Wanting my tormentor doesn’t feel as heavy of a betrayal.
I still can’t forget that Peter killed George and held me captive for months, or that he murders people for money, but when I think about him, it’s the sweet, tender moments that come to mind, all the little ways he demonstrated daily how much he cares. I catch myself daydreaming about how he’d rub my feet and bring me breakfast in bed, how he’d take care of me when I wasn’t feeling well.
How I’d fall asleep in his arms instead of in my cold, empty bed.
The nights are definitely the worst. That’s when my longing for him is most acute, my need crossing over into the physical. Every evening, I toss and turn, struggling to fall asleep while my body burns for a man who’s thousands of miles away. I try playing with toys, reading erotic stories, even watching porn, but nothing quenches that aching emptiness inside me. It’s like that time when Peter was away on his Mexico gig, only a thousand times worse, because back then, at the very beginning of our strange relationship, he was still a terrifying stranger. Now, however, he’s a part of me, having wedged himself into my heart and mind to the point that life without him feels as empty as my bed.
It’s so bad that I consider giving in to my parents’ urgings and actually looking for another job. Instead, however, I decide to go back to volunteering at the women’s clinic.
To my relief, they are more than happy to have me back.
“We missed you so much,” Lydia, the receptionist, tells me. “We didn’t even realize how much we needed you until you were gone. Is everything okay now? The FBI showed up, questioning all of us, and—”
“Yes, everything is fine. It was just a misunderstanding about the guy I went on vacation with,” I say, not wanting to do the whole song and dance here as well. “It’s all resolved now, don’t worry.”
I can tell that Lydia is dying of curiosity, but she holds her tongue, sensing my reluctance to discuss things further. I have no idea what rumors were going around here, but luckily for me, the clinic staff and volunteers deal with sensitive situations all the time, and they know when to pry and when to leave things alone. After one round of “what happened” and “where have you been,” everyone leaves me to focus on the patients—which I do full time and then some.
Basically, whenever I’m not with my parents.
“How the hell are you managing to overwork yourself while unemployed?” Marsha complains a month later when I call to decline her invitation to go out yet again, claiming exhaustion from a night shift at the clinic. “Seriously, hon, I haven’t seen you outside of the hospital hallways in weeks. First, it was your mom who needed you twenty-four-seven, now it’s this. We haven’t hung out at all after that one time at Patty’s.”
“I know, I know.” I sigh into the phone, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I’m sorry, Marsha. Maybe next week will be easier.”
It won’t be—I’m on schedule at the clinic for over sixty hours next week, including two nightshifts—but I will make time for Marsha regardless. I’ve been avoiding her after learning about her involvement with the FBI, and I’m starting to feel bad about that. What she did felt like a betrayal, but that’s not an entirely rational reaction. She was probably doing what she thought was best, maybe even imagined she was helping me. In any case, cooperating with the Feds is generally the right strategy for the average law-abiding citizen—which is something I can no longer consider myself to be.
Not when I’m concealing my true feelings about a wanted killer.
I think Agent Ryson senses that I’m not telling the full truth, because he keeps dragging me into the FBI office downtown. At this point, I’ve endured at least ten interrogations, and each time, I’ve stuck to my story, telling the agents only what I disclosed in the beginning and nothing more. It helps that whenever they start probing deeper, my heart rate jumps, and my body goes into a full-blown panic attack mode.
It’s like my PTSD or whatever is on Peter’s side.
“Are you seeing a therapist, Dr. Cobakis?” Ryson asks after they have to bring in Karen, their agent with medical training, to calm me down after a particularly thorough questioning session. “If not, I can recommend someone.”
My breathing is still shallow and unsteady from the panic attack, but I manage to shake my head. “I have someone, thanks.”
I haven’t seen my therapist, Dr. Evans, since my return, but he’s good. He helped me before, when I couldn’t cope with the nightmares and anxiety resulting from Peter’s attack in my kitchen. I should go see him again, but I can’t bring myself to walk into his office and feed him the same confusing mix of truth and lies I’ve been regurgitating for the FBI.