Tormentor Mine(68)
“Yes, I think so. Um, Lydia…” I hesitate, unsure how to ask her what I want to know. I haven’t seen anything on the news about the murders, but that doesn’t mean the bodies haven’t been found. “You haven’t seen or heard anything… unusual, have you?”
“Unusual?” Lydia sounds confused. “Like what?”
“Oh, nothing in particular.” To allay any suspicion, I add, “I was just thinking about that one patient, Monica Jackson… You haven’t heard from her, right? The young dark-haired girl I saw yesterday?”
To my surprise, Lydia says, “Oh, that. Yes, actually. She dropped by a couple of hours ago and left a message for you. Something along the lines of ‘thank you and he’s now behind bars.’ She didn’t explain, just said that you’d understand. Any of that make sense to you?”
“Yes.” Despite my tension, a big grin cuts across my face. “Yes, it makes perfect sense. Thanks for letting me know. I’ll see you later this week.”
I hang up, still grinning, and go scrub up for my afternoon C-section.
I have no idea how Peter made the evidence of his crime disappear, but he did, and now it seems like some good came out of that awful evening.
There might be no escape for me, but Monica is free.
* * *
My house is again dark and empty when I get home that evening, and as I get ready for bed, I’m aware of a peculiar melancholy. Having Peter in my house was terrifying, but he was still a human presence. Now I’m alone again, as I’ve been for the past two years, and the feeling of loneliness is sharper than ever, my bed colder and emptier than I recall it being.
Maybe I should get a dog. A big one that I would spoil by letting it sleep with me. That way, I’d have someone to greet me when I came home, and I wouldn’t miss something as perverse as my husband’s killer holding me at night.
Yes, I’ll get a dog, I decide, climbing into bed and pulling the blanket over myself. Once I sell the house, I’ll rent a place closer to the hospital and make sure it’s dog-friendly—maybe near a park of some kind.
A dog will give me what I need, and I’ll be able to forget about Peter Sokolov.
That is, assuming he forgot about me.
34
Sara
* * *
By Monday, I’m almost convinced that Peter left for good. Over the weekend, I scoured my house from top to bottom in an effort to uncover his hidden cameras, but either they’re all gone or they’re concealed in such a way that a layman like myself has no hopes of finding them. Alternatively, they might not have been there in the first place, and my stalker knew the things he knew in some other way. Either way, there’s been no sign of him, no contact of any kind. I spent most of the weekend at the clinic, and though I felt eyes on me as I walked to my car, it could’ve been remnants of my paranoia.
Maybe my nightmare is finally over.
It’s silly, but the knowledge that I drove Peter away with sex stings a little. I hoped that once I stopped being the unattainable “ice princess,” he’d leave me alone, but I didn’t expect the results to be quite so immediate. Maybe I’m bad in bed? I must be, if one time was all it took for Peter to realize I’d never live up to whatever fantasy he had in his mind.
After stalking me for weeks, my tormentor abandoned me after just one night.
It’s a good thing, of course. There are no more dinners, no more showers where I’m cared for like a child. No more dangerous killers wrapped around me at night, fucking with my mind and seducing my body. I go about my days as I’ve done for the past several months, only I feel stronger, less shattered inside. Confronting the source of my nightmares has done more for my mental wellbeing than months of therapy, and I can’t help but be grateful for that.
Even with shame gnawing at me whenever I think of the orgasms he gave me, I feel better, more like my old self.
“So, tell me how you’ve been, Sara,” Dr. Evans says when I finally go see him after his vacation. He’s bronzed from the sun, his thin face for once glowing with health. “How did the Open House go?”
“My realtor is fielding a couple of offers,” I reply, crossing my legs. For some reason, today I feel uncomfortable in this office, like I no longer belong here. Shaking the feeling away, I elaborate, “They’re both lower than I’d like, so we’re trying to play them off against one another.”
“Ah, good. So some progress on that front.” He tilts his head. “And maybe on other fronts as well?”
I nod, unsurprised by the therapist’s perceptiveness. “Yes, my paranoia is better, and so are my nightmares. I was even able to turn on the water in the kitchen sink on Saturday.”