“Yeah, so what? We’re not going to be boozing it up. They have breakfast twenty-four-seven, and it’s way better than the cafeteria. You should try it.”
I’m about to refuse, but then I remember I have next to nothing in my refrigerator. I didn’t lie about not eating today; the dinner at my parents’ house was over ten hours ago, and I’m starving.
“Okay,” I say, surprising Marsha almost as much as I surprise myself. “I’ll come.”
And ignoring my friend’s excited squeals, I put on my street clothes and walk over to the sink to freshen up.
* * *
When we get to Patty’s, I’m not surprised to see many familiar faces there. A lot of the hospital staff go to this bar to unwind and socialize after work. I didn’t expect the place to be this full at this time of night—or morning, depending on one’s perspective—but if they serve breakfast as well as alcohol, it makes sense.
Marsha, myself, and two nurses from the ER make our way to a table in the corner, where a harried-looking waitress takes our orders. The moment she’s gone, Marsha launches into a story about her crazy weekend at a club in downtown Chicago, and the two nurses—Andy and Tonya—laugh and tease her about the guy she almost picked up. Afterward, Andy tells everyone about her boyfriend’s insistence on using purple condoms, and by the time our food comes out, the three of them are laughing so hard the waitress gives us all dirty looks.
I’m laughing too, because the story is funny, but I don’t feel the joy that normally comes with laughter. I haven’t felt it in a long time. It’s as if something inside me is frozen, dulling all emotions and sensations. My therapist says it’s another way my PTSD manifests itself, but I don’t know if he’s right. Long before the stranger invaded my home—before the accident, even—I’ve been feeling like there is a barrier between me and the rest of the world, a wall of false appearances and lies.
For years, I’ve been wearing a mask, and now it feels like I’ve become that mask, like there’s nothing real underneath it.
“What about you, Sara?” Tonya asks, and I realize I zoned out, chowing down my eggs on autopilot. “How was your weekend?”
“It was good, thanks.” Putting down my fork, I attempt a smile. “Nothing exciting. I’m selling my house, so I had to clean out my garage and do some other boring stuff.” I was also on call for eighteen hours and volunteered at the clinic for five more, but I don’t tell Tonya that. Marsha already thinks I’m a workaholic; if she heard I’m subbing in for some of the other doctors at my hospital-owned practice and helping at the clinic on top of my usual workload, I’d never hear the end of it.
“You should come out with us next Friday,” Tonya says, extending a slim brown arm to pick up a salt shaker. At twenty-four, she’s one of the youngest nurses on staff, and from what Marsha’s told me, she’s even more of a party girl than my friend, driving guys of all ages wild with her dimpled smile and tight body. “We’re going to grab some drinks at Patty’s, then head into the city. I know a promoter at that hot new club downtown, so we won’t even have to wait in line.”
I blink at the unexpected offer. “Oh, I don’t know… I’m not sure if—”
“You’re not working Friday night,” Marsha says. “I know, I checked the schedule.”
“Yes, but you know how it is.” I spear eggs with my fork. “Babies don’t always arrive on a schedule.”
“Come on, Marsha, let her be,” Andy says, tucking a red curl behind her ear. “Can’t you see the poor girl is tired right now? If she wants to go, she’ll go. No need to drag her anywhere.”
She winks at me, and I give her a grateful smile. This is my first time interacting with Andy outside the hospital hallways, and I’m discovering that I genuinely like her. Like me, she’s in her late twenties, and according to Marsha, she’s had a steady boyfriend for the last five years. The boyfriend—he of the purple condoms—is apparently a self-absorbed douchebag, but Andy loves him anyway.
“You moved here from Michigan, right?” I ask her, and Andy nods, grinning, then tells me all about how Larry, her boyfriend, got a job in the area, forcing the two of them to move. Listening to her, I decide that Marsha is not far off in her assessment of Andy’s boyfriend.
Larry does seem like a selfish douche.
