Destiny Mine (Tormentor Mine #3)(6)
“What’s wrong?” I ask sharply, and the twins turn to look at me, their faces grim.
“Sara is still upstairs, right?” Yan asks, casting an unreadable look at the stairs, and I nod, closing the distance between us in a few long strides.
“What’s going on?”
“Take a look,” he says and turns the screen toward me.
At first, all I see is the familiar shabby coziness of Sara’s parents’ kitchen, with its well-worn appliances and a windowsill full of potted herbs. Sara’s elderly father, dressed in a robe, is shuffling around the kitchen with his walker, pouring himself coffee and getting a yogurt from the fridge. He’s almost at the kitchen table with his breakfast when a ringing cell interrupts what must’ve been a serene morning.
Charles “Chuck” Weisman carefully places his coffee cup on the kitchen counter and reaches into his pocket to take out his phone. “Lorna?” His voice is strong and steady despite his age. “Did you forget to check—” He abruptly falls silent, and even on the grainy image, I can see him blanch, his mouth opening and closing in wordless shock.
His free hand gropes convulsively at his side but misses the rail of the walker, and I hold my breath as he stumbles. To my relief, he manages to catch himself on the edge of the counter. As frail as Sara’s father is, the fall could’ve easily killed him.
“Where?” is all he asks after a minute of tense listening, and then he slips the phone back into his pocket and stands for a moment, chin trembling, before pulling himself together and walking laboriously to the bedroom to get dressed.
“This was recorded approximately ten hours ago,” Yan says when I look up from the screen, ready to rip into him with furious questions. “We just finished listening to the complete audio of this call. It sounds like Sara’s mother was in a car accident—a bad one. They weren’t sure she’d make it. Our hackers are accessing the hospital records as we speak, but the ER doctors are notoriously slow at adding their notes into the system. The good news is that Sara’s father is still at the hospital—or at least, he hasn’t been home.”
“I just got in touch with the American crew,” Anton says, putting his phone away. “They’re on their way to the hospital, so we’ll get an update on her condition shortly. I told them to be extra careful; I’m sure the Feds will be watching the place, on the off chance Sara turns up.”
Fuck. I close my eyes and rub my temples to offset a burgeoning headache. This is Sara’s worst nightmare come true: one of her parents is hurt and she’s not there. She always feared it would be her father, because of his heart troubles, but this is her relatively young and healthy (for seventy-eight years of age) mother. Sara will be beyond devastated, and all the progress we’ve made in our relationship over the past couple of weeks will be lost.
She’ll never forgive me for keeping her away from her mother’s deathbed. It’ll create another rift between us, one that may be even harder to surmount than the one left by her husband’s death.
I open my eyes, a twisting, sucking pain settling low in my gut. My men are watching me with a mixture of curiosity and pity, and I know they understand. They’ve come to know Sara over the last few months, and to like her. They’ve seen how devoted she is to her elderly parents, how she asks about them every day and diligently watches the videos we provide her.
They know this will destroy her.
She’ll blame herself as much as she’ll blame me.
“Keep me posted on any updates from the Americans,” I order hoarsely and head upstairs.
I have to catch Sara before she comes down.
She can’t find out about this until we know all the facts.
6
Sara
I rush through my morning routine, showering and brushing teeth in under five minutes. It takes me another three minutes to get dressed, and then I debate what to do. Should I run downstairs to find out what’s going on? Or pack in case we do have to leave in a hurry?
Pragmatism wins out over curiosity, so I find a backpack in a closet and begin stuffing it with necessities: three pairs of clean underwear, both for myself and for Peter, then socks, jeans, shirts, sweaters, all for the both of us. I’m sure Peter and his men will be able to get new clothes if we have to abandon everything and evacuate to a different safe house, but it will be helpful if we have a few days’ worth of things to wear, so it’s less of an emergency. I haven’t forgotten the flight here, when my only dress options were the blanket Peter stole me in and hugely oversized men’s clothing.
If I can avoid schlepping around in Peter’s sweatpants, I’ll gladly do so.
Clothing dealt with, I move on to toiletries, packing our toothbrushes and toothpaste in a plastic Ziploc bag I find under the sink. As I zip them up, along with Peter’s razor and a small tube of moisturizer, it strikes me that I’m being oddly calm about this. My palms are sweaty and my heartbeat is elevated, but I’m no more stressed than I’d be if we were running late for a flight. I suppose it’s because deep inside, I expected something like this to happen. As skilled as Peter and his men are at evading the authorities, sooner or later, they’re bound to be found. If not by the FBI or Interpol, then by some criminal out to avenge one of their targets.