The messages subsided with a final beep. I picked up the phone and called Suzanne. "Hello?" She sounded sleepy, and it was only seven-thirty.
    "It's Thea. I got your message. I'll get started on that report right away. Have we got everything we