Silently cursing my lack of foresight, I stuff the completely dry test back in the box, put it back in the drawer, and go get dressed.
I’ll have to wait until after breakfast to take the test.
“Your parents are almost here,” Peter informs me when I get downstairs, and I recall with a jolt that they’re coming over for brunch today.
“Did I oversleep again?” I glance at the clock. “Oh, wow, yeah.”
It’s 11:27 a.m.—exactly three minutes before my parents are due to arrive.
“You must’ve been really worn out,” Peter says, garnishing a fluffy-looking quiche with a sprig of parsley. “How are you feeling this morning, ptichka?”
I hesitate, then give him a bright smile. “Fine. Just needed to catch up on my sleep, that’s all.”
Given how much my husband wants a baby, it’s better if I know for sure before I tell him. If this is a false alarm, I’d hate for him to be disappointed.
He doesn’t look like he completely believes me, but the doorbell rings before he can say anything. I hurry to the door to greet my parents, and by the time we get to the dining room, Peter has already set the table.
“Oh, wow,” Mom says when she tries a bite of the quiche. “Peter, I have to say, I’ve been to five-star restaurants that aren’t as amazing.”
He gives her a warm smile, and my dad grunts approvingly as he bites into his own portion. My parents are still somewhat wary of Peter, but he’s slowly winning them over by being a model son-in-law. With George, when we’d get busy, we’d sometimes go a month or more without seeing my parents, but Peter makes sure we meet with them at least once a week. He’s also been cutting their grass and taking care of technological and handyman-type tasks around their house, all the while making my parents feel like they’re doing it all by themselves and he’s just lending an occasional hand.
“You have a real gift for this,” I told him a couple of weeks ago. “Is winning over hostile in-laws something they teach in assassin school?”
Peter nodded placidly. “In-laws, explosives, high-caliber weapons—all must be handled with care. Besides, I like your parents. They created you.”
I grinned at him then, feeling incandescently happy. I don’t know what I imagined when I pictured our life as a married couple, but so far, everything about it has exceeded my expectations. The darkness of our shared past still hovers in the background, but the future now looks so bright that it almost doesn’t matter.
We’ve achieved the impossible: a normal, happy life together.
After we finish brunch—which I choke down despite persistent low-grade nausea—I take Mom upstairs to show her a stylish coat that I bought online. Dad stays downstairs, settling in our living room to watch the news on our big-screen TV while Peter clears away the dishes.
Mom approves the coat immediately—she loves fashionable things—and I’m about to excuse myself to finally take the test when Dad’s tense voice floats upstairs.
“Lorna, Sara, come here. You need to take a look at this.”
My phone buzzes at the same time, and so does my mom’s.
Exchanging worried looks, we simultaneously pull out our phones.
On my screen is a notification from CNN.
Suspected terrorist act at FBI field office in Chicago, it reads. Casualties unknown.
24
Sara
My heart is pounding and the quiche is like a rock in my stomach by the time we get downstairs. Peter and my dad are in the living room, staring at the TV screen—which is showing a sizable building up in flames.
The same building where Ryson had interrogated me so many times.
Mom covers her mouth, her face starkly pale as we watch helicopters circle the burning building. Below, firefighters and paramedics are frantically working to rescue survivors and load the injured onto stretchers.
It looks like a scene out of a movie, except it’s happening right now, less than an hour’s drive away.
“While the authorities haven’t made any official statements, early indications suggest that a sophisticated, powerful explosive went off inside the building,” the female newscaster says in a grave tone. “As of now, all airports and government offices nationwide are on high alert, and air traffic in the Chicago region has been grounded.”
The image on TV flips to show SWAT-like figures rushing into O’Hare with bomb-sniffing dogs, all but mowing down the terrified travelers in their way.
“Chicago residents are advised to stay off the roads to clear the way for emergency vehicles,” the newscaster continues. “Anyone with information about this terrible event can call the number below.” A 1-800 number appears in a bold font on the bottom of the screen. “As of now, three people are confirmed dead and fifteen injured. We’ll keep you posted as we learn more.” She pauses, hand to her ear, then says, “This just in: Seven people are now confirmed dead, and the explosion appears to have originated on the third floor of the building.”