The rest of the meal flies by in casual, friendly conversation, and by the time we pay the bill and head out of the bar, I’m feeling lighter than I have in months. Maybe my dad is right; getting out and socializing could be good for me.
Maybe I will go to that dinner with the Levinsons, and even to the club with Tonya.
My improved mood continues as I say goodbye to the three women and walk the two blocks to the hospital parking lot to get my car. Lady Gaga is singing in my headphones, and the sky is just beginning to lighten. It feels like the early dawn is speaking to me, promising me that at some point in the not-too-distant future, the darkness may dissipate for me too.
It feels good, that tiny ray of hope. It feels like a step forward.
I’m already in the parking lot when it happens again.
It starts off as a light prickle across my skin… a quiet pinging in my nerves. The blast of adrenaline is next, accompanied by a surge of debilitating terror. My heart rate spikes, and my body tenses for an attack. Gasping, I spin around, tearing off my headphones as I rummage in my bag for a canister of pepper spray, but there’s no one there.
There’s just that sense of danger, a feeling of being watched. Panting, I turn in a circle, clutching the pepper spray, but I don’t see anyone.
I never see anyone when my brain misfires like this.
Shaking, I make my way to my car and get inside. It takes several minutes of breathing exercises before I’m calm enough to drive, and I know that despite my tiredness, I won’t be able to sleep today.
Pulling out of the parking lot, I turn left instead of right.
I might as well go to the clinic. They’re not expecting me until tomorrow, but they’re always grateful for the help.
Chapter 8
Sara
“Tell me about this latest episode, Sara,” Dr. Evans says, crossing his long legs. “What made you think someone was watching you?”
“I don’t know. It was just…” I inhale, trying to find the right words, then shake my head. “It was nothing concrete. I honestly don’t know.”
“Okay, let’s backtrack for a second.” His tone is both warm and professional. That’s part of what makes him a good therapist, that ability to project caring while remaining detached at the same time. “You said you went out for breakfast with some coworkers; then you were walking back to your car, right?”
“Right.”
“Did you hear anything? Or see anything? Anything that might’ve triggered you? A car door slamming, leaves blowing… a bird, perhaps?”
“No, nothing specific that I can recall. I was just walking, listening to music, and then I felt it. I don’t know how to explain it. It was like—” I swallow, my heart rate quickening at the memories. “It was like that time in my kitchen, when I sensed him a second before he grabbed me. That same kind of feeling.”
The therapist’s thin, intelligent face takes on an expression of concern. “How frequently is this happening now?”
“It was the third time this week,” I admit, embarrassment heating my cheeks as he jots down something in his notepad. I hate this out-of-control feeling, the knowledge that my brain is playing tricks on me. “The first time was in a grocery store, then as I was entering the clinic, and now in the hospital parking lot. I don’t know why this is happening. I thought I was getting better; I really did. I only had one small panic attack in the last two weeks, and I felt genuinely hopeful after that breakfast yesterday. It just doesn’t make sense.”
“Our minds take time to heal, Sara, just like our bodies. Sometimes you have a relapse, and sometimes the illness takes a different course. You know that as well as I do.” He makes another note in his notepad, then looks up. “Have y
ou considered speaking to the FBI again?”
“No, they will think I’ve gone crazy.”
I talked to Agent Ryson after the first paranoid episode a month ago, and he told me that at that very moment, Interpol was tracking my husband’s killer somewhere in South Africa. Just in case, though, he put a protective detail on me. After following me around for several days, they determined there was no threat of any kind, and Agent Ryson pulled them off with mumbled apologies about limited funds and manpower. He didn’t accuse me of being paranoid, but I know he secretly thought it.
“Because the man you fear is far away,” Dr. Evans says, and I nod.
“Yes. He’s gone, and he has no reason to return.”
“Good. Rationally, you know that. We’ll work on convincing your subconscious of that, too. First, though, you need to figure out what triggers your paranoia, so you can learn to spot the triggers and manage your response to them. The next time it happens, pay attention to what you were doing and how you were feeling when you first got that sensation. Are you in a public place or by yourself? Is it noisy or quiet? Are you indoors or outdoors?”
