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My stomach tightens further, and to my horror, I realize I’m not just upset about the pain and suffering he put those people through.
I’m also hurt and mad that Peter didn’t come for me.
We were just a few states apart, and he didn’t come for me.
“Dr. Cobakis.” Ryson peers at me intently. “Are you all right?”
“I… yes.” I ball my hands under the table, letting my nails dig into my palms. The hint of pain steadies me, enabling me to say in a semi-normal tone, “I’m sorry. It’s just a lot.”
And it is. It’s too much, in fact. Until this moment, I didn’t fully comprehend how messed up I am, how those months with Peter have twisted me, skewing my sense of right and wrong. Here I am, having just learned that the killer I’ve been obsessing about hurt six innocent people, and I’m upset that he chose them over me? That he didn’t abduct me when he clearly had the chance to do so?
I’m sick.
It’s obvious to me now—as is the fact that Peter may never come for me. All along, vengeance has been his true love, his real obsession, and whatever he felt for me didn’t last… if it was even there in the first place. I don’t know why I’m still being watched, or if I even am—that itchy feeling may well be paranoia—but it’s clear that I’m no longer his priority.
I somehow endure the rest of Ryson’s interrogation, answering his questions on auto-pilot, and when I get home, I pick up the phone and call Dr. Evans, the therapist who helped me before.
It’s time to rebuild my shattered life.
It’s time to accept that whatever Peter and I had may be over.
Part III
25
Peter
We spend the next two months following up on the Thai lead—it’s not easy to figure out which local family the Hendersons befriended—and when that doesn’t bring us any closer to our target, we take a job in Russia, where an oil oligarch wants us to eliminate one of his business rivals. It’s not as lucrative of a gig as some of the others, but the location makes it worthwhile.
We haven’t been in our home country in years.
“Does this feel as weird to you as it does to me?” Anton asks as we walk past Red Square, and I nod, knowing exactly what he means. Walking down these streets and hearing Russian speech all around us is a lot like going back in time. The last time I was in Moscow was when I killed my supervisor, Ivan Polonsky, for helping with the Daryevo massacre cover-up—seemingly a lifetime ago.
“Do you miss it?” I ask Anton, and he shrugs.
“Nah. I mean, it’s not exactly fun to always be the foreigner, but I’ve gotten used to it. And thanks to Sara, my English has improved, so…” He stops, his gaze turning wary as he realizes what he just said. “That is, while we were—”
“Enough.” My neck muscles are painfully tight and my hands are clenched into fists, but my voice is soft and even as I repeat, “That’s enough.”
Anton wisely shuts up, and we walk the rest of the way in silence. He knows he’s forbidden to talk about her, and it’s no longer just about her safety. Sara is a trigger for me these days, so much so that the mere mention of her name is enough to make me homicidal. The gaping wound left by her absence isn’t healing; it’s festering.
I ache for her every second of every day, and I fucking hate it.
The daily reports only make it worse, because it seems as though she’s forgotten me. Last month, she got another job, joining two older OB-GYNs in their practice, and she moved out of her parents’ house into a new apartment. I’m glad about all of that—I want her to be happy—but for the past six weeks, she’s also gone out every weekend, drinking and dancing with her friends. On top of that, she started singing with a band on Friday nights—a development that pleased me until I saw a recording of her performing in a sexy dress and realized every man in the audience is drooling over her.
They watch her like a pack of wolves slobbering over a hare.
If I were there with her, I could’ve stopped that—rearranged a few faces, if need be—but I’m half a world away, and it eats at me. More than that, it raises the possibility that Sara might’ve forgotten me so completely she might fall for another man… maybe even one of the idiots who come up to her after every performance to gush over her and beg for her phone number.
The only thing that keeps me from ordering a hit on those assholes is that so far, she hasn’t gone out with any of them.
It’s only a matter of time, though. I know that. The longer I’m gone, the more likely it is. And that is why, right before we took this job, I finally ordered a message delivered to her.
