I’m not sure I want to go into the particulars of my first meeting with Peter. As nice as these young women seem, I can’t forget that they’re on the side of our host—a man who is, if not precisely Peter’s enemy, certainly not his friend.
“My parents live in Oak Lawn,” Nora says. “So yes, I’m originally from the Chicago area. And you’re from Homer Glen, right?”
“Yes. Wow, what a coincidence.” Oak Lawn is less than an hour’s drive from Homer Glen.
Esguerra’s wife and I were practically neighbors.
Nora smiles. “I know, right? So crazy. As to how Julian and I met, it was at a Chicago nightclub. He was in the area on some business, and I was out with a friend, celebrating my eighteenth birthday. A few weeks later, he kidnapped me and—”
I nearly spit out the water I’ve started sipping. “He what?”
“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” Nora says, then grins, shaking her head. “Oh, what am I saying? It is as bad as it sounds. But we’re happy now, so that’s all that matters. How about you? How did you happen to meet Peter?”
“Yes, how did you?” Rosa echoes, and I sense something more than simple curiosity in her intent stare.
I stare back. Something else is tugging at the back of my brain, something big… And then it comes to me.
Of course.
How could I have forgotten?
Turning to face Nora, I say evenly, “You already know how we met. Or at least you should… because you’re the one who gave Peter his list.”
59
Peter
It’s amazing what one night of solid sleep can do. My side still hurts when I move, and my calf and arm ache dully, but I feel infinitely more recovered as I take a seat across the table from Kent and Esguerra.
Ilya, Yan, and Anton join me on my side, and I smile as a plump middle-aged woman brings in a platter of cut-up fruit and cookies.
This is an improvement from the way Esguerra used to hold business meetings in this office. There was no food back then as far as I recall.
“Thank you, Ana,” I say as she places the platter in the middle of the oval table, and the housekeeper beams back at me, pleased to be remembered. I didn’t have a lot of interactions with her when I worked for Esguerra, but I have a good memory for names.
“Welcome back, Señor Sokolov,” she says with a noticeable Spanish accent. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Likewise,” I say, and she leaves the room.
My smile disappears as I turn my attention to the two men sitting across from me. Neither one looks particularly pleased to be here, and with good reason.
According to our hackers, there was a raid on Esguerra’s offices in Hong Kong last night.
Oblivious to the tension in the room, Ilya reaches for a cookie. “This is good shit,” he says after biting into it, and Anton follows suit, grabbing a cookie and a bunch of grapes for himself.
Esguerra eyes them coldly, then turns to me. “So, Henderson.”
“Right.” I push a thick folder across the table to him. “This is everything we have on the bastard. I’ll email you the files as well, in case your people want to analyze the data patterns.”
“I assume you’ve already done that?” Kent asks, and I nod.
“About a dozen times.”
“And?” Kent prompts.
I shrug. “Nothing conclusive for now. But I do have some ideas.”
And as Esguerra leans forward, I suppress the remnants of my conscience and go over what I want to do.
If Henderson thought we were at war before, he was wrong.
This is war—and long before we’re done, he’ll fold and beg for mercy.
60
Sara
At my accusing words, Nora flinches but doesn’t look away. “So you do know about the list. When I first read your name in the papers, I wondered if that’s what brought you two together.”
“You mean if you’re the reason he broke into my home to torture the location of my now-deceased first husband out of me?” I ask sardonically, and Nora winces again.
“Is that what happened? I hoped that maybe Peter spared you, or at least…” She drops her gaze. “Never mind that.”
“She wanted to contact you, you know,” Rosa says, leaning forward. “When we first realized who you were, Nora wanted to reach out to you and warn you about Peter.”
I stare at Esguerra’s wife. “You did?” It wouldn’t have helped George—Peter would’ve eventually tracked him down anyway—but maybe if I’d had advance warning, I wouldn’t have been caught off-guard in my kitchen that night.
Maybe I would’ve agreed to go into hiding, like the Feds wanted me to, and Peter would’ve found some other way to get to George.
Maybe my tormentor and I would’ve never met.
My chest contracts at the thought, and to my shock, I realize I don’t want that.
Even after everything that’s happened, everything I’ve lost, if I had a time machine and could magically rewrite history, I wouldn’t.