It’s like she exists on a different plane, like me.
I recognize her by the chestnut waves visible under her small black hat. She left her hair down today, and despite the grayness of the rainy sky, I see the reddish glints in the dark brown mass that falls a few centimeters past her shoulders. I can’t see much else—there are too many people and umbrellas between us—but I watch her anyway, like I’ve been watching her for the past month. Only my interest in her is different now, infinitely more personal.
Collateral damage. That’s how I thought of her initially. She wasn’t a person to me, but an extension of her husband. A smart and pretty extension, sure, but that didn’t matter to me. I didn’t particularly want to kill her, but I would’ve done what was necessary to achieve my goal.
I did do what was necessary.
She froze in terror when I grabbed her, her reaction the response of the untrained, the primitive instinct of incapacitated prey. It should’ve been easy at that point—a couple of shallow cuts and done. That she didn’t crack instantly under my blade was both impressive and annoying; I’d had seasoned killers piss themselves and start singing with less incentive.
I could’ve done more to her at that point, worked her over with my knife for real, but instead, I went with a less damaging interrogation technique.
I put her under the faucet.
It worked like a charm—and that’s when I made a mistake. She was shaking and sobbing so hard after the first session that I took her down to the floor and wrapped my arms around her, restraining her and calming her at the same time. I did it so she’d be able to talk, but I didn’t count on my response to her.
She felt small and breakable, utterly helpless as she coughed and sobbed in my embrace, and for some reason, I remembered holding my son that way, comforting him when he cried. Only Sara is not a child, and my body reacted to her slim curves with startling hunger, with a desire as primitive as it was irrational.
I wanted the woman I’d come to interrogate, the one whose husband I intended to kill.
I tried to ignore my inconvenient reaction, to continue as before, but when I had her on the counter again, I found myself unable to turn on the water. I was too aware of her; she’d become a person to me, a living, breathing woman instead of a tool to be used.
That left the drug as the only option. I hadn’t planned to use it on her, both because of the time it required to work properly and because it was our final batch. The chemist who made it was recently killed, and Anton warned me it would take time to find another supplier. I’d been saving that batch in case of emergencies, but I had no choice.
I, who had tortured and killed hundreds, couldn’t bring myself to hurt this woman more.
“He was a kind and generous man, a talented journalist. His death is a loss beyond measure, both for his family and his profession…”
I tear my eyes away from Sara to focus on the speaker. It’s a middle-aged woman, her thin face streaked with tears. I recognize her as one of Cobakis’s colleagues from the newspaper. I investigated all of them to determine their complicity, but luckily for them, Cobakis was the only one involved.
She continues going through all of Cobakis’s outstanding qualities, but I tune her out again, my gaze drawn to the slender figure under the giant umbrella. All I can see of Sara is her back, but I can easily picture her pale, heart-shaped face. Its features are imprinted on my mind, everything from her wide-set hazel eyes and small straight nose to her soft, plush lips. There’s something about Sara Cobakis that makes me think of Audrey Hepburn, a kind of old-fashioned prettiness reminiscent of the movie stars of the forties and fifties. It adds to the sense that she doesn’t belong here, that she’s somehow different from the people surrounding her.
That she’s somehow above them.
I wonder if she’s crying, if she’s grieving for the man she admitted she hadn’t really known. When Sara first told me she and her husband were separated, I didn’t believe her, but some of the things she said under the drug’s influence made me rethink that conclusion. Something had gone very wrong in her supposedly perfect marriage, something that left an indelible trace on her.
She’s known pain; she’s lived with it. I could see it in her eyes, in the soft, trembling curve of her mouth. It intrigued me, that glimpse into her mind, made