I laugh and shake my head, though she’s not far from the truth. “I’m afraid the only victim was my liver.”
Andy laughs, then asks, “What are you doing next Saturday? Tonya and Marsha are planning another girls’ night out, but I was thinking of just grabbing dinner and a movie with Larry—both at a reasonable hour, since I have an early shift next Sunday. Want to join us?”
“You and your boyfriend?” I give her a surprised look. “Wouldn’t I be the third wheel?”
“Well…” An impish grin lights up her freckled face. “As it so happens, Larry has a very handsome—and very successful—friend who’s dying to meet a nice girl. He’s a real estate mogul, and he has an impossible list of requirements, but”—she lifts a finger when I’m about to interrupt—“you happen to fit all of them. If you’re cool with it, Larry will invite him along, and we could have a nice double date.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Oh, I don’t know about that—”
“He’s a good-looking dude. Here.” She pulls a phone out of her pocket, swipes across the screen a few times, and shows me a picture of a guy who looks like a blond Tom Cruise. “See? You could definitely do much worse.”
I chuckle. “For sure, but—”
“No buts.” She holds up her hand when I’m about to argue. “Just come, and we’ll have fun. No pressure to do anything. If you like Larry’s friend, great. If not, you and I will bail to join the girls, and Larry can have a boys’ night out—he’s been hankering for one for ages.”
I hesitate, then regretfully shake my head. “Thank you, but I can’t.” I don’t know if Peter poses a threat to Andy or her boyfriend, but I don’t want to risk it. With the Russian killer watching my every move, every person around me could become his target.
Until my stalker situation is resolved, it’s best if I keep to myself.
Andy’s face falls. “Oh, okay. Well, if you change your mind, ping me. Marsha has my number.”
“I will, thanks,” I say, but Andy is already hurrying away, walking as fast as her white sneakers allow.
* * *
On my way home, I listen to Kelly Clarkson’s “Stronger” and fight the urge to keep driving until I’m in another state. Or maybe even in another country. Canada and Mexico both sound appealing, as do Antarctica and Timbuktu. Instead of going to my camera-infested house, I could drive straight to the airport and hop on a plane to somewhere—anywhere.
I’d go to the North Pole if I had a guarantee Peter wouldn’t come after me.
Unfortunately, I don’t have that guarantee. Just the opposite, in fact. If I run, he’ll come after me. I’m sure of that. He’s a hunter, a tracker, and he won’t rest until he finds me, just like he found all the people on his list. I could go to another hotel or another continent, and it wouldn’t make any difference.
He won’t leave me alone until he gets what he wants—whatever that is.
My palms feel slippery on the steering wheel, and I realize I’m breathing fast, my calm dissipating as thoughts of last night creep in. I’m still not certain what he’s after, but it seems to be something other than just sex.
Something darker and far more twisted.
Realizing I’m on the verge of another panic attack, I switch from Kelly Clarkson to classical music and start doing my breathing exercises. Maybe I’m making a mistake by not going to the FBI. There’s at least a chance they might be able to protect me, whereas on my own I stand no chance at all. The best I can hope for is that he’ll get bored with me and move on to his next victim, leaving me alive and with most of my sanity intact.
I’m already reaching for my phone when I remember why I didn’t call Ryson right away: my parents. I can’t disappear and leave them, and it would be selfish to uproot them on the slim chance the FBI would be able to protect us. To explain the necessity for the move, I’d have to tell my parents everything, and I don’t know if my dad’s heart would survive that kind of stress. He had a triple bypass several years ago, and the doctors advised him to keep stressful activities to a minimum. Learning about a homicidal stalker who tortured me and killed George could literally kill my dad, and might even be dangerous for my mom.
No. I won’t do that to them. Getting my breathing under control, I put Kelly Clarkson back on. My parents have a happy, normal life, and I’ll do whatever it takes to keep it that way. If that means I have to deal with Peter on my own, so be it.