“Okay, I’ll make sure to note all that as I’m freaking out and clutching my pepper spray.”
Dr. Evans smiles. “I have faith in you, Sara. You’ve already made tremendous progress. You can go near your kitchen sink again, right?”
“Yes, but I still can’t touch the faucet,” I say, my hands tightening on my lap. “It’s kind of useless without that.”
The sink in my kitchen is one of the many reasons I’m selling the house. At first, I couldn’t even go into the kitchen, but after months of intensive therapy, I’m at the point where I can approach the sink without a panic attack—though not yet turn on the water.
“Baby steps,” Dr. Evans says. “You’ll turn on the water someday too. Unless you sell the house first, of course. Are you still planning to do that?”
“Yes, my realtor is having an Open House in a few days, in fact.”
“Okay, good.” He smiles again and puts his notepad away. “Our session is over for today, and I’m away on vacation for the next week and a half, but I’ll see you later this month. In the meantime, please keep doing what you’re doing and take detailed notes if you have any more paranoid episodes. We’ll discuss that and tackle your feelings about the house sale in the next session, okay?”
“Sounds good.” I get up and shake the doctor’s hand. “I’ll see you then. Enjoy your vacation.”
And walking out of his office, I head to my car, forcing my hand to be at my side and not inside my bag, curled around the pepper spray.
* * *
I sleep well that night, and the night after. It’s because I work so much that I literally pass out. When I’m that tired, I can sleep anywhere, even in my big, oak-shielded house. The Feds couldn’t figure out how the fugitive got in without setting off the alarm or breaking any locks, so even though I’ve upgraded my security system, I feel about as safe in my home as I would sleeping out on the street.
It’s on the third night that the nightmares find me. I don’t know if it’s because I had another paranoid episode earlier that day—this time, on a busy street next to a coffeeshop—or because I only worked twelve hours, but that night, I dream of him.
As usual, his face is vague in my mind; I can only make out his gray eyes and the scar bisecting his left eyebrow. Those eyes pin me in place as he holds a knife against my throat, his gaze as sharp and cruel as his blade. Then George is there too, his brown eyes vacant as he comes toward me.
“Don’t,” I whisper, but George keeps coming, and I see the blood trickling from his forehead. It’s a small, neat wound, nothing like the gaping hole the real bullet left in his head, and some part of me knows I’m dreaming, but I still sob and shake as the gray-eyed man picks me up and carries me to the sink.
“Don’t, please,” I beg the man, but he’s relentless, holding my head over the sink as George continues shuffling toward me, his dead face twisted with hatred.
“For what you did to me,” my husband says, turning on the water. “For everything you did.”
I wake up screaming and wheezing, my sheets soaked with sweat. When I calm down a little, I go downstairs and make myself a cup of decaffeinated tea, using the water from the refrigerator filter. As I drink my tea, the microwave clock stares at me, the blinking green numbers informing me that it’s not even three in the morning—far too early for me to get up if I’m to have any hope of making it through the upcoming day’s extra-long shift. I have a surgery in the afternoon, and I need to be sharp for that; anything less would endanger my patient.
After a few moments of internal debate, I get up and get Ambien from the medicine cabinet. Cutting a pill in half, I swallow it with the remnants of my tea and go back upstairs.
As much as I hate drugging myself, there’s no other choice today. I only hope that I won’t dream of the fugitive again. Not because I’m afraid of the waterboarding nightmare—it never comes twice on the same night—but because in my dreams, he’s not always torturing me.
Sometimes, he’s fucking me, and I’m fucking him back.
Chapter 9
Peter
I stand over her bedside, watching her sleep. I’m taking a risk by being here in person instead of watching her through the cameras my men installed throughout her house, but the Ambien should keep her from waking up. Still, I’m careful not to make a sound. Sara is sensitive to my presence, attuned to me in some strange way. That’s why she’s taken to carrying that pepper spray, and why she looks like a hunted doe each time I get near.
