AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Yes, my tormentor brought me back, but first, he stole me. For months, he kept me from my family. I can’t forget that. I should’ve been there for my parents, not Marsha and their friends. I should’ve been the one to make sure Mom got the best care. Instead, I was in Japan, falling for my husband’s murderer… letting him burrow into my heart and mind as I lied to my parents, over and over again.
I want to hate Peter for that—for everything, really—but instead, I just hate myself. I hate that I already miss him, that being home hasn’t lessened my desperate longing one bit. I crave him so intensely it’s like a physical ache; my skin literally hurts when I think of how badly I want his touch.
Soon, I tell myself as I bend down to kiss Mom, who closed her eyes again. I know Peter—he won’t stay away from me for long. I should enjoy this time with my family instead of pining for the man who’ll take me from them.
I’m a terrible daughter, but they don’t need to know that yet.
They’ll find out soon enough.
14
Sara
By noon, I finally convince Dad to go home and get some rest, and I stay at the hospital with Mom, alternating between keeping her company and napping on a cot the nurses brought to her room. Whenever I come out to grab a coffee or a bite to eat, several suspicious-looking men follow me. FBI agents, most likely, though they could also be plain-clothes police—I have no idea how their jurisdictions work. I’m obviously not off the hook, but for now, they’re letting me get on with my life, and I’m grateful for that.
I don’t want to spend what little time I have here in jail.
Marsha comes by Mom’s room after getting off her shift, and after verifying that Mom is sleeping deeply, I let Marsha talk me into going to Patty’s to catch up.
“So,” she says as we take a seat at the corner table. “You’re back.”
“I’m back,” I confirm, then wave for the waiter to come over. I’m running on almost no sleep, and I’m craving something really greasy and unhealthy. In general, I feel like I’m falling apart, my whole body aching with exhaustion and my lower back killing me from spending the night curled up on the hospital cot.
“Burger and fries, with extra cheese and pickles,” I tell the waiter when he comes over. “And make it fast, please. I’m starving.”
Marsha raises her eyebrows, but doesn’t comment on my upcoming greasefest. Instead, she orders a Greek salad and two beers, one for each of us.
“So we can celebrate the prodigal daughter’s return,” she says, and I attempt to match her grin as guilt floods my chest again.
“Thank you for keeping an eye on my parents while I was away,” I say when the waiter leaves. “Dad told me how helpful you were with Mom, and I’m hugely grateful. If there’s ever anything I can do for you…”
She waves away my thanks with a perfectly manicured hand. “Oh, please. It was my pleasure. I like your folks, and I’m really sorry that happened to your mom. I hope she recovers soon.”
“Me too.” I attempt another smile. “So tell me… how have you been? And Andy and Tonya? Is Andy still with—”
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Marsha folds her forearms on the table and leans forward, skewering me with her gaze. “We’re not going to talk about any of that until you tell me where the hell you’ve been, who this man that you ran off with is, and why the fuck I didn’t hear a peep about him until you disappeared off the face of the Earth.”
“I didn’t disappear. I called my parents all the time and—”
She cuts me off with another wave. “Semantics. You were gone. Not a word to anyone beforehand, no notice to your practice, left all your patients hanging—including that one girl who needed a C-section the next day, mind you. Oh, and the FBI hounded us all about you for weeks. If that’s not a disappearance, I don’t—”
“Okay, okay, fine. You win.” I grab my beer from the waiter as he approaches the table, but I don’t drink it beyond wetting my lips. Not only am I jet-lagged and sleep-deprived, but there is a chance I might be pregnant.
Putting down the glass, I stare at the brown liquid, forcing all thoughts of a potential pregnancy away so I can focus. I don’t know which version of the story to give Marsha: the one for the FBI, in which I’m Peter’s victim all the way, or the one I’ve been feeding my parents, in which I’m in love with a man who’s embroiled in something shady but is, for the most part, wrongly persecuted by the authorities.