Hopefully, I’m strong enough to survive whatever he’ll dish out.
Chapter 20
Sara
What he dishes out is food. Lots of deliciously smelling food.
Stunned, I gape at the spread on my dining room table. There is a whole roasted chicken, a bowl of mashed potatoes, and a big leafy salad—all of it prettily arranged between lit candles and a bottle of white wine.
I figured I might get ambushed in my house tonight, but I didn’t expect this.
“Hungry?” a deep, lightly accented voice asks from behind me, and I whirl around, my pulse leaping as Peter Sokolov steps out from the hallway. The front of his hair is wet, as if he just washed his face, and though he’s dressed in a blue button-up shirt and a pair of dark jeans, he’s not wearing shoes, only socks.
He looks gorgeous—and more dangerous than ever.
“What—” My voice is too high, so I take a breath and try again. “What is this?”
“Dinner,” he says, looking amused. “What does it look like?”
“I…” The air in the room thins as he stops a couple of feet from me, the intimate look in his eyes reminding me that I slept naked in his arms. “I’m not hungry.”
“No?” He arches his dark eyebrows. “All right, then. Let’s go to bed.” He moves as if to reach for me, and I jump back.
“No, wait! I could eat.”
A smile curves his lips. “I thought so. After you.”
He gestures in a courtly semi-circle, and I walk over to the table, trying to swallow my heart back into my chest as he turns off the overhead light, leaving only candlelight as illumination, and follows me to the table.
He pulls out a chair, and I sit in it. Then he walks over to the chair across from me and takes a seat himself. I notice that the table is set with two plates and my formal silverware—the one George liked me to use only for holidays and parties.
Silently, I watch George’s killer expertly cut up the chicken and put one of the drumsticks—my favorite part of the chicken—on my plate, along with several spoonfuls of mashed potatoes and a generous portion of the salad.
“Where did you get all this food?” I ask as he loads his own plate.
“I made it.” He looks up from his plate. “You like chicken, right?”
I do, but I’m not about to tell him that. “You cook?”
“I dabble.” He picks up his knife and fork. “Go ahead, try it.”
I push my chair back and get up. “I have to wash my hands.” I just came in from the garage, and the OCD doctor in me won’t let me touch food without first washing off the hospital germs.
“All right,” he says, putting down his utensils, and I realize he intends to wait for me.
My stalker has excellent table manners.
I go into the nearby bathroom and wash my hands, scrubbing between each finger and around my wrists like I always do. By the time I return to the table, he’s already poured us each a glass of wine, and the crisp smell of Pinot Grigio mixes with the delicious aromas of the meal, adding to the bizarreness of the situation.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think we’re on a date.
“How did you know I’d come here instead of going to a hotel?” I ask when I’m seated.
He shrugs. “It was an educated guess. You’re bright, so you’re unlikely to make the same mistake twice.”
“Uh-huh.” I pick up my fork and try a bite of mashed potatoes. The rich, buttery flavor is bliss on my tongue, jumpstarting my appetite despite the anxiety roiling my stomach. “That’s a lot of cooking to do on an educate
d guess.”
“Yes, well, no risk, no reward, right? Besides, I’ve seen how you think and reason, Sara. You don’t do stupid, pointless things, and going to another hotel would’ve been precisely that.”
My hand tightens around my fork. “Is that right? You think you know me because you’ve stalked me for a few weeks?”
“No.” His eyes gleam in the candlelight. “I don’t know you, ptichka—at least not nearly as well as I’d like to.”
Ignoring that provocative statement, I focus on my plate. Now that I’ve had a bite, my mouth is watering for more. Despite what I told Peter earlier, I’m starving, and I gladly dig into the delicious spread on my plate. The chicken is perfectly seasoned, the mashed potatoes are generously buttered, and the green salad is refreshingly tangy with an unusual lemony dressing. I’m so absorbed in eating that I’m halfway done with my plate when a frightening thought occurs to me.
