I hesitate, then decide it wouldn’t hurt to talk to him. The longer we sit at the table, the longer I can postpone bedtime and all that it could entail.
“I’m not a genius,” I say, taking a small sip of wine. “I mean, I’m not dumb, but my IQ is within the normal range.”
“Then how did you become a doctor at twenty-six when it normally takes at least eight years after college?”
“I was an oops baby,” I say. When he continues looking at me, I explain, “I was born three years before my mom went through menopause. She was almost fifty when she got pregnant, and my dad was fifty-eight. They were both professors—they met when he was her Ph.D. advisor, actually, though they didn’t start dating until later—and neither of them wanted children. They had their careers, they had a great circle of friends, and they had each other. They were making plans for retirement that year, but instead, I happened.”
“How?”
I shrug. “A couple of drinks combined with the conviction that they were too old to worry about a broken condom.”
“So they didn’t want you?” His gray eyes darken, steel turning to gunmetal, and his mouth tightens.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think he’s angry on my behalf.
Shaking off the ridiculous thought, I say, “No, they did. At least, once they got over the shock of learning about the pregnancy. It wasn’t what they wanted or expected, but once I was there, born healthy despite all odds, they gave me everything. I became the center of their world, their personal little miracle. They had tenure, they had savings, and they embraced their new role as parents with the same dedication they gave their careers. I was showered with attention, taught to read and count to one hundred before I could walk. By the time I started kindergarten, I could read at fifth-grade level and knew basic algebra.”
The hard line of his mouth softens. “I see. So you had a huge leg-up on the competition.”
“Yes. I skipped two grades in elementary school and would’ve skipped more, but my parents didn’t think it would be good for my social development to be meaningfully younger than my classmates. As it was, I struggled to make friends in school, but that’s neither here nor there.” I pause to take another sip of wine. “I did end up finishing high school in three years because the curriculum was easy for me and I wanted to start college, and then I finished college in three years because I’d earned a lot of college credits by taking Advanced Placement classes in high school.”
“So that’s the four years.”
I nod. “Yes, that’s the four years.”
He studies me, and I shift in my chair, uncomfortable with the warmth in his eyes. My wine glass is mostly empty now, and I’m starting to feel the effects, the faint buzz of alcohol chasing away the worst of my anxiety and making me notice irrelevant things, like how his dark hair looks thick and silky to the touch, and how his mouth is soft and hard at the same time. He’s looking at me with admiration in his gaze… and something else, something that makes my skin feel hot and tight, as though I’m running a fever.
As if sensing it, Peter leans in, his lids lowering. “Sara…” His voice is low and deep, dangerously seductive. I can feel my breathing picking up as he covers my hand with his big palm and murmurs, “Ptichka, you’re—”
“Why do you think George hurt your family?” I yank my hand away, desperate to douse my growing arousal. “What happened to them?”
My question is like a bomb exploding in the sexually charged atmosphere. His gaze turns flat and hard, the warmth disappearing in a flash of icy rage.
“My family?” His hand clenches on the table. “You want to know what happened to them?”
I nod warily, fighting the instinct to jump up and back away. I have the terrifying feeling I just provoked a wounded predator, one who could rip me apart without even trying.
“All right.” His chair scrapes across the floor as he stands up. “Come here, and I’ll show you.”
21
Peter
* * *
She remains seated, frozen in place. A fawn caught in the crosshairs of a hunter’s rifle. I know I’m scaring her, but I can’t bring myself to care—not with the pain and rage tearing me up inside.
Even after five and a half years, thinking of Pasha and Tamila’s deaths has the power to destroy me.
“Come here,” I repeat, stepping around the table. Grabbing Sara’s arm, I pull her to her feet, ignoring her stiff posture. “You want to know? You want to see what your husband and his cohorts did?”