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Dad sinks into a chair next to the bed as I wipe the tears off my face and say as steadily as I can, “You were T-boned by a drunk driver on your way to the grocery store. You have cracked ribs, your legs are broken in several places, and your left arm is basically crushed. You also had internal injuries, which necessitated three surgeries back to back.” I could’ve sugarcoated it, but Mom hates being babied when it comes to important medical stuff. She always wants to know the full extent of the problem in as much detail as possible. I’ll never forget how she hounded Dad’s doctors when he had his heart attack a few years back.
By the time Dad left the hospital, she knew more about his condition and treatment options than most cardiologists.
Her dry lips move again. “No, I meant…” She struggles to form the words. “You’re here. How did you…?”
“Peter brought me home, Mom,” I say softly, squeezing her hand again. “As soon as we heard about the accident, he brought me home.”
It’s a dangerous game I’m playing—maintaining the lie (which is now the truth) of being Peter’s lover for my parents, while denying it to the FBI. But I don’t see any other way to handle it. Peter will be back for me, and I can’t have my parents thinking he’s a monster when he takes me away again. As risky as it is, they need to believe we’re in love. And at the same time, the FBI need to believe I’m Peter’s victim. I have no idea how I’m going to manage this tightrope act, but I’m going to try my best.
Not that Dad actually believes me. While we were waiting for Mom to wake up, he put me through an interrogation that made the FBI’s pale in comparison. His goal was to poke holes in the fairy tale I’ve been telling them all these months, and despite my best efforts, he wasn’t entirely unsuccessful.
No, I didn’t know Peter was a wanted man when we met and started dating, I told Dad, repeating what I said before about believing my new boyfriend was a contractor working for various firms in the US and abroad. No, I didn’t know he was in trouble with the law when I left the country with him, though I was beginning to have some suspicions. No, he’s not as dangerous as they say; it’s all a big misunderstanding. He does, in fact, work as an independent contractor doing security consulting; it’s just that some clients of his are not entirely law-abiding, and that’s what got him in trouble with the FBI. Yes, we first met in a nightclub in Chicago and dated in secret for several weeks. Yes, he bought my house through a shell corporation, like the FBI said. Why? Because he thought I’d regret selling it so impulsively.
Some questions were more difficult to answer. I know what the FBI have told my parents about Peter’s alleged crimes: next to nothing, invoking the classified status of his case. However, my parents aren’t stupid, and they did some investigating on their own. The “suspected terrorist” and “killed people” bits came from a conversation Dad overheard between the agents, but he also somehow linked my abduction to a high-speed chase on I-294, during which a police helicopter blew up, causing a massive pile-up and a renewed outcry about gang-related violence in Chicago.
“It happened the night you disappeared and was all over the news for weeks,” Dad told me. “The FBI wouldn’t admit it to us, but I know it was him. It had to be. Why else would they send an entire SWAT unit to retrieve you? The man is dangerous, and the Feds know it. I don’t know if he’s involved in drugs, terrorism, or what have you, but he’s bad news.”
And no matter how much I tried to convince Dad that Peter’s alleged crimes are white-collar in nature and that I don’t know anything about that interstate incident (which I don’t, because I was drugged during my abduction), he refused to believe me.
“Tell me about Marsha and the Levinsons,” I finally said, desperate to change the topic. “How did they come to be there with you?”
Thankfully, that worked, and for the next couple of hours, we talked about my parents’ life in my absence and how the Levinsons really stepped up, helping my parents through the crisis in a variety of ways. And Marsha too—apparently, she’d taken to calling my parents every week, checking on them and inquiring about me.
“As soon as she heard that Lorna was brought into the ER, she showed up, getting the best doctors on her case and helping us cut through the red tape,” Dad said, his eyes gleaming with tears. “If it weren’t for her, I don’t know if your mom would’ve—” He broke off, dragging in a shuddering breath, and I hugged him, feeling the familiar burn of guilt and shame, of self-disgust mixed with rekindled anger at Peter.
