Destiny Mine (Tormentor Mine #3)(16)
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.
As I enter the small, dingy bathroom, the cramping sensation intensifies, and a sudden suspicion occurs to me, making my breath stall in my lungs.
Could it be? Is it finally here?
Sure enough, when I check, I find a smear of blood on my underwear. My period—now over a week overdue—has finally started. That’s why I’m feeling so shitty: it’s the first day, and all the symptoms are there, from the lower back pain and the hot flashes to the moodiness and the cramps.
It’s official.
I’m not pregnant.
Peter and I are not having a baby.
It should’ve been a relief, but as I stare at that reddish-brown smear, it grows in my vision, coloring my world the same bloody shade. Shaking, I press my fist to my mouth, but I can’t contain the sob that rises in my throat, nor the one that follows. As insane as it is, I feel like I lost something, like some perverse part of me had not only reconciled to the possibility of a child, but had also been looking forward to it.