by Anna Zaires
Soon, I promise myself as I head out to explore the area and set perimeter alarms. I will have my ptichka again soon.
For now, she can enjoy her former life.
13
Sara
“Mom!” I bend over her bed, smiling through the tears. Her eyes are cloudy with painkillers, but they’re open, and as I gently fold my fingers around her uninjured right hand, her cracked lips move.
“S-Sara?”
“It’s me, Mom.” The tears pour down my face unchecked, and I don’t bother wiping them away. I’m too relieved, too overjoyed.
After an entire night of touch-and-go, Mom has woken up.
“Here, drink.” I lift a cup with a straw to her lips, and she manages one sip before closing her eyes again.
I squeeze her hand and turn to Dad, who got to his feet behind me. His cheeks are wet as he stares at his wife.
“She’s going to be okay now, right?” His eyes are red-rimmed but hopeful as he glances at me, and I nod, not hiding my elation.
“Her vitals are stable and have been for the past three hours. Barring an infection, she’ll pull through.”
Mom’s fingers twitch in my hand, and I look back to find her eyes open again.
“Sara, are you really…?” She blinks and tries to focus through the lingering haze of anesthesia. “Darling, is that really you, or am I dreaming?”
“I’m really here, Mom.” My voice cracks. “I’m home.”
“She came back, Lorna.” Dad wraps an arm around my waist, his smile both tremulous and triumphant. “Our little Sara came back.”
“What…” She starts to cough, and I quickly give her another sip of water. “What happened?” Her confused gaze wanders from me to the pulleys holding up the casts on her legs and her left arm, and then back to me again.
Dad sinks into a chair next to the bed as I wipe the tears off my face and say as steadily as I can, “You were T-boned by a drunk driver on your way to the grocery store. You have cracked ribs, your legs are broken in several places, and your left arm is basically crushed. You also had internal injuries, which necessitated three surgeries back to back.” I could’ve sugarcoated it, but Mom hates being babied when it comes to important medical stuff. She always wants to know the full extent of the problem in as much detail as possible. I’ll never forget how she hounded Dad’s doctors when he had his heart attack a few years back.
By the time Dad left the hospital, she knew more about his condition and treatment options than most cardiologists.
Her dry lips move again. “No, I meant…” She struggles to form the words. “You’re here. How did you…?”
“Peter brought me home, Mom,” I say softly, squeezing her hand again. “As soon as we heard about the accident, he brought me home.”
It’s a dangerous game I’m playing—maintaining the lie (which is now the truth) of being Peter’s lover for my parents, while denying it to the FBI. But I don’t see any other way to handle it. Peter will be back for me, and I can’t have my parents thinking he’s a monster when he takes me away again. As risky as it is, they need to believe we’re in love. And at the same time, the FBI need to believe I’m Peter’s victim. I have no idea how I’m going to manage this tightrope act, but I’m going to try my best.
Not that Dad actually believes me. While we were waiting for Mom to wake up, he put me through an interrogation that made the FBI’s pale in comparison. His goal was to poke holes in the fairy tale I’ve been telling them all these months, and despite my best efforts, he wasn’t entirely unsuccessful.
No, I didn’t know Peter was a wanted man when we met and started dating, I told Dad, repeating what I said before about believing my new boyfriend was a contractor working for various firms in the US and abroad. No, I didn’t know he was in trouble with the law when I left the country with him, though I was beginning to have some suspicions. No, he’s not as dangerous as they say; it’s all a big misunderstanding. He does, in fact, work as an independent contractor doing security consulting; it’s just that some clients of his are not entirely law-abiding, and that’s what got him in trouble with the FBI. Yes, we first met in a nightclub in Chicago and dated in secret for several weeks. Yes, he bought my house through a shell corporation, like the FBI said. Why? Because he thought I’d regret selling it so impulsively.
Some questions were more difficult to answer. I know what the FBI have told my parents about Peter’s alleged crimes: next to nothing, invoking the classified status of his case. However, my parents aren’t stupid, and they did some investigating on their own. The “suspected terrorist” and “killed people” bits came from a conversation Dad overheard between the agents, but he also somehow linked my abduction to a high-speed chase on I-294, during which a police helicopter blew up, causing a massive pile-up and a renewed outcry about gang-related violence in Chicago.
“It happened the night you disappeared and was all over the news for weeks,” Dad told me. “The FBI wouldn’t admit it to us, but I know it was him. It had to be. Why else would they send an entire SWAT unit to retrieve you? The man is dangerous, and the Feds know it. I don’t know if he’s involved in drugs, terrorism, or what have you, but he’s bad news.”
And no matter how much I tried to convince Dad that Peter’s alleged crimes are white-collar in nature and that I don’t know anything about that interstate incident (which I don’t, because I was drugged during my abduction), he refused to believe me.
“Tell me about Marsha and the Levinsons,” I finally said, desperate to change the topic. “How did they come to be there with you?”
Thankfully, that worked, and for the next couple of hours, we talked about my parents’ life in my absence and how the Levinsons really stepped up, helping my parents through the crisis in a variety of ways. And Marsha too—apparently, she’d taken to calling my parents every week, checking on them and inquiring about me.
