Not only is this operation now my only chance to gain leverage over my enemies, but Amber herself might be in the compound. I don’t know that for sure, of course; they might be holding her in Bogotá or anywhere else in the world. But given that the indicated meeting place is in Colombia, on Esguerra’s turf, there’s at least a possibility that they’re hiding her on the arms dealer’s estate.
If we get lucky, we won’t walk away with just the hostages.
We might rescue my daughter, too.
92
Sara
After Lizzie is fed, Nora gives me a tour of the house. It’s as big as it appears on the outside, numbering over a dozen rooms, including a dedicated library, a home theater with an enormous screen, a gym filled with all sorts of equipment, and a sunlit room that serves as her art studio.
The half-finished paintings inside are a striking blend of surrealism and modern expressionism, with familiar shapes and objects, like trees, distorted into something intriguingly sinister. The color palette leans heavily toward reds and blacks, as if everything’s consumed by fire.
“You are amazingly talented,” I say sincerely, and Nora grins, thanking me. As the tour proceeds, she explains that she started painting as a way to keep herself from going crazy on the private island where Julian kept her when he first kidnapped her.
I want to ask her a million questions about that, but we’ve already arrived at the room where I’m staying while Peter is away—a beautifully decorated bedroom a couple of doors down from the master suite and adjacent to Yulia’s room. Nora excuses herself to take care of some business, and I decide to take a quick nap, since I’m tired.
Being pregnant is a lot like being a kindergartener, it seems.
By the time I wake up, it’s dinner time, and I join Nora in the dining room again. Yulia is conspicuously absent, and when I ask Nora where she is, she informs me that Kent’s wife has already eaten.
“She’s still on the Cyprus schedule,” she explains with a tight smile as Ana brings out the food.
I decide not to press her further—it must be awkward to have the woman who nearly killed your husband as a guest under your roof. Instead, as we eat, I ask about Nora’s family and how they feel about her marriage to Julian.
“Oh, they’re still hoping I wise up and divorce him,” she says, cutting into her salmon, and as she entertains me with her dad’s tense interactions with her husband, I remember how nice Peter had been to my parents—how he had done his best to allay their concerns about him.
How far he’d gone to make sure they were in my life.
My chest squeezes anew, my eyes prickling with tears, but this time, I don’t shy away from the pain. The agony of loss is still fresh, the wound unbearably raw, but I can think about them now, can grieve without losing myself in the horror of their deaths.
I don’t realize the tears have escaped until Nora quietly hands me a napkin.
“I’m sorry, Sara,” she says somberly. “That was insensitive of me.”
“No, I’m…” I attempt a watery smile. “I’m fine, really. It’s just that…”
“You just lost them, I know.” Her dark eyes hold a grim understanding. Has she lost someone close to her, too?
Before I can ask, Rosa walks into the dining room, carrying Lizzie, and I turn away, surreptitiously wiping away the wetness on my cheeks. I don’t want Nora’s friend/nanny to see me like this.
It’s bad enough Nora had to witness the waterworks.
Nora excuses herself to go feed the baby again—Lizzie will turn into a screaming monster if she’s not fed immediately, she explains apologetically—and I finish my food and go up to my room.
As I pass by Yulia’s door, I hear her talking on the phone in Russian. Her voice is warm and tender, as if she’s talking to a child or a lover, and for a second, it catches me off-guard. But then I remember the photos of a teenage boy in her house—the one I decided had to be her brother because he looks exactly like her.
Could it be that boy she’s talking to?
I’m intensely curious about her story, with the whole spy bit and all, but I don’t want to bother her while she’s on the phone. Entering my room, I close the door and walk over to the window, looking out at the sun setting over the trees.
I miss Peter.
God, I miss him so much.
Right now, he and the others should be in the air, on their way to the meeting in Bogotá tomorrow. If all goes well, by this time tomorrow night, he’ll be with me.
His quest for vengeance will finally be over.
Walking over to a bookshelf, I grab a thriller at random and curl up in an arm chair to read it. Though I woke up from my nap only a couple of hours ago, I’m tired again, and before I get too far into my reading, I find myself nodding off.