“Sara…” A strange expression steals over Peter’s face. “When did you say this all began?”
“Just a few months after we got married,” I answer, frowning. “So at this point, about five and half years ago. Why?” And then it dawns on me. “You’re not suggesting that—”
“That your husband’s transformation might’ve had something to do with his role in the Daryevo massacre? Why not?” Peter leans in, his eyes narrowing. “Think about it. Five and a half years ago, Cobakis provided information that resulted in the slaughter of dozens of innocent people, including women and children. Whether it was out of ambition or greed or sheer stupidity, he fucked up, and he fucked up big. You say he was a good man? Someone who had a conscience? Well, how would a man like that feel about causing the slaughter of innocents? How would he live with all that blood on his hands?”
I recoil, the horrible truth of his words slamming into me like a bullet. I don’t know why I didn’t connect the dots before, but now that Peter said it, it makes perfect sense. When I first learned about George’s deception, it occurred to me that his real job might’ve been behind his transformation, but I was so busy coping with Peter’s invasion of my life—and trying not to dwell on his revelations—that I didn’t pursue the thought to its logical conclusion.
I didn’t consider that the tragic events that brought my tormentor into my life could be the same ones that ruined my marriage… that our fates have been intertwined for much longer than I thought.
Feeling like I’m about to be sick, I stand up, my legs shaking. “You’re right.” My voice is choked and raw. “It had to be guilt that drove him to drink. All this time, I wondered if it was something I said or did, if our marriage disappointed him somehow, and it was this all along. ”
Peter nods, his face set in grim lines. “Unless your husband caused multiple massacres throughout his career, this is the only thing that makes sense.”
I inhale raggedly and turn away, walking over to the window looking out into the back yard. The enormous oaks stand like guardians outside, their branches bare of leaves despite the hints of spring in the warming air. I feel like those oaks right now, stripped, bared in all my ugliness. And at the same time, I feel lighter.
The drinking, at least, was not my fault.
“The accident happened because of me, you know,” I say quietly when Peter comes up to stand next to me. He’s not looking at me, his profile hard and uncompromising, and though I know he’s battling his own demons, his presence comforts me on some fundamental level.
I’m not alone with him by my side.
“How?” he asks without turning his head. “The report said he was alone in the vehicle.”
“He drank the night before. Drank so much he puked several times throughout the night.” I shudder, remembering the smell of vomit, of sickness and lies and broken hopes. Holding myself together by a thread, I continue. “By morning, I was done. I was done with his excuses, with the endless accusations sprinkled with promises to do better. I realized that George and I weren’t special in any way; we were just another alcoholic and his too-stupid-to-see-it wife. It wasn’t a rough patch we were going through. Our marriage was simply broken.”
I stop, my voice shaking too much to continue, when a big, warm hand wraps around my palm. Peter’s expression is unchanged, his gaze trained on the view outside the window, but the silent gesture of support steadies me, giving me courage to continue.
“He was still passed out when I went to work, so I confronted him when I returned,” I say as steadily as I can manage. “I told him to pack his bags and get out, said I was filing for divorce the next day. We got into a huge fight, and both said hurtful things, and I—” I gulp down the lump in my throat. “I forced him out of the house.”
Peter glances at me with mild surprise. “How could you have forced him out? He wasn’t the biggest guy I’ve seen, but he must’ve outweighed you by at least fifty pounds.”
I blink, distracted by the odd question. “I threw his car keys and his bag in the garage and yelled at him to get out.”
“I see.” To my shock, a faint smile touches the edges of Peter’s mouth. “And you think you’re at fault because he drove and got into an accident?”
“I am at fault. The police said he had double the legal amount of alcohol in his blood. He was drinking, and I forced him to drive. I threw him out and—”
“You threw his keys out, not him,” Peter says, the smile disappearing as his fingers tighten around my hand. “He was a grown man, both bigger and stronger than you. If he wanted to stay in the house, he could’ve done so. Besides, did you know he was drinking when you told him to get out?”