“As soon as she heard that Lorna was brought into the ER, she showed up, getting the best doctors on her case and helping us cut through the red tape,” Dad said, his eyes gleaming with tears. “If it weren’t for her, I don’t know if your mom would’ve—” He broke off, dragging in a shuddering breath, and I hugged him, feeling the familiar burn of guilt and shame, of self-disgust mixed with rekindled anger at Peter.
Yes, my tormentor brought me back, but first, he stole me. For months, he kept me from my family. I can’t forget that. I should’ve been there for my parents, not Marsha and their friends. I should’ve been the one to make sure Mom got the best care. Instead, I was in Japan, falling for my husband’s murderer… letting him burrow into my heart and mind as I lied to my parents, over and over again.
I want to hate Peter for that—for everything, really—but instead, I just hate myself. I hate that I already miss him, that being home hasn’t lessened my desperate longing one bit. I crave him so intensely it’s like a physical ache; my skin literally hurts when I think of how badly I want his touch.
Soon, I tell myself as I bend down to kiss Mom, who closed her eyes again. I know Peter—he won’t stay away from me for long. I should enjoy this time with my family instead of pining for the man who’ll take me from them.
I’m a terrible daughter, but they don’t need to know that yet.
They’ll find out soon enough.
14
Sara
By noon, I finally convince Dad to go home and get some rest, and I stay at the hospital with Mom, alternating between keeping her company and napping on a cot the nurses brought to her room. Whenever I come out to grab a coffee or a bite to eat, several suspicious-looking men follow me. FBI agents, most likely, though they could also be plain-clothes police—I have no idea how their jurisdictions work. I’m obviously not off the hook, but for now, they’re letting me get on with my life, and I’m grateful for that.
I don’t want to spend what little time I have here in jail.
Marsha comes by Mom’s room after getting off her shift, and after verifying that Mom
is sleeping deeply, I let Marsha talk me into going to Patty’s to catch up.
“So,” she says as we take a seat at the corner table. “You’re back.”
“I’m back,” I confirm, then wave for the waiter to come over. I’m running on almost no sleep, and I’m craving something really greasy and unhealthy. In general, I feel like I’m falling apart, my whole body aching with exhaustion and my lower back killing me from spending the night curled up on the hospital cot.
“Burger and fries, with extra cheese and pickles,” I tell the waiter when he comes over. “And make it fast, please. I’m starving.”
Marsha raises her eyebrows, but doesn’t comment on my upcoming greasefest. Instead, she orders a Greek salad and two beers, one for each of us.
“So we can celebrate the prodigal daughter’s return,” she says, and I attempt to match her grin as guilt floods my chest again.
“Thank you for keeping an eye on my parents while I was away,” I say when the waiter leaves. “Dad told me how helpful you were with Mom, and I’m hugely grateful. If there’s ever anything I can do for you…”
She waves away my thanks with a perfectly manicured hand. “Oh, please. It was my pleasure. I like your folks, and I’m really sorry that happened to your mom. I hope she recovers soon.”
“Me too.” I attempt another smile. “So tell me… how have you been? And Andy and Tonya? Is Andy still with—”
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Marsha folds her forearms on the table and leans forward, skewering me with her gaze. “We’re not going to talk about any of that until you tell me where the hell you’ve been, who this man that you ran off with is, and why the fuck I didn’t hear a peep about him until you disappeared off the face of the Earth.”
“I didn’t disappear. I called my parents all the time and—”
She cuts me off with another wave. “Semantics. You were gone. Not a word to anyone beforehand, no notice to your practice, left all your patients hanging—including that one girl who needed a C-section the next day, mind you. Oh, and the FBI hounded us all about you for weeks. If that’s not a disappearance, I don’t—”
“Okay, okay, fine. You win.” I grab my beer from the waiter as he approaches the table, but I don’t drink it beyond wetting my lips. Not only am I jet-lagged and sleep-deprived, but there is a chance I might be pregnant.
Putting down the glass, I stare at the brown liquid, forcing all thoughts of a potential pregnancy away so I can focus. I don’t know which version of the story to give Marsha: the one for the FBI, in which I’m Peter’s victim all the way, or the one I’ve been feeding my parents, in which I’m in love with a man who’s embroiled in something shady but is, for the most part, wrongly persecuted by the authorities.
“You’re stalling,” Marsha says, and I sigh, looking up from the beer.
“You’re right: I did disappear,” I begin slowly, still trying to decide what the best story for Marsha would be. “You talked to my parents, though, right? They must’ve told you what happened.”
“What they knew, which wasn’t much.” Marsha picks up her beer. “Nor did it make any sense, what with the FBI sniffing around us like bomb-detecting dogs.”
“Uh-huh.” I instinctively glance around and see two of the men who’ve been following me around the hospital at a table on the opposite side of the bar. Three tables over are two more of my stalkers, and I’m pretty sure I’ve seen the guy at the bar before as well.
Well, that decides it. The “bomb-detecting dogs” are out in full force, and I have no doubt Marsha will be questioned shortly after our conversation.
