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And turning, he walks back, leaving me to track down the photographer on my own.
63
Sara
My pulse skips a beat, then roars into overdrive.
This can’t be happening.
They can’t arrest Peter on the day of our wedding.
“Agent Ryson.” I’m proud of the steadiness of my voice. “What are you doing here?”
He gives me a thin smile. “Oh, don’t worry, Dr. Cobakis—or is it soon-to-be Dr. Garin? I’m not here in any official capacity.”
My frantic heartbeat settles slightly. “Why are you here then?”
“To offer my congratulations, of course.” His mouth twists. “You and your Russian lover sure had us all fooled.”
I remain silent, because what can I say? I understand how this must look from his perspective—from the perspective of anyone who’s been following the story from the beginning, really. I’m marrying George’s killer, the man who waterboarded me, invaded my life, and kidnapped me.
The man Ryson spent the past two-plus years hunting.
“Tell me one thing, Dr. Cobakis,” the agent continues bitterly. “At what point did you and Sokolov conspire to rid you of your brain-damaged husband? Was it before or during the so-called attack on you?”
I suck in a horrified breath. Is that what he really thinks? “You’re mistaken. I never—”
“Never lied to us? Never pretended to need protection from the man you’re about to marry?” His gaze is cutting. “Yeah, I thought so.”
My neck burns. “It wasn’t like that. Not at the beginning.”
“Oh, really? How was it then? Did he brainwash you in Japan? Show you a few bedroom tricks to make you forget all the blood on his hands? Maybe you didn’t care about the alcoholic you were going to divorce—yes, we know all about that—but your lover killed Cobakis’s guards too. Good men, honest men. He blew their brains out—or have you forgotten?”
I swallow the bile rising in my throat. “Of course not.”
“No?” Ryson steps toward me. “What about the police officers in the helicopter he shot down when they tried to rescue you from the supposed kidnapping? Or how about all the others he’s killed and tortured in the name of whatever twisted justice he’s pursuing? Would you like me to give you a list of all his victims, so you can pin it on the wall above your marriage bed?”
I’m shaking now, my stomach in complete revolt. The smell of the warmed-up pasta, so tantalizing a minute ago, is making me want to vomit, and it’s all I can do to hold Ryson’s gaze instead of curling up into a little ball of shame on the floor.
It’s true, all of it.
Peter is a monster, and so am I for loving him.
At my lack of response, the agent snorts derisively. “Nothing to say? Well, let me give you a little warning.” He comes closer until I have no choice but to step back. Looming over me, he says softly, “I don’t know who pulled the strings, giving the two of you a clean slate, but if I’ve learned anything over the years, it’s that psychopaths like Sokolov don’t change. He will commit another crime, and when he does, the deal he’s made with my higher-ups will be null and void. We’ll be waiting—and now, Dr. Cobakis, we also have your number.”
He steps back and turns, as if to leave, but then he stops and says over his shoulder, “Oh, and congratulations again. You make a beautiful bride. I hope the two of you will be very happy together.”
He walks out then, slamming the door behind him, and I just barely make it to the bathroom before my stomach heaves, expelling its contents into the toilet bowl.
64
Peter
She’s late.
The ceremony is due to start in forty-five minutes, and Sara is still not here.
I give the photographer a scathing look as he pointedly glances at his watch, and he blanches, then looks away and starts fiddling with his cufflinks, as though that’s what he was doing all along.
According to the bodyguards watching Sara’s apartment, as well as the tracking devices I’ve planted on her, my bride is still at home with her mother. I’ve called both of them several times, but only Lorna picked up once. “Sara has an upset stomach,” she informed me curtly and hung up—and has been sending my calls to voicemail ever since.
Worried and increasingly irritated, I survey the people milling around the gazebo in small groups, drinking champagne and eating the artfully arranged canapés. Nearly everyone is here already, seemingly having a good time despite some of the guests—mostly, Sara’s friends and former coworkers—eyeing me like I’m Osama bin Laden. Yan is chatting with Sara’s new coworkers, while Ilya seems fascinated by what Sara’s bandmates are telling him about their performances. Anton is talking to Sara’s father about growing up in Russia, and I even see Joe Levinson, the lawyer who likes Sara, knocking back shots of tequila at the bar and staring grimly in my direction.
