Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91004 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91004 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
I frown. “No, of course not. I had just come from work, and he didn’t look drunk, but—”
“But nothing.” Peter’s voice is as hard as his gaze. “You did what you had to. Alcoholics can appear functional with a lot of drinks in their system. I should know; I’ve seen plenty of this in Russia. It wasn’t your responsibility to check on his blood alcohol levels before sending him packing. If he was too drunk to drive, he had no business getting behind the wheel. He could’ve called a cab, or asked you to give him a ride to a hotel. Hell, he could’ve slept it off in your garage and then driven.”
“I…” It’s my turn to stare out the window. “I know that.”
“Do you?” Releasing my hand, Peter captures my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Somehow I doubt that, ptichka. Have you told anyone what really happened?”
My stomach twists, an unpleasant, heavy ache settling low in my belly. “Not exactly. I mean, the cops knew he was drinking, but…”
“But they didn’t know it was habitual, did they?” Peter guesses, lowering his hand. “No one knew except you.”
I look away, feeling the familiar burn of shame. I know it’s the classic spousal mistake, but I just couldn’t bring myself to air out our dirty laundry, to admit that the marriage everyone praised was rotten inside. Initially, it was pride, mixed with equal amounts of denial. I was supposed to be smart, a young doctor with a bright future ahead of her. How could I have made that kind of error? Were there warnings signs that I missed? And if not, how could this have happened to the wonderful man I married, the golden boy everyone said had so much promise? Surely, it was a temporary situation, a fluke in an otherwise perfect life. And by the time I realized the drinking was here to stay, there was another reason to keep quiet.
“My dad had a heart attack about a year into my marriage,” I say, staring at the naked branches swaying in the wind. “It was a bad one. He almost died. After the triple bypass, the doctors told him to keep stress to a minimum.”
“Ah. And learning that his beloved daughter’s husband turned into a raging alcoholic would’ve been stressful.”
“Yes.” I could’ve stopped at that, let Peter think I was simply a good daughter, but some strange compulsion makes me blurt out, “That wasn’t all, though. I was afraid of what people would say and the judgments they’d make. George was good at hiding his addiction from everyone—in hindsight, I guess the acting skills should’ve been a clue about the whole spying bit—and I also became a pro at pretending. The nature of our work helped with that. I could always be ‘on call’ if we needed to cancel an outing last minute, and George could have an ‘urgent story’ come up if he was having trouble sobering up.”
Peter doesn’t say anything for a few moments, and I wonder if he’s condemning me for my cowardice, for not seeking help before it was too late. That’s another thing that weighs on me: the possibility that I could’ve done something if I’d been more open about our problems. Maybe I could’ve gotten George into rehab or under psychiatric care, and the tragedy of the accident would’ve been averted.
Of course, the man standing next to me would’ve killed him regardless, so there’s that.
Unable to deal with that thought, I push it away just as Peter asks, “What about his work? How could he continue to function like that? Unless… you said he stopped taking on foreign assignments?”
“Pretty much.” Taking a breath to calm the churning in my stomach, I focus on watching the hypnotic swaying of the branches outside. “He traveled a few times after we got married, but mostly, he investigated local stories—like the one about the mafia bribing Chicago police and government officials.”
“The one they told you was the reason for his protection.”
I nod, unsurprised that he knows. He probably had some kind of parabolic microphones trained on me during my conversation with Agent Ryson. From what I’ve learned about my stalker in recent weeks, it’s entirely possible.
The millions he earns from every hit buys access to all kinds of equipment.
“He must’ve quit working for the CIA, then,” Peter says, and I glance over to see him watching the tree branches too. “Either because he was fired or because he couldn’t cope with the aftermath of his fuck-up. That’s the only thing that would explain the lack of foreign assignments.”
“Right.” My head throbs with a nagging tension, and my stomach continues churning and twisting, like my insides are being wound tighter and tighter. My lower back hurts too—a realization that makes me do some quick mental math.
Sure enough, my period is about to start.