In fact, there’s no guarantee she’s not working with them right now.
As soon as the thought occurs to me, I feel like a horrible friend, but that doesn’t make the suspicion go away. It makes too much sense. We’ve known each other for a number of years—I met Marsha when I started my residency at the hospital—but we’ve always been more work friends than anything else. For one thing, Marsha’s always been single and on the hunt, whereas I was married and working eighty-hour weeks. I could never accompany her on the girls’ night outings she loves, and she found sedate activities like family dinners boring, so our friendship tended to revolve around the hospital and our conversations rarely ventured beyond the superficial. She was kind and supportive after George’s accident, always ready to lend a sympathetic ear on a coffee break, but she never went out of her way to involve herself in the messier aspects of my life.
Marsha is a good friend, a fun friend, but not the kind of friend who’d take to calling my parents every week—not without a nudge, at least.
A nudge that could’ve easily come from the FBI.
Of course, it’s just as possible that I’m way too tired to think straight—either that or being with Peter has made me far too paranoid. Still, on the off chance that my suspicions are right—or on the far more reasonable assumption that I can’t expect Marsha to lie to the FBI for me—I decide to go with the victim version of the story.
Unfortunately, that means I have to go back to the beginning and explain about George. And since I’m pretty sure that the FBI would not want me to reveal any classified information, I need to get creative here as well.
My head hurts just thinking of all the half-truths and lies I’ll have to keep straight.
By the time I’m done spinning the beginning of the tale, Marsha’s eyes are wider than the burger I’m devouring. “George was on this Russian assassin’s hit list? Why? What did he—”
“I never learned all the details, but it had something to do with a mafia story George ran.” I decide to use the FBI’s original lie to me as justification for Peter’s actions. “In any case, he broke into my house, waterboarded and drugged me to find out George’s location—and then he killed him.”
I let Marsha digest that while I stuff two fries into my mouth. I really am starving. When I see that she’s about to launch into more questions, I say, “So yeah, that’s how we really met. You see why I couldn’t tell this to my parents, right?”
She nods, her face sickly pale underneath her foundation and her salad forgotten in front of her.
“Right,” I continue. “So it took me a while to start getting over that, and then you invited me for a night out with Andy and Tonya. We went to that club downtown, remember? The one with the cute bartender who later asked about me?”
Marsha nods again, still mute.
“That’s when he approached me again,” I tell her. “Right there at that club. That’s why Andy thought I was acting weird when I bailed: I’d just been approached by my husband’s murderer and ordered to meet him the next day at Starbucks. And things just went downhill from there. He had cameras installed all over my house, he followed me everywhere I went, and when I tried to escape to a hotel, he showed up in my room and… Well, never mind that.” I let Marsha draw her own conclusions—which, judging by the horror on her face, are far worse than what actually happened.
I feel awful about that—my instinct is to shield my friend from the dangerous mess in my life, as I’ve been shielding my parents—but this is what I told the FBI and I have to stick with it. Besides, it’s all true, or at least factual. The only part I’m withholding is my own confusion about all of this—my unwilling attraction to the man I should’ve only hated and despised.
An attraction that has grown into so much more.
“Oh God, Sara…” Marsha looks like she’s on the verge of throwing up whatever little salad she consumed. “I’m so, so sorry, hon. I had no idea. And this… this monster—he then kidnapped you?”
“After a few weeks, when the FBI discovered he was in the area, yes. Before that, he let me go on with my life, and he was just… in it.” I motion the waiter for water, since I can’t drink my beer. I’m thirsty and strangely lightheaded, as though I’ve already had alcohol.
In general, I feel terrible, the ache in my lower back intensifying unbearably and my stomach roiling from all the greasy food. I’m also
uncomfortably hot and feel like I want to cry—must be all the stress catching up to me.
“I don’t understand,” Marsha says as I take a deep breath in an effort to clear my head. “Why did he do this? Why you? Is this something he does, kidnapping women? Did he have a whole harem of victims at—where was it that he took you?”
“Japan, and no. To the best of my knowledge, I’m the only one he’s ever done this to. As to why, well, why do some men do anything?” I manage a wobbly smile. “He got obsessed with me, I guess. In any case, eventually he got bored, and here I am.”
Marsha is staring at the scar on my forehead. “Did he do that to you?” She touches her own forehead, her voice strained. “Did he hurt you?”
“No, that scar is from a car accident, when I tried to escape and crashed instead,” I say. “In general, he didn’t really hurt me. The whole kidnapping and murdering of George aside, he treated me fairly well.”
“Right. That’s… that’s good, I guess.” Marsha’s voice shakes as she reaches for her beer. I notice that her hand is unsteady as well, and fresh guilt scours my insides. I wish I could tell her everything, make her understand how complicated Peter is, how he can be cruel and kind at the same time. How being with him was both wonderful and terrifying, like riding on a roller coaster with no brakes.
I wish I could tell her the whole messy truth, but I can’t, so I paste a plastic smile on my face and excuse myself to use the restroom. My stomach is churning so hard it’s starting to cramp, and I’m sweating despite the cold draft sweeping into the bar from the open door.