Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91004 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91004 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
“Okay. I’ll—I’ll do that.” Hanging on to my composure by a thread, I grab my bag from the open locker and slam it shut, then hurry out of the room.
I’m already next to my car when I realize I’m still wearing my scrubs.
Thanks to Karen’s ambush, I forgot to change back into my clothes.
* * *
Heavy metal blares from the speakers as I pull out of the parking lot, castigating myself for my stupidity. Even with my headache, the music is somehow soothing, the violent beats more orderly than the mad jumble of my thoughts. I can’t believe I didn’t confide in Karen and beg for the FBI’s help when I had the chance. Now I have no idea what to do, how to act or even where to go. Do I go home with the FBI watching me? And if I do, will they realize that Peter is there, or will the precautions he takes—such as not parking on my driveway—ensure they remain oblivious to his presence? Maybe I should go to my parents’ house or a hotel instead, or simply crash somewhere in the hospital. But then what about Peter’s men who always follow me around? They’d realize something is wrong, and Peter might come after me, and who knows what could happen then? In general, will the FBI spot my bodyguards, or will they spot the agents first and warn Peter? If I come home, will I find him already gone, having evaded the authorities once again?
How badly did I fuck everything up?
My hands are white-knuckled on the wheel as my mind spins through my conversation with Karen, going over it again and again. God, I had so many opportunities to tell her the truth, to explain the full complexity of the situation and let the experts handle everything. Why didn’t I do so? How could I have been so stupid? After I realized I forgot to change, I went back to the locker room, telling myself that if Karen is still there, I would do the right thing, but she was already gone.
She was gone, and I was relieved—because deep inside, I knew I wouldn’t do it.
Even with Peter’s threat looming over my head, I can’t bring myself to hasten the confrontation that could result in his death.
With Metallica screaming in the background, I drive on autopilot, so caught up in my thoughts I don’t realize my subconscious already chose my destination. Only when I turn onto my street does it dawn on me where I’m going, and by then, it’s too late.
I’m home.
44
Sara
* * *
I’m shaking as I enter the house from the garage, my throat tight with anxiety and my heart pounding in sync with the throbbing in my head. It’s well past midnight and all the lights are off, but I can smell the appetizing aromas of whatever Peter made earlier. My stomach rumbles, my body demanding fuel despite the adrenaline shredding my nerves. I’ll have to eat something soon, but first, I need to figure out where Peter is and whether he knows what’s happening.
“Hungry?”
The familiar deep voice startles me so much I jump, a panicked squeak escaping my throat.
A light comes on, illuminating Peter’s figure on the couch in the family room. Despite the comfortable temperature, he’s wearing his leather jacket, his tall, powerful body arranged in a casual pose that reminds me of a predator’s lazy sprawl.
“Um, yeah.” Oh God, does he know? Why is he sitting here in the dark? “One of my patients went into labor, and I missed dinner.”
“You did?” Peter rises to his feet in a fluid motion. “That’s not good. Come, let’s feed you before you pass out.”
I follow him into the kitchen on unsteady legs. The fact that he’s here—and heating up food for me—must mean that his men didn’t spot my FBI tail. Does that mean the reverse is true as well? Could the FBI agents assigned to my protective detail have missed whoever Peter has following me?
My hands and feet are icy from stress, and I know I must look like death warmed over as I wash my hands and sit down at the table. I’m hoping Peter will ascribe my paleness to exhaustion rather than the fact that the FBI might storm my house at any moment.
He puts a bowl of hearty vegetable soup and a slice of crusty sourdough bread in front of me, then sits down across the table at his usual place, his face expressionless as he watches me pick up my spoon and dip it into the soup. My hands are trembling slightly—a fact he can’t miss, but hopefully chalks up to my tiredness as well. If not—if he suspects something—then things could go south, quickly. He could have me trussed up and on the way to some international hideout faster than my FBI watchdogs could call for reinforcements.