Puzzled, I walk over to the refrigerator and take out a frozen dinner to pop into the microwave. It’s the healthy, organic kind, Thai noodles and vegetables in some kind of not overly sugary sauce, but it’s still dinner in a box. Too bad it’s the only thing I have energy for tonight. I should’ve grabbed something from the hospital cafeteria, but I think I was subconsciously counting on being fed at home.
Shaking my head at the ridiculousness of it all, I turn on the microwave and go wash my hands.
My tormentor is gone, and that’s a good thing.
I just need to convince my stomach of that.
* * *
He’s still not there when I wake up, and though I have the vague sensation of being watched as I drive to work, I can’t detect anyone following me. Same thing when I get to the hospital and go about my day. I’m paranoid enough to feel eyes on me all the time, but the sensation is not nearly as intense as it used to be.
If I didn’t know I have a real stalker, I’d chalk it up to my imagination.
My parents call when I’m on my lunch hour and invite me over for dinner on Friday. I give them a noncommittal response—I don’t want to expose them to any danger either—and then I call the clinic.
“Hey, Lydia, how’s it going?” I ask, trying not to sound nervous. “How’s everything been?”
“Hi, Dr. Cobakis.” The receptionist’s voice turns extra warm. “Glad to hear from you. Everything’s going well. Not too busy for now, but it’s probably going to pick up in the afternoon. Will you be able to come in again this week?”
“Yes, I think so. Um, Lydia…” I hesitate, unsure how to ask her what I want to know. I haven’t seen anything on the news about the murders, but that doesn’t mean the bodies haven’t been found. “You haven’t seen or heard anything… unusual, have you?”
“Unusual?” Lydia sounds confused. “Like what?”
“Oh, nothing in particular.” To allay any suspicion, I add, “I was just thinking about that one patient, Monica Jackson… You haven’t heard from her, right? The young dark-haired girl I saw yesterday?”
To my surprise, Lydia says, “Oh, that. Yes, actually. She dropped by a couple of hours ago and left a message for you. Something along the lines of ‘thank you and he’s now behind bars.’ She didn’t explain, just said that you’d understand. Any of that make sense to you?”
“Yes.” Despite my tension, a big grin cuts across my face. “Yes, it makes perfect sense. Thanks for letting me know. I’ll see you later this week.”
I hang up, still grinning, and go scrub up for my afternoon C-section.
I have no idea how Peter made the evidence of his crime disappear, but he did, and now it seems like some good came out of that awful evening.
There might be no escape for me, but Monica is free.
* * *
My house is again dark and empty when I get home that evening, and as I get ready for bed, I’m aware of a peculiar melancholy. Having Peter in my house was terrifying, but he was still a human presence. Now I’m alone again, as I’ve been for the past two years, and the feeling of loneliness is sharper than ever, my bed colder and emptier than I recall it being.
Maybe I should get a dog. A big one that I would spoil by letting it sleep with me. That way, I’d have someone to greet me when I came home, and I wouldn’t miss something as perverse as my husband’s killer holding me at night.
Yes, I’ll get a dog, I decide, climbing into bed and pulling the blanket over myself. Once I sell the house, I’ll rent a place closer to the hospital and make sure it’s dog-friendly—maybe near a park of some kind.
A dog will give me what I need, and I’ll be able to forget about Peter Sokolov.
That is, assuming he forgot about me.
34
Sara
* * *
By Monday, I’m almost convinced that Peter left for good. Over the weekend, I scoured my house from top to bottom in an effort to uncover his hidden cameras, but either they’re all gone or they’re concealed in such a way that a layman like myself has no hopes of finding them. Alternatively, they might not have been there in the first place, and my stalker knew the things he knew in some other way. Either way, there’s been no sign of him, no contact of any kind. I spent most of the weekend at the clinic, and though I felt eyes on me as I walked to my car, it could’ve been remnants of my paranoia.
Maybe my nightmare is finally over.
It’s silly, but the knowledge that I drove Peter away with sex stings a little. I hoped that once I stopped being the unattainable “ice princess,” he’d leave me alone, but I didn’t expect the results to be quite so immediate. Maybe I’m bad in bed? I must be, if one time was all it took for Peter to realize I’d never live up to whatever fantasy he had in his mind.