Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 88179 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88179 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Realizing my thoughts are veering toward bitterness, I try to focus on the happy times, but it’s useless. What George and I had might’ve been good once, but it wasn’t toward the end, and I can’t forget that. I can’t wipe away the pain and the guilt, the shame and the despair I battled as our marriage slowly fell apart, crushed by the weight of his addiction. I lost my husband long before the accident that broke his skull, before Peter showed up with his deadly plans of vengeance.
I lost him when Peter lost his family; I just didn’t know it at the time.
My stomach is still cramping, but the pills are starting to kick in, so I get up and start getting dressed. I can’t bear to think about George any longer, because even the happy memories are now tainted by the knowledge that it was all a lie, that I never truly knew the man I married.
The man whose killer I’m worrying about now.
Desperate to suppress a fresh swell of anxiety, I grab the iPad Peter gave me and turn on a music video, singing along with Ariana Grande as I put on my clothes and brush my hair. The music lifts my mood slightly, and by the time I go downstairs, I’m able to greet Yan, who’s sitting behind the counter with a laptop, with a normal-sounding, “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” he replies, looking up from the screen as I start making myself coffee. As always, Ilya’s brother is dressed as though for work at an investment firm, his brown hair neatly styled and his face smoothly shaven. He’s smiling at me, but his green gaze remains cool as he says, “Peter left oatmeal for you on the stove.”
“Oh, thanks.” My chest squeezes with unsettling warmth as I walk over to the stove and ladle the oatmeal into a bowl. I should be used to it by now, but it still amazes me how Peter never seems to tire of taking care of me. This morning, of all days, he must’ve had so many more important things on his mind, yet he thought of me, leaving me Advil and now this breakfast.
“Any news?” I ask Yan as I sit down at the table. “Have you heard anything from them?”
The Russian shakes his head. “It’s eight more hours before they land.” His tone is light, but I catch a note of tension underneath.
In his own possibly psychopathic way, he’s worried.
My anxiety ratchets up again, my appetite disappearing, but I force myself to eat as Yan turns his attention back to the computer screen. Peter might be gone for a couple of days or more, and I can’t starve myself just because I’m worried sick. Nor does it make sense for me to worry about a man I should hate, but I’m giving up on that battle.
Foolish or not, I don’t want to see Peter hurt or dead.
Finishing my meal, I go upstairs and distract myself by reading and watching the music videos Peter downloaded onto the iPad for me. Between that and some light household chores, I keep busy until lunchtime, at which point I go downstairs again.
Yan is nowhere to be seen, so he must be either in his room or training somewhere outside. For a second, I’m tempted to repeat my escape attempt—the weather is much warmer now, and as far as I know, no storm is coming—but I decide against it. I’m still not familiar enough with the topography of this mountain, and blindly stumbling around cliffs doesn’t seem like a great idea, especially when I’m feeling shitty from my period.
At least that’s what I tell myself to explain why I push all thoughts of escape out of my mind and pop another Advil before making myself a sandwich.
When I come down again for dinner, Yan is there, finishing a bowl of leftover oatmeal and setting up what looks like audio recording equipment—a pair of bulky, over-the-ears headphones with an attached microphone that plugs into the computer.
“Anything?” I ask, walking over to the fridge after I take another Advil, and Yan shakes his head.
“Should be soon, though,” he says before gulping down the rest of his tea. “I’ll let you know when they land.”
“Thank you,” I say and get busy making myself a veggie stir-fry. I can feel the tension gathering between my shoulder blades, the anxiety I battled all day returning as I chop and dice vegetables before seasoning them liberally with soy sauce.
“Do you want some?” I ask Yan when he glances up to see what I’m doing, and he politely declines, putting on the headphones for what appear to be some audio reception tests. He still looks unusually tense, his expression grimly focused as his fingers fly over the keyboard of the laptop.
When the stir-fry is done, I sit down to eat and covertly observe Yan, my unease growing with each bite. By my calculations, it’s already been eight hours since breakfast, and the tension radiating off the usually suave Russian doesn’t help.