Subconsciously, she knows I’m back. She senses I’m coming for her.
I still don’t know why I’m doing this, but I’ve given up trying to analyze my madness. I’ve tried to stay away, to remain focused on my mission, but even as I tracked down and eliminated all but one name on my list, I kept thinking about Sara, picturing how she looked that day at the funeral and recalling the pain in her soft hazel eyes.
Remembering how she wrapped her lips around my fingers and begged me to stay.
There’s nothing normal about my infatuation with her. I’m sane enough to admit that. She’s the wife of a man I killed, a woman I tortured like I’d once tortured suspected terrorists. I should feel nothing for her, just like I’ve felt nothing for my other victims, but I can’t get her out of my mind.
I want her. It’s completely irrational, and wrong on so many levels, but I want her. I want to taste those soft lips and feel the smoothness of her pale skin, to bury my fingers in her thick chestnut hair and breathe in her scent. I want to hear her beg me to fuck her, and then I want to hold her down and do exactly that, over and over again.
I want to heal the wounds I inflicted and make her crave me the way I crave her.
She continues to sleep as I watch her, and my fingers itch to touch her, to feel her skin, if only for a moment. But if I do that, she might wake up, and I’m not ready for that.
When Sara sees me again, I want it to be different.
I want her to know me as something other than her assailant.
Chapter 10
Sara
Over the next several days, my paranoia intensifies. I constantly feel like I’m being watched. Even when I’m alone at home, with all the shades drawn and doors locked, I sense invisible eyes on me. I’ve taken to sleeping with the pepper spray under my pillow, and I even bring it with me to the bathroom, but it’s not enough.
I don’t feel safe anywhere.
On Tuesday, I finally break down and call Agent Ryson.
“Dr. Cobakis.” He sounds both wary and surprised. “How may I help you?”
“I’d like to talk to you,” I say. “In person, if possible.”
“Oh? What about?”
“I’d rather not discuss it over the phone.”
“I see.” There are a couple of beats of silence. “All right. I suppose I can meet you for a quick coffee this afternoon. Would tha
t work for you?”
I glance at my schedule on my laptop. “Yes. Could you meet me at Snacktime Cafe by the hospital? Around three?”
“I’ll be there.”
* * *
I end up getting held up with a patient, and it’s ten minutes after three by the time I rush into the cafe.
“I was just about to leave,” Ryson says, standing up from a small table in the corner.
“So sorry about that.” Breathless, I slide into the seat across from him. “I promise to make this quick.”
Ryson sits down again. The server comes by, and we place our orders: a shot of espresso for him and a cup of decaf coffee for me. My jitters don’t need the added caffeine today.
“All right,” he says when the server is gone. “Go ahead.”
“I need to know more about this fugitive,” I say without preamble. “Who is he? Why was he after George?”
Ryson’s bushy eyebrows pull together. “You know that’s classified.”
“I do, but I also know that this man waterboarded me, drugged me, and killed my husband,” I say evenly. “And that you knew he was coming and never bothered to inform me. Those are the things I know—the only things I know, really. If I knew more—say, his name and motivation—it might help me understand and get over what happened. Otherwise, it’s like an open sore, or maybe a blister that hasn’t been lanced. It just festers, you see, and it’s constantly on my mind. Someday, I might not be able to hold it in, and the blister might pop on its own. Do you see my dilemma?”
Ryson’s jaw tightens. “Don’t threaten us, Sara. You won’t like the results.”
“It’s Dr. Cobakis to you, Agent Ryson.” I match his hard stare. “And I already don’t like the results. George’s colleagues at the paper wouldn’t like them either—if they were to catch wind of them. That’s why you told me about the fugitive, right? So I’d keep my mouth shut and go along with the whole ‘he died peacefully in his sleep’ bullshit? You knew George’s colleagues would’ve investigated the hell out of the supposed mafia hit, and you didn’t need that. You still don’t, am I right?”
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