My life had been even more of an illusion than I’d known.
When I fall asleep an hour later, it’s with the bitter taste of betrayal on my tongue and a fresh determination in my mind.
Come tomorrow morning, I’m going to accept one of the offers on my house. I need a fresh start, and I’m going to get it. Maybe in a new place, I’ll forget both George’s duplicity and him.
If Peter Sokolov is gone for good, I might be able to finally start living.
35
Sara
* * *
On Thursday, I sign the papers, selling my house to a lawyer couple moving to the area from Chicago. They have two children in elementary school and a baby on the way, and they need the five bedrooms. Though their offer is three percent below market value and a couple of thousand dollars less than the other offer I received, I went with the lawyers because they’re paying cash and can close on the house quickly.
If there are no issues with the inspection, I’ll be moving out in less than three weeks.
Feeling energized, I ask another doctor to cover for me on Friday and spend the day looking for apartments to rent. I settle on a small one-bedroom within walking distance of the hospital, in a pet-friendly condo building. It’s a little dated, and the closet space is almost nonexistent, but since I’m planning to get rid of everything that reminds me of my old life, I don’t mind.
Fresh start, here I come.
My excitement lasts until the evening, when I get home and feel the emptiness of the house again. My dinner is another box from the freezer, and despite my best efforts, I can’t help thinking about Peter, wondering where he is and what he’s doing. It occurred to me yesterday that there could be another reason why he’s gone, and the thought has been gnawing at me ever since.
The authorities could’ve captured or killed him.
I don’t know why I didn’t think of this possibility before yesterday, but now I can’t get it out of my mind. It would obviously be a good thing—I’d be truly safe if he were dead or in custody—but every time I think about it, my chest feels tight and heavy, and something bizarrely like tears prickles at my eyes.
I don’t want Peter Sokolov in my life, but I can’t bear the thought of him dead, either.
It’s stupid, so very stupid. Yes, we had sex that night—and he gave me orgasms more than once—but I’m not some virginal teenager who believes sleeping together means eternal love. The only feeling between us other than hatred is animal lust, an attraction of the most basic kind. That much I can accept; as a doctor, I know how potent biology can be, having seen the evidence of smart people making stupid decisions in the throes of passion. It’s disturbing that I wanted my husband’s killer on any level, but to fear for his wellbeing is something else.
Something far more insane.
I do not miss Peter, I tell myself as I toss and turn in my empty bed. Whatever loneliness I’m feeling is a function of too much stress and not enough time with my friends and family. Once a little more time passes, and the threat of my stalker is completely gone, I’ll go out with Marsha and the nurses and maybe even consider a date with Joe.
Okay, maybe not the latter—I turned him down when he called a few days ago, and I still can’t work up any regret—but I’ll definitely go out dancing again.
One way or another, my new life will start soon.
36
Peter
* * *
She’s sleeping when I enter the room, her slender body swaddled in a blanket from head to toe. Quietly, I turn on the lights and stop, my breath catching in my chest. During the past two weeks, as I lay recuperating from the stab wound I sustained in Mexico, I’ve entertained myself by watching her on the house cameras and devouring the Americans’ reports on her activities. I know everything she’s done, everyone she’s spoken to, all the places she’s gone. That should’ve lessened the feeling of separation, but seeing her like this, with her shiny chestnut hair spread over her pillow, steals the air from my lungs and sends a stab of longing through me.
My Sara. I missed her so fucking much.
I approach the bed, curling my hands into fists to contain the need to reach for her, to grab her and never let her go.
Two weeks. For two impossibly long weeks, I couldn’t return for her because I’d missed the knife hidden in one guard’s boot. Granted, I was dealing with another guard pointing an AR15 at me, but that’s no excuse for sloppiness.
I was distracted on the job, and that nearly cost me my life. An inch to the right, and I’d have been laid up way longer than two weeks. Maybe permanently.