I pull back, and she stares at me, her eyes huge in her heart-shaped face. I know what she’s thinking, so I lean in again, dipping my head so my mouth is next to her ear.
“If you contact the FBI, they’ll try to hide you from me. Just like they tried to hide your husband and the others on my list. They’ll uproot you, take you away from your parents and your career, and it will all be for nothing. I’ll find you, no matter where you go, Sara… no matter what they do to keep you from me.” My lips brush against the rim of her ear, and I feel her breath hitch. “Alternatively, they might want to use you as bait. If that’s the case—if they set a trap for me—I’ll know, and our next meeting won’t be over coffee.”
She shudders, and I drag in a deep breath, inhaling her delicate scent one last time before releasing her.
Stepping back, I melt into the crowd and message Anton to get the crew into position.
I have to make sure she gets home safe and sound, unmolested by anyone but me.
13
Sara
* * *
I don’t know how I make it home, but somehow I find myself in my shower, naked and shivering under the hot spray. I have only a vague recollection of making some awkward excuse to Andy and stumbling out of the club to catch a cab; the rest of the trip is a blur of shock-induced numbness and alcoholic haze.
Peter Sokolov spoke to me. He held me.
My husband’s killer, the man who tortured me and ripped apart my life, danced with me.
My knees fold under me, and I sink to the floor, panting. A wave of dizziness makes the shower stall rotate around me, and all the drinks I consumed threaten to come up.
Peter Sokolov was in the club with me. It wasn’t my mind playing tricks; he was actually there.
I swallow convulsively as my nausea worsens. The water beats down on me, the spray almost painfully hot, but I can’t stop shivering.
The monster from my nightmares is real.
He’s coming after me.
My dizziness intensifies, and I lie down, curling into a fetal ball on the tile floor. My hair is all over my face, wet and thick, and my throat constricts as memories of that night press in. For the first few days after the attack, I avoided washing my hair because I couldn’t take the feeling of water streaming over my head, but eventually, the need to be clean won out over the phobia.
One breath in. One breath out. Slow and steady.
Slowly, the suffocating sensation recedes, leaving only misery behind. I feel drunk and sick, and it takes all my strength to struggle to my feet and turn off the shower.
Why is he here? What made him come back? What does he want from me?
The questions streak through my mind as I towel off, but I’m no closer to answers than I was back at the club. My mind feels like a swamp, all my thoughts sluggish and slow.
Wrapping the towel around my wet hair, I stumble to the bedroom and fall onto my king-size bed. The ceiling rocks back and forth, as though I’m on a ship, and I know I’m in for a brutal hangover tomorrow. I haven’t been this drunk since college, and my body doesn’t know how to handle it.
Taking small, shallow breaths, I curl up on my side, hugging the blanket to my chest. The alcohol is dragging me under, but for once, I’m fighting the lure of sleep. I need to think, to understand what happened and figure out what to do.
The killer who waterboarded me wants to meet for coffee tomorrow.
It would be comical if it weren’t so terrifying. I don’t understand what he’s after. Why come up to me in the club? Why ask me to meet him in public again? He’s wanted by just about every law enforcement agency out there; surely he has to know that. Why take that kind of risk?
Unless… unless he feels it’s not a risk.
Maybe he’s arrogant enough to think he can evade justice forever.
Anger ignites inside me, clearing some of the haze from my brain. I sit up, fighting a wave of dizziness, and reach for the corded phone on my nightstand. It’s a dinosaur, clunky and unnecessary in the age of cellphones, but George insisted on having a landline in the house.
“You never know,” he said in response to my objections. “Cell phones aren’t always reliable. If power goes out during a winter storm, what are you going to do?”
My eyes sting at the recollection, and I pick up the phone with an unsteady hand. I have a knack for remembering numbers, so I dial Agent Ryson’s from memory, pushing one button after another.
I have most of the number keyed in when a sudden thought freezes me in place.
Could Peter have bugged my phone? Is that what he meant when he said he’ll know if they set a trap for him?
My mind leaps to another possibility.
Could he be watching me right now?
My breathing quickens, my skin prickling with adrenaline. Before the club, I would’ve dismissed the idea as a manifestation of my paranoia, but it’s not paranoia if it’s real.