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I don’t know how much the ring cost, but I suspect it was well into six figures.
Did Peter buy or steal it? It’s probably the former—he’s rich enough to afford it—but I’ll ask to be sure. I doubt he’ll be offended; he’s done much worse, that’s for certain.
That I’m even thinking about that, wondering if my millionaire fiancé could’ve stolen my engagement ring, would’ve given any normal person pause. However, I’m no longer in the “normal” camp. Compared to killing my husband, a diamond heist is nothing more than a misdemeanor, one for which I can easily forgive Peter. In general, now that I’ve had time to recover from the shock of his arrival, the sporadic panic assailing me at the thought of marrying him is less intense, almost manageable. Toward the evening, as I get in the car to drive to the clinic, I even start thinking that we could visit my parents this weekend, and depending on their reaction, tell them that we’re getting married soon.
Maybe as soon as this winter.
My heart starts racing again, and I have to take calming breaths before getting out of the car. No, winter is definitely too soon; there’s far too much to plan in such a short span of time. Next spring would be better… maybe even next summer.
A summer wedding is always in fashion.
Yes, that’s it, I decide, walking into the clinic. A year-long engagement would be perfect. We’d have a chance to acclimate to each other, settle into a regular life together. I have no idea if Peter is even capable of living like this, without the adrenaline and danger of his missions. He admitted to me once that he likes killing, that he enjoys the power and control that comes along with dealing death. Addictive, he called it, and I knew then that he’d never give it up.
That the darkness is a part of him, one that can never be erased.
Except he did give it up for me. He quit his job, he said. I haven’t had a chance to question him about that, but there’s only one way to interpret what he said.
He’s going straight.
For me.
So I wouldn’t have to give up everything for him.
My eyes prickle, and it’s all I can do to smile and wave at Lydia as I hurry into the room where the patient is already waiting for me. She’s a sixteen-year-old girl, here with her mom for her first Pap smear, and I force myself to push my emotions aside and focus, to give the patient the attention she deserves.
Fortunately, her exam shows nothing untoward, though when the mom leaves the room, the girl admits to having been sexually active since last year. I surreptitiously give her a box of condoms, and when the mom returns, I recommend an IUD—to regulate the daughter’s painful periods and provide protection against unplanned pregnancy in case she does become sexually active in the future.
“My daughter ain’t no slut,” the woman snaps and drags the girl away, making me glad I at least gave her daughter those condoms.
Parents like that can be their kids’ worst enemies.
My next patient is a pregnant woman in her thirties. She has a history of miscarriages and no health insurance. After her, I see another teenage girl—she turns out to have chlamydia—and then it’s time for my last patient.
Finally.
For the first time in forever, I’m eager to go home.
Getting out my phone, I look up Peter’s new number—Peter Garin, it says in my Contacts—and text him that I’ll be ready to leave in about twenty minutes, in case he wants to meet me at the clinic. I don’t know how exactly he’d do that, since I’m the one with the car, but knowing Peter, he’ll manage.
Putting the phone away, I stick my head out of the exam room and tell Lydia I’m ready for the next patient.
I’m jotting down a few notes about the girl with chlamydia when the door opens and the last patient walks in.
I look up and freeze in shock.
I recognize this girl.
It’s Monica Jackson, the seventeen-year-old I helped after her stepfather raped her.
Her small round face is covered with purplish bruises, and one corner of her puffy lips is crusted with blood. “Hi, Dr. Cobakis,” she says tremulously, and before I can answer, she breaks down crying.
It takes me a solid fifteen minutes to calm her down and learn that the stepfather got out of jail last week. “He was supposed to be away for s-seven years,” she tells me, her voice shaking. “And we were doing so, so well. With the money you gave us, we got a new place, I graduated and have been working full-time, and Bobby—that’s my baby brother—he started school, a really good one, where they have computers and everything. And Mom…. she was doing better too, only drinking a little in the morning. I thought we finally had our shit together, and then he got out on a technicality and…”
