Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 88179 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88179 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
“How bad is it?” I ask, turning to face my captor when the video ends with my dad consoling my crying mom in the kitchen after the FBI agents leave. It feels like burning needles are stuck in my heart, even though like Peter said, my parents are okay, relatively speaking.
He doesn’t pretend to misunderstand my question. “It’s… not good. Now that they know where to look, they’ve uncovered more evidence of our relationship, starting with our meeting in the nightclub. And of course, there’s the fact that you’d been living in the house I own and didn’t say a peep to the FBI when they told you I’d been spotted. Between that and the phone call to your parents, they have a pretty strong case for us collaborating. There’s also—” He stops.
“There’s also what?” I pull my hand away to ball it tightly on my lap. “Tell me.”
Peter sighs. “They went through your filing cabinet and found your divorce papers, signed by you but not your husband, dating back to the day before your husband’s accident.”
“What?” I blink at him, a trickle of dread snaking down my spine. “What does that have to do with anything?”
Peter lays a comforting hand on my knee. “It’s not the main theory they’re working off,” he says gently, “but they are considering the possibility that you might’ve had some involvement in your husband’s death—that our relationship might’ve predated our initial encounter in your kitchen.”
“What? That’s ridiculous!” I jump up, my throat tightening with shock. “They can’t possibly believe that. They know that you tortured and drugged me, and threatened me with a knife. They know that; they’ve seen the aftermath. Or do they think I made up the drugs in my system and the knife cut on my neck? And the bruises that covered my back for weeks? How can they—”
“It’s just one angle they’re considering, ptichka.” Peter stands up and captures my icy hands in his big, warm palms. There’s something almost like remorse on his harshly handsome face. For what he did to me at our first meeting, perhaps? In the next moment, however, his features smooth out and he says, “Don’t stress about this. Once they investigate further, they’ll realize the truth. Their job is to consider all possibilities, no matter how unlikely, and the fact that you were on the verge of divorcing your dead husband is something they have to latch on to. Haven’t you seen any cop shows? The spouse is always the prime suspect, especially if there’s reason to believe there was marital discord.”
“Marital discord?” A hysterical laugh escapes my throat. “You’re kidding, right? This isn’t a fucking murder mystery.” I yank my hands out of Peter’s grasp and step back, my chest heaving. “You killed George. You broke into my house, waterboarded and drugged me to get his location, and then you blew his brains out—what he had left of them after the accident, anyway. Or do they think I caused that accident and then hired you to finish the job?” My voice jumps an octave higher. “I mean, that accident was my fault, in a way, and you do kill people for hire, so maybe they’re on to something, maybe we were secretly in cahoots all along and—”
“Stop it, Sara.” Peter steps up to me and catches my wrist, pulling me toward him. It’s not until he encloses me in his powerful arms, drawing me against his chest, that I realize I’m so cold I’m trembling from head to toe. Rage and shock are buffeting me like waves in a hurricane, and I close my eyes against the sting of tears as Peter murmurs into my hair, “It’s going to be okay, ptichka. This will all blow over. The agents aren’t stupid; they’ll figure out the truth soon enough. Just give them time.”
“What truth?” I wedge my hands between our bodies and push on his chest, opening my eyes to meet his gaze. I feel like I’m crumbling inside, the rage and shock transforming into bitter despair. “The one where I slept with my husband’s killer for weeks and then got myself kidnapped by warning him that the FBI were coming? Or the one where I lied to my parents so they’d think I’m in love with said killer?”
Peter’s face darkens. “Yes, that truth, Sara. Where you are my victim. That’s what you want to be, isn’t it?” Releasing me, he steps back, and my body mourns the loss of his heat and the comfort his deadly embrace provides.
With effort, I pull myself together. We can’t slide back into that argument, not when I still have to convince him to let me call my parents. “No,” I say, shaking my head. “That’s not what I meant. In fact…” I stop, then force myself to say it. “You were right. Earlier, when you said that I was lying to myself, you were right. I did know what I was doing when I warned you, and it wasn’t just because I didn’t want to see you dead.”