Putting down my fork, I look up at my tormentor. “You didn’t drug this or something, right?”
“If I did, it would be too late for you,” he points out with amusement. “But no. You can relax. If I were going to drug or poison you, I’d use a syringe. No need to spoil perfectly good food.”
I try to not react, but my hand shakes as I reach for my glass of wine. “Great. Glad to hear it.”
He smiles at me, and I feel a warm, melting sensation between my legs. To hide my discomfort, I take several gulps of wine and put the glass down before refocusing on my plate.
I am not attracted to him. I refuse to be.
We eat in silence until our plates are empty; then Peter puts down his fork and picks up his wine glass. “Tell me something, Sara,” he says. “You’re twenty-eight now, and you’ve been a full-fledged doctor for two and a half years. How did you manage that? Were you one of those child geniuses with a super-high IQ?”
I push my empty plate aside. “Your stalking didn’t tell you that?”
“I didn’t do a deep dive into your background.” He takes a sip of wine and puts down his glass. “If you’d rather I do that, I can—or you can just talk to me, and we could get to know each other in a more traditional manner.”
I hesitate, then decide it wouldn’t hurt to talk to him. The longer we sit at the table, the longer I can postpone bedtime and all that it could entail.
“I’m not a genius,” I say, taking a small sip of wine. “I mean, I’m not dumb, but my IQ is within the normal range.”
“Then how did you become a doctor at twenty-six when it normally takes at least eight years after college?”
“I was an oops baby,” I say. When he continues looking at me, I explain, “I was born three years before my mom went through menopause. She was almost fifty when she got pregnant, and my dad was fifty-eight. They were both professors—they met when he was her Ph.D. advisor, actually, though they didn’t start dating until later—and neither of them wanted children. They had their careers, they had a great circle of friends, and they had each other. They were making plans for retirement that year, but instead, I happened.”
“How?”
I shrug. “A couple of drinks combined with the conviction that they were too old to worry about a broken condom.”
“So they didn’t want you?” His gray eyes darken, steel turning to gunmetal, and his mouth tightens.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think he’s angry on my behalf.
Shaking off the ridiculous thought, I say, “No, they did. At least, once they got over the shock of learning about the pregnancy. It wasn’t what they wanted or expected, but once I was there, born healthy despite all odds, they gave me everything. I became the center of their world, their personal little miracle. They had tenure, they had savings, and they embraced their new role as parents with the same dedication they gave their careers. I was showered with attention, taught to read and count to one hundred before I could walk. By the time I started kindergarten, I could read at fifth-grade level and knew basic algebra.”
The hard line of his mouth softens. “I see. So you had a huge leg-up on the competition.”
“Yes. I skipped two grades in elementary school and would’ve skipped more, but my parents didn’t think it would be good for my social development to be meaningfully younger than my classmates. As it was, I struggled to make friends in school, but that’s neither here nor there.” I pause to take another sip of wine. “I did end up finishing high school in three years because the curriculum was easy for me and I wanted to start college, and then I finished college in three years because I’d earned a lot of college credits by taking Advanced Placement classes in high school.”
“So that’s the four years.”
I nod. “Yes, that’s the four years.”
He studies me, and I shift in my chair, uncomfortable with the warmth in his eyes. My wine glass is mostly empty now, and I’m starting to feel the effects, the faint buzz of alcohol chasing away the worst of my anxiety and making me notice irrelevant things, like how his dark hair looks thick and silky to the touch, and how his mouth is soft and hard at the same time. He’s looking at me with admiration in his gaze… and something else, something that makes my skin feel hot and tight, as though I’m running a fever.
As if sensing it, Peter leans in, his lids lowering. “Sara…” His voice is low and deep, dangerously seductive. I can feel my breathing picking up as he covers my hand with his big palm and murmurs, “Ptichka, you’re—”
“Why do you think George hurt your family?” I yank my hand away, desperate to douse my growing arousal. “What happened to them?”
My question is like a bomb exploding in the sexually charged atmosphere. His gaze turns flat and hard, the warmth disappearing in a flash of icy rage.
“My family?” His hand clenches on the table. “You want to know what happened to them?”
I nod warily, fighting the instinct to jump up and back away. I have the terrifying feeling I just provoked a wounded predator, one who could rip me apart without even trying.
“All right.” His chair scrapes across the floor as he stands up. “Come here, and I’ll show you.”
Chapter 21
Peter
She remains seated, frozen in place. A fawn caught in the crosshairs of a hunter’s rifle. I know I’m scaring her, but I can’t bring myself to care—not with the pain and rage tearing me up inside.
Even after five and a half years, thinking of Pasha and Tamila’s deaths has the power to destroy me.
“Come here,” I repeat, stepping around the table. Grabbing Sara’s arm, I pull her to her feet, ignoring her stiff posture. “You want to know? You want to see what your husband and his cohorts did?”
Her slim arm is tense in my grasp as I reach into my pocket with my free hand and take out my old smartphone. I always carry it with me, though it’s not on any network and can’t be used to make phone calls. Swiping across the screen with my thumb, I navigate to the last set of pictures.
“Here.” I thrust the phone into her free hand. “Take a good look.”
Sara’s hand shakes as she lifts the phone to her face, and I know the exact moment she lays eyes on the first picture. Her face turns white, and she swallows convulsively before swiping across the screen to view the rest of the photos.
I don’t glance at the phone myself—I don’t need to. The images are burned into my retinas, etched into my brain like a gruesome tattoo.
I took these pictures the day after I escaped from the soldiers who dragged me away from the scene. They’d already relocated the remaining villagers, but the investigation was just starting, and they hadn’t cleaned up the bodies yet. When I returned, the corpses still lay there, covered by flies and crawling insects. I photographed everything: the burned-out buildings, the dark blood stains on the grass, the decomposing bodies and torn limbs, Pasha’s tiny hand curled around the toy car… There were things I couldn’t capture, like the stench of rotting flesh that hung thickly in the air and the desolate emptiness of an abandoned village, b
ut what I did record is enough.
Sara lowers the phone, and I take it from her bloodless fingers, slipping it back into my pocket.
“That was Daryevo.” I release her arm, each word like sandpaper scraping across my throat. “A small village in Dagestan where my wife and son lived.”
Sara takes a step back. “What…” She swallows audibly. “What happened there? Why were they killed?”
I take a breath to control the violent anger churning inside me. “Because of some people’s arrogance and blind ambition.”
Sara gives me an uncomprehending look.
“It was a sting operation designed to capture a small but highly effective terrorist cell based in the Caucasus Mountains,” I say harshly. “A group of NATO soldiers acted on information provided by a coalition of Western intelligence agencies. Everything was done under the radar so they wouldn’t have to share the glory with the local counterterrorist groups—like the one I headed for Russia.”
Sara covers her trembling mouth, and I see she’s beginning to understand.
“That’s right, ptichka.” Stepping toward her, I capture her slender wrist and pull her hand away from her face. “You can guess who was involved in getting the soldiers that false information.”
Her eyes are full of horror. “The terrorist cell wasn’t there?”
“No.” My grip on her wrist is punishingly tight, but I can’t make myself relax my fingers. With the memories fresh in my mind, I can’t help thinking of her as my dead enemy’s wife. “Nothing was there but a peaceful civilian village, and if your husband and the other operatives on his team had checked in with my team, they would have known that.” My voice grows rougher, my words more biting. “If they hadn’t been so fucking arrogant, so greedy for glory, they would’ve sought help instead of thinking they knew everything—and then they would’ve learned their source was planted by the terrorists themselves, and my wife and son would still be alive.”
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