Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 96471 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 482(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96471 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 482(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
All too soon, the song is over and I crash back down to earth, only to soar again as the audience demands one more song, then another and another. I perform seven of my best numbers in a row, and then my voice starts to give out.
“That’s it,” I tell the band, handing the mic back to the guitarist. “Thank you so much for indulging me.”
“Girl, you can sing with us any time,” he says. “In fact…” He turns around, locks eyes with his bandmates, then turns back to face me. “We’ll be performing here all weekend, and we’d love it if you joined us.”
“Oh, I—”
“We’d obviously split the earnings with you,” he says, as though I was about to refuse out of monetary consideration. “It’s a pretty sweet gig here.”
“You guys can’t afford her,” Marsha says, and I turn to see her coming up on the stage, hips swaying. “She’s a doctor, you know.”
“For real?” The guitarist gives me a onceover. “Talented, pretty, and smart, huh?”
I flush as Marsha says, “You bet. So if you want to book her, you got to talk to me first. Here.” She grabs his wrist, pulls out a pen, and scribbles her number on his forearm, right next to a tattoo of a heart pierced with an arrow. Winking, she adds, “I’m available any time.”
I laugh, realizing what Marsha is doing, and tug her off the stage before my friend starts making out with the musician right then and there. According to the rumors at the hospital, she’s done crazier things when drunk.
We push our way through the still-clapping audience and burst outside, the frigid February air doing little to cool our excitement. I’m still buzzing from the alcohol and the performance high, and Marsha is excited as well, laughing and chattering about what just happened and how she can be my agent so we can both be rich if I make it big.
We’re having so much fun I forget for a moment that none of this is real, that my life right now is just one big waiting game. However, when I get into a cab to go home, I remember, and my high fades without a trace.
While I was out singing and getting drunk, another evening passed.
Another day ended without Peter returning.
22
Peter
I think about contacting Sara as we land at a small private airport in the foothills of the Great Smoky Mountains, some ninety kilometers from Asheville and only a few states away from her. It’s beyond tempting to pick up the phone and call her, so I can hear her voice. But if I did that, the Feds—who are still watching her and listening to her calls—would be all over her, once again doubting her story and putting her through the wringer.
It’s not the first time I’ve considered reaching out to her. I think about it all the time. As careful as the Feds are, I could still get one of the men I hired to watch her to surreptitiously pass her a letter. It would be risky, but I could do it.
What stops me are not the logistics, but that I’m not sure what I would say—and what Sara’s reaction would be to getting such a letter. As much as I’d like to think that she misses me as much as I miss her, I know there’s a very real possibility that the fragile accord we built toward the end of her captivity is gone, that being back home has made her hate and fear me again.
She might be hoping I’m gone for good, and getting my letter would upset her.
Besides, what can I tell her about why I’m staying away? I can’t disclose anything about Novak and Esguerra—too dangerous if the letter got intercepted—so that leaves me with basic assurances that I’m still alive and coming for her.
Assurances that she could easily interpret as a threat if she’s happy to be home without me.
I can tell that my guys are dying to say something about the situation, but the rule about No Sara Talk remains in place and they know better than to break it. So they keep quiet, and I focus on getting through the days without Sara, relying on the daily reports about her to feed my obsession.
A couple of days ago, she went out with her friend Marsha and ended up singing at a lounge, performing one of her songs in public. Just reading about that filled my chest with a warm glow, and I instructed the Americans to record her the next time, so I could listen to her and watch the reaction of the audience. I feel absurdly proud at the thought of my little songbird putting herself out there like this, shaking off her inhibitions and displaying the talent that I’ve always known was there.