Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
So much blood that their throats must’ve been slit.
“Dr. Cobakis? Are you okay?”
The girl sounds worried—I must’ve gone pale.
With effort, I pull myself together and smile reassuringly. “Yes, sorry. Just some bad associations, that’s all.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to freak you out. And please understand: I’m not saying I’m happy he’s dead. It’s just that—”
“You’re glad he’s out of your life. I get it.” I stand up again and, as calmly as I can, hand Monica a plastic-wrapped paper gown. “Please go ahead and change. I’ll be right with you.”
Leaving the girl to it, I step out, my legs unsteady and my lungs fighting for breath.
Last week, after I learned about Monica’s second assault, I didn’t just cry.
I also confided in Peter, telling him exactly what happened.
If this is not a macabre coincidence, then Agent Ryson was right.
I’m as much of a monster as Peter. I killed Monica’s stepfather by pointing at him the deadliest weapon I know.
My new husband.
10
Sara
I still can’t breathe by the time I get into the car with Peter, the weight of Monica’s revelations sitting like an iceberg on my chest.
“What’s wrong, ptichka?” he asks as we start driving. “Are you okay?”
I want to laugh hysterically. Am I? Should I be?
Is there a wellness barometer for when you’ve inadvertently commissioned a hit?
“Sara?” Peter prompts, glancing at me, and though his tone is mildly curious, there’s a glimmer of dark knowledge in his gaze.
He must’ve noticed Monica at the clinic.
Whatever hopes I’d harbored about this being a horrible coincidence evaporate, leaving behind a deepening horror.
Peter committed this murder for me.
His victim’s blood is on my hands.
There’s no point in asking, but I can’t help it. I have to hear the words out loud. “Did you do it?”
I expect him to stall or deny it, but he answers without hesitation, his gaze trained on the road ahead. “Yes.”
Yes.
There it is. No misunderstanding, no confusion.
He killed a man for me.
Slit his throat, just like he’d done with those methheads.
“Would you rather I’d left the girl in his clutches?” His voice is calm and steady as he glances at me again. “I did it so you wouldn’t worry—and so that your patient could have a normal, happy life.”
I swallow thickly and look away, staring blindly out the window. What do I say to that?
How could you?
Thank you?
I force myself to look back at his profile. “I thought…” My throat closes, and I have to start again. “I thought you were going to be law-abiding. Isn’t that one of the conditions of your deal with the authorities?”
Peter nods, keeping his eyes on the road. “It is—and I am law-abiding. I consider what I did as aiding the law—as in, the law that’s supposed to be protecting girls like Monica from men like her stepfather.”
I look away again, my eyes burning as the cold weight on my chest grows.
He doesn’t even see what he did as wrong. And why would he? This is what he is, what he does.
Killing is as normal to him as delivering a baby is to me.
“Sara.” His deep voice reaches me, and I realize we’re already parked. I must’ve zoned out for the rest of the ride.
Steeling myself, I turn toward him.
He reaches over to clasp my hand. “Ptichka…” His voice is soft, his big hand warm as it engulfs my ice-cold fingers. “Why did you tell me about this if you didn’t want my help? Did you really expect me to watch you cry over that ublyudok and do nothing?”
I flinch. I can’t help it.
This, right here, is the crux of the matter, why Monica’s revelations are so crushing.
Because deep inside, I didn’t expect him to meekly stand by. On some level, I knew what he would do—even before he promised that my patient would be “fine.”
I knew and I pretended that I didn’t.
Because secretly, I wanted this to happen.
I pointed Peter at the problem, and he provided a solution.
Just like that.
“Sara…” He lifts his hand to cradle my cheek, his gaze dark yet warm in the dimly lit interior of the car. “Don’t do this, ptichka. Don’t beat yourself up. He deserved it; you know he did. Do you honestly believe Monica’s the only girl he’s ever hurt? Your legal system had a chance to fix the situation, to lock him up for good—and they let him go. You did the world a favor by telling me about him.”
I close my eyes, wanting to lean into his palm, to let his deep, soothing voice chase away the horror and the guilt icing me from within.
Not only do I love a killer now, but I’ve become one myself.
“Don’t do this, my love. He’s not worth it.” His breath warms my face, and then his lips brush against mine in a gentle, coaxing kiss.
A shudder ripples through me in response, a flash of heat igniting underneath the chill encasing me, and all of a sudden, gentleness is not enough.