Tormentor Mine(70)
“Peter…” I sway toward him, that terrible longing twisting my insides, but his eyes are cold, so cold they burn.
He doesn’t want me anymore. I know it. I see it.
Still, I reach for him, my hand lifting to his hard-edged face. I want him—I need him—so much. But before I can touch him, he murmurs, “Goodbye, ptichka,” and shoves me away.
I tumble backward, falling off the stage. My dress flutters in the air for a brief second, and then my wings crumple as I hit the floor. Even before the shock of the impact reverberates through me, I know that this is it.
My body is broken, and so is my soul.
“Peter,” I moan with my last breath, but it’s too late.
He’s gone for good.
I wake up with my face wet with tears and my heart heavy with grief. It’s pitch black in the room, and in the darkness, it doesn’t matter that I can’t rationally miss a man I hate. The dream is so vivid in my mind it feels as if I truly lost him… as if I died from the rejection at his hands. I know what I’m grieving must be my real losses—George and the life we were supposed to have—but with my bed empty and my body aching for a hard, warm embrace, it feels like I miss him.
Peter.
The man I have every reason to despise.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I roll up into a small ball under the blanket and hug a pillow to myself. I don’t need Dr. Evans to tell me that what I’m feeling can’t possibly be real, that at best, it’s a bizarre version of Stockholm Syndrome. One does not fall for one’s stalker; it simply doesn’t happen. I haven’t even known Peter Sokolov that long. He’s been in my life for what? A week? Two? The days since the club outing have felt like years, but in reality, hardly any time has passed.
Of course, he’s been in my nightmares for much longer.
For the first time, I allow myself to really think about my tormentor—to wonder about him as a man. What had he been like with his family? It should’ve been difficult to imagine such a ruthless killer in a domestic setting, but for some reason, I have no problem picturing him playing with a child or making dinner with his wife. Maybe it’s the gentle way he took care of me, but I feel like there’s something within him that transcends the monstrous things he’s done, something vulnerable and deeply human.
He must’ve loved his family, to dedicate himself to vengeance so completely.
The pictures on his phone surface in my mind, making my chest squeeze with pain. False information, that’s what Peter blamed for those atrocities. Is it possible that George had been the one to provide that information? That my handsome, peaceful husband, who loved barbecues and reading the newspaper in bed, had really been a spy who’d made such a terrible error? It seems unbelievable, yet there must’ve been a reason Peter came after George, why he went to such lengths to murder him.
Unless Peter made a huge error himself, George hadn’t been what he seemed.
Tightening my grip on the pillow, I process that realization, letting the knowledge fully settle in. Over the past week and a half, I’ve avoided thinking of my stalker’s revelations, but I can no longer push the truth away.
Between the FBI protection that came out of nowhere and the growing distance between me and George after our marriage, it’s entirely possible that my husband had fooled me—that he’d lied to me and everyone else for the better part of a decade.
My life had been even more of an illusion than I’d known.
When I fall asleep an hour later, it’s with the bitter taste of betrayal on my tongue and a fresh determination in my mind.
Come tomorrow morning, I’m going to accept one of the offers on my house. I need a fresh start, and I’m going to get it. Maybe in a new place, I’ll forget both George’s duplicity and him.
If Peter Sokolov is gone for good, I might be able to finally start living.
35
Sara
* * *
On Thursday, I sign the papers, selling my house to a lawyer couple moving to the area from Chicago. They have two children in elementary school and a baby on the way, and they need the five bedrooms. Though their offer is three percent below market value and a couple of thousand dollars less than the other offer I received, I went with the lawyers because they’re paying cash and can close on the house quickly.
If there are no issues with the inspection, I’ll be moving out in less than three weeks.
Feeling energized, I ask another doctor to cover for me on Friday and spend the day looking for apartments to rent. I settle on a small one-bedroom within walking distance of the hospital, in a pet-friendly condo building. It’s a little dated, and the closet space is almost nonexistent, but since I’m planning to get rid of everything that reminds me of my old life, I don’t mind.