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I got them all except Henderson.
“You could just take her again,” Esguerra says, catching up to me, and I glance at him, unsurprised that he now knows about Sara. Kent must’ve told him about her—that or he heard about the kidnapping from his CIA sources. And once he knew that, it was a simple matter of putting two and two together.
Despite that, my first instinct is to threaten him and all he holds dear if he so much as breathes her way. But if he knows Sara is my weakness, then he must know what I’d do if someone came after her.
It’s the same thing he’d do if someone went after Nora.
What he’s about to do to Novak, in fact.
“She has a life there,” I reply instead. “Parents, career, friends.”
He shrugs. “She’d adjust. Nora did.”
I get in the back of the limo and he joins me there, taking a seat across from me.
“Sara is not Nora,” I say as the limo starts moving. “Her roots go too deep. She won’t be happy like this.” I don’t know if I’m trying to convince Esguerra or myself—or that dark, callous part of me that has been wanting this for months.
That has been telling me to forget this mad plan and take back what belongs to me.
“And you will be?” Esguerra tilts his head, regarding me with peculiar curiosity. “You think you’ll enjoy that half-life? Thrive in the cage of all those rules and laws?”
I shrug. “Maybe.” It’s not a concern of mine, but if it ever becomes a problem, I’ll deal with it then.
One thing at a time.
“So what then?” Esguerra asks when I remain silent. “Are you going to let her go for good? Or take the deal?”
“I’m not letting her go.” The words are instinctive, automatic. Life without Sara—that’s not even a possibility in my mind. The past eight months have been hell, almost as bad in their own way as the dark weeks after my family’s deaths.
I’d sooner die than let my ptichka go for good.
She’s mine, and she’s staying mine.
A mocking smile curves Esguerra’s mouth. “Well, then,” he says softly. “Seems like you don’t have much of a choice.”
It chokes me to admit it, but he’s right.
I either take Sara, or I accept the deal. Her happiness or my vengeance.
I can’t have both.
Part IV
40
Sara
I first sense that something is off when I drive home alone after my evening shift at the clinic.
No government-issue car follows me home, and no one surreptitiously watches me as I park my car in front of my apartment building and walk in.
Telling myself I’m being crazy—that I’m just tired and not properly registering things—I shower and fall into bed. There’s no point in worrying about this. Even if I’m not having some weird reverse paranoia, maybe the Feds had to take the night off—babysit their kids or something. It hasn’t happened since my return, but that doesn’t mean it’s impossible.
FBI agents are human too.
Still, I toss and turn, unable to fall asleep despite my total exhaustion. I try to think back to whether I felt watched at all today, but I can’t recall. Either my invisible stalkers have become even better at their job, or I’ve gotten so used to their presence I no longer notice it.
The last time I truly experienced that itchy feeling was when I got Peter’s note a couple of months back.
Could it be?
Am I no longer being watched at all?
My stomach pitches precipitously. Given Peter’s note, there’s only one reason why I would suddenly cease to be of interest to both the Feds and Peter’s hires.
No. I slam the door on that terrifying thought.
Peter is not dead or captured.
He can’t be.
I close my eyes and force myself to take slow, deep breaths. One night doesn’t make a pattern, and there’s every chance that when I wake up in the morning to go to work—at this point, less than five hours from now—the Feds will be circling my block in their gray sedan.
I just have to believe it.
But the Feds aren’t there when I drive to work, and as hard as I try, I can’t figure out if I’m being watched by anyone at all.
I go through my day in a state of barely suppressed panic. Fortunately, all I have today are patient appointments, and since we’re double-booked, I don’t have much time to think. I just rush from patient to patient, performing examinations, writing birth control prescriptions, and discussing prenatal care—all the while reminding myself to keep breathing, to stay calm and ignore the fact that the Feds are gone.
That for the first time since my return, I’m on my own.
Just as I’m about to head home, Phil, our guitarist, calls to inform me about an upcoming performance, and I impulsively ask if he wants to round up the guys and go out for a drink. It’s a Tuesday night and I have both a full workday and a clinic shift tomorrow, but I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts.
