“You haven’t stalked other women before?”
He cuts a piece of mozzarella, brings it to his mouth, and chews it slowly. “Not like this, no,” he says when he’s done.
“Oh?” I find myself morbidly curious. “How did you stalk them?”
He gives me a level look. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”
He’s probably right, but since there’s a chance I might not see him after tonight, I feel a bizarre urge to find out more about him. “No, I actually do,” I say, drawing comfort from the handbag strap brushing against my back. “I want to know. Tell me.”
He hesitates, then says, “The majority of my assignments have always been men, but I’ve followed women as part of my job, too. Different jobs, different women, different reasons. Back in Russia, it was often the wives and girlfriends of the men who threatened my country; we followed and questioned them to locate our real targets. Later, when I became a fugitive, I tracked a couple of women as part of my work for various cartel leaders, arms dealers, and such; usually it was because they posed a threat of some kind, or betrayed the men I worked for.”
The bite of tomato I just consumed feels stuck in my throat. “You just… tracked them?”
“Not always.” He reaches for the linguini, winds a fork in it, and brings a sizable portion of the pasta to his plate without spilling any of the buttery sauce. “Sometimes I had to do more.”
The tips of my fingers are starting to feel cold. I know I should shut up, but instead, I hear myself asking, “What did you have to do?”
“It depended on the situation. One time, my quarry was a nurse who sold out my employer—the arms dealer I mentioned to you before—to some terrorist clients of his. As a result, his then-girlfriend was kidnapped, and he was nearly killed rescuing her. It was an ugly situation, and when I found the nurse, I had to resort to an ugly solution.” He pauses, his gray eyes gleaming. “Do you want me to elaborate?”
“No, that’s…” I reach for my glass of wine and take a big gulp. “That’s okay.”
He nods and begins eating. I have no appetite anymore, but I force myself to follow his example, transferring some pasta onto my plate. It’s delicious, the seafood and the pasta perfectly cooked and coated in the rich, savory sauce, but I can barely taste it. I’m dying to reach into my bag and take out the little vial sitting there, but for that, I need Peter to be distracted, to look away from his wine glass for at least twenty seconds. I timed it back in the hospital, practicing with a vial of water: five seconds to open the vial, five more to reach across the table and tip the contents of the vial into the wine glass, and three more to yank my hand back and compose myself. That’s about thirteen seconds, not twenty, but I can’t have him suspect anything, so I need the extra cushion.
“So, tell me about your day, Sara,” he says after most of the linguini on his plate is gone. Looking up, he pins me with a cool silver gaze. “Anything interesting happen?”
My stomach contracts, knotting around the linguini I forced down my throat. Peter couldn’t know about me running into Joe, could he? My tormentor hasn’t said anything, but if in his mind, this weird thing between us is some kind of courtship, he might object to me talking to—and making plans with—other men.
“Um, no.” To my relief, my voice sounds relatively normal. I’m getting better at functioning under extreme stress. “I mean, one woman came in with extra-heavy spotting and turned out to have miscarried twins, and we had a fifteen-year-old girl come in with a planned pregnancy—she’s always wanted to be a mom, she said—but that wouldn’t be all that interesting for you, I’m sure.”
“That’s not true.” He puts his fork down and leans back in his chair. “I find your work fascinating.”
“You do?”
He nods. “You’re a doctor, but not just someone who preserves life and cures disease. You bring life into this world, Sara, helping women when they’re at their most vulnerable—and most beautiful.”
I inhale, staring at him. This man—this killer—couldn’t possibly understand, could he? “You think… pregnant women are beautiful?”
“Not just pregnant women. The whole process is beautiful,” he says, and I realize that he does understand. “Don’t you think so?” he asks when I continue looking at him in mute shock. “How life comes about, how a tiny bundle of cells grows and changes before emerging into the world? Don’t you find that beautiful, Sara? Miraculous, even?”
I pick up my wine glass and take a sip before responding. “I do.” My voice sounds thick when I finally manage to speak. “Of course I do. I just didn’t expect you to feel that way.”