Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
I nod noncommittally as I stuff my face with the delicious pizza, and that’s all the encouragement the man needs to keep going.
“They say the explosive was something unusual, something really advanced,” he says, rolling the dough with practiced movements. “I wonder what it is and how those terrorists got their hands on it. Sounds more like something Russia or China would have, or even our own military. I bet all the conspiracy theorists are going to come out in full force, claiming it’s an inside job or what-not.”
I bite into another slice, letting the man ramble on as I sneak a glance at Peter. I expect him to be calmly eating as well, but to my surprise, he’s frowning, his slice untouched in front of him as he stares intently at the TV.
“What is it?” I ask quietly as the owner turns away to get more flour. “Is anything the matter?”
He tears his gaze away from the TV and gives me a rueful smile. “Not really. Just old instincts nagging at me, that’s all.”
I want to question him further, but the owner is back to rolling the dough in front of us and speculating on who might be behind the explosion.
“Thank you very much. This was delicious,” I tell the man when I can’t eat another bite, and Peter swiftly pays our bill and hustles me out of the place. Despite his denials, my husband is clearly worried about something—I can see it in the tense way he grips the wheel as we drive home—and the dark kernel of suspicion I’d suppressed returns, making my stomach roil anew.
Could it be?
What are the odds that this is all a terrible coincidence?
I fight the doubt for as long as I can, but finally, I can’t take it anymore.
The moment we’re inside the house, I turn to face my husband. “Peter… I need to ask you something.”
Even to my own ears, my voice sounds strange.
He immediately gives me his full attention. “What is it, ptichka?” He clasps my shoulders. “Are you feeling okay?”
I nod, swallowing as I stare up at him. My heart is tap-dancing in my chest, and I’m starting to feel sick again.
Maybe that pizza was a mistake.
Maybe bringing this up is a bigger mistake.
“What is it, my love?” Gently, he guides me to a loveseat by the entrance. “Here, sit down. You look pale.”
“No, I’m fine,” I say, but I sit anyway, because it’s easier to comply than to argue. He sits next to me and clasps my hands in both of his, massaging my palms with his thumbs as though I need soothing.
And maybe I do.
It all depends on how he answers my next question.
“Peter…” I reach for my courage. “I need to know. Did you—” I draw in a breath. “Did you have anything to do with what happened today? With that… explosion?”
He turns into a statue, neither blinking nor reacting for the next few moments. Finally, he says tonelessly, “No.” Releasing my hands, he stands up, and without saying another word, he walks back to the entrance to remove his shoes.
I stare after him, feeling both awful and awfully relieved.
I believe him.
He has never deceived me, has never denied his culpability in any crime.
My husband might be a killer, but he’s not a liar.
“I’m sorry,” I say when he walks by without looking at me. “Peter, I’m really sorry, but I had to ask. The third floor is where Ryson’s office is and—” I stop because he disappears into the kitchen.
I take a breath, then walk over to the door to remove my shoes as well. I feel terrible that I asked—that I even entertained the idea in the first place. Not only is this attack a truly heinous act, but it’s also something that would’ve jeopardized our life together—something Peter has fought hard for.
Something he’s given up his vengeance for.
I’m fully prepared to grovel when I enter the kitchen, but Peter is nowhere to be found. I go around the house, looking for him, and it’s not until I peek into the guest room’s walk-in closet that I find him.
He’s crouched over a laptop, his fingers flying over the keyboard with record speed.
Frowning, I kneel next to him and peer at the screen. He’s typing up an email, but it’s in Russian and the interface of the program he’s using is unlike anything I’ve ever seen.
“What are you doing?” I ask cautiously. “Peter… why are you in here?”
“Hold on,” he says without looking up. “Let me finish.”
I shut up and watch him type. It takes him another couple of minutes, and then he shuts the laptop and taps at the wall in the closet.
It glides to the side, revealing another closet-sized space.
A space filled to the brim with military-grade weapons, including several rocket launchers and grenades… as well as spare laptops.