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An attraction that has grown into so much more.
“Oh God, Sara…” Marsha looks like she’s on the verge of throwing up whatever little salad she consumed. “I’m so, so sorry, hon. I had no idea. And this… this monster—he then kidnapped you?”
“After a few weeks, when the FBI discovered he was in the area, yes. Before that, he let me go on with my life, and he was just… in it.” I motion the waiter for water, since I can’t drink my beer. I’m thirsty and strangely lightheaded, as though I’ve already had alcohol.
In general, I feel terrible, the ache in my lower back intensifying unbearably and my stomach roiling from all the greasy food. I’m also uncomfortably hot and feel like I want to cry—must be all the stress catching up to me.
“I don’t understand,” Marsha says as I take a deep breath in an effort to clear my head. “Why did he do this? Why you? Is this something he does, kidnapping women? Did he have a whole harem of victims at—where was it that he took you?”
“Japan, and no. To the best of my knowledge, I’m the only one he’s ever done this to. As to why, well, why do some men do anything?” I manage a wobbly smile. “He got obsessed with me, I guess. In any case, eventually he got bored, and here I am.”
Marsha is staring at the scar on my forehead. “Did he do that to you?” She touches her own forehead, her voice strained. “Did he hurt you?”
“No, that scar is from a car accident, when I tried to escape and crashed instead,” I say. “In general, he didn’t really hurt me. The whole kidnapping and murdering of George aside, he treated me fairly well.”
“Right. That’s… that’s good, I guess.” Marsha’s voice shakes as she reaches for her beer. I notice that her hand is unsteady as well, and fresh guilt scours my insides. I wish I could tell her everything, make her understand how complicated Peter is, how he can be cruel and kind at the same time. How being with him was both wonderful and terrifying, like riding on a roller coaster with no brakes.
I wish I could tell her the whole messy truth, but I can’t, so I paste a plastic smile on my face and excuse myself to use the restroom. My stomach is churning so hard it’s starting to cramp, and I’m sweating despite the cold draft sweeping into the bar from the open door.
As I enter the small, dingy bathroom, the cramping sensation intensifies, and a sudden suspicion occurs to me, making my breath stall in my lungs.
Could it be? Is it finally here?
Sure enough, when I check, I find a smear of blood on my underwear. My period—now over a week overdue—has finally started. That’s why I’m feeling so shitty: it’s the first day, and all the symptoms are there, from the lower back pain and the hot flashes to the moodiness and the cramps.
It’s official.
I’m not pregnant.
Peter and I are not having a baby.
It should’ve been a relief, but as I stare at that reddish-brown smear, it grows in my vision, coloring my world the same bloody shade. Shaking, I press my fist to my mouth, but I can’t contain the sob that rises in my throat, nor the one that follows. As insane as it is, I feel like I lost something, like some perverse part of me had not only reconciled to the possibility of a child, but had also been looking forward to it.
This baby—the one I was so sure I didn’t want—never existed outside of my fears, yet I feel its loss as keenly as if I’d miscarried.
“Are you okay?” Marsha asks when I emerge from the bathroom some twenty minutes later, and I nod, not bothering to hide my swollen eyes and blotchy face as I gulp down my now-warm beer. I know what she’s thinking: that telling the story of my abduction took an emotional toll on me, reminding me of the trauma of what I went through. And I let her think that, because it’s better than the truth.
It’s better than her knowing that despite what Peter has done—despite the awful crimes he’s committed, both against me and others—I’m as obsessed with him as he is with me.
That as wrong as it is, I now belong to him, mind, body, and heart.
15
Peter
The week leading up to the meeting with Novak is among the longest of my life. We replenish our supplies, procure more weapons, and step up daily training, pushing ourselves to the point of complete exhaustion, but it’s not enough to make the hours pass any faster. Each day feels like a month, each night a never-ending struggle to sleep without Sara by my side. If it weren’t for the daily reports from the men I hired to watch her, I’d already be on the plane to the US, her parents’ need for her and my plan be damned.
