I wrinkle my nose. “Oh, I don’t know about that—”
“He’s a good-looking dude. Here.” She pulls a phone out of her pocket, swipes across the screen a few times, and shows me a picture of a guy who looks like a blond Tom Cruise. “See? You could definitely do much worse.”
I chuckle. “For sure, but—”
“No buts.” She holds up her hand when I’m about to argue. “Just come, and we’ll have fun. No pressure to do anything. If you like Larry’s friend, great. If not, you and I will bail to join the girls, and Larry can have a boys’ night out—he’s been hankering for one for ages.”
I hesitate, then regretfully shake my head. “Thank you, but I can’t.” I don’t know if Peter poses a threat to Andy or her boyfriend, but I don’t want to risk it. With the Russian killer watching my every move, every person around me could become his target.
Until my stalker situation is resolved, it’s best if I keep to myself.
Andy’s face falls. “Oh, okay. Well, if you change your mind, ping me. Marsha has my number.”
“I will, thanks,” I say, but Andy is already hurrying away, walking as fast as her white sneakers allow.
* * *
On my way home, I listen to Kelly Clarkson’s “Stronger” and fight the urge to keep driving until I’m in another state. Or maybe even in another country. Canada and Mexico both sound appealing, as do Antarctica and Timbuktu. Instead of going to my camera-infested house, I could drive straight to the airport and hop on a plane to somewhere—anywhere.
I’d go to the North Pole if I had a guarantee Peter wouldn’t come after me.
Unfortunately, I don’t have that guarantee. Just the opposite, in fact. If I run, he’ll come after me. I’m sure of that. He’s a hunter, a tracker, and he won’t rest until he finds me, just like he found all the people on his list. I could go to another hotel or another continent, and it wouldn’t make any difference.
He won’t leave me alone until he gets what he wants—whatever that is.
My palms feel slippery on the steering wheel, and I realize I’m breathing fast, my calm dissipating as thoughts of last night creep in. I’m still not certain what he’s after, but it seems to be something other than just sex.
Something darker and far more twisted.
Realizing I’m on the verge of another panic attack, I switch from Kelly Clarkson to classical music and start doing my breathing exercises. Maybe I’m making a mistake by not going to the FBI. There’s at least a chance they might be able to protect me, whereas on my own I stand no chance at all. The best I can hope for is that he’ll get bored with me and move on to his next victim, leaving me alive and with most of my sanity intact.
I’m already reaching for my phone when I remember why I didn’t call Ryson right away: my parents. I can’t disappear and leave them, and it would be selfish to uproot them on the slim chance the FBI would be able to protect us. To explain the necessity for the move, I’d have to tell my parents everything, and I don’t know if my dad’s heart would survive that kind of stress. He had a triple bypass several years ago, and the doctors advised him to keep stressful activities to a minimum. Learning about a homicidal stalker who tortured me and killed George could literally kill my dad, and might even be dangerous for my mom.
No. I won’t do that to them. Getting my breathing under control, I put Kelly Clarkson back on. My parents have a happy, normal life, and I’ll do whatever it takes to keep it that way. If that means I have to deal with Peter on my own, so be it.
Hopefully, I’m strong enough to survive whatever he’ll dish out.
20
Sara
* * *
What he dishes out is food. Lots of deliciously smelling food.
Stunned, I gape at the spread on my dining room table. There is a whole roasted chicken, a bowl of mashed potatoes, and a big leafy salad—all of it prettily arranged between lit candles and a bottle of white wine.
I figured I might get ambushed in my house tonight, but I didn’t expect this.
“Hungry?” a deep, lightly accented voice asks from behind me, and I whirl around, my pulse leaping as Peter Sokolov steps out from the hallway. The front of his hair is wet, as if he just washed his face, and though he’s dressed in a blue button-up shirt and a pair of dark jeans, he’s not wearing shoes, only socks.
He looks gorgeous—and more dangerous than ever.
“What—” My voice is too high, so I take a breath and try again. “What is this?”
“Dinner,” he says, looking amused. “What does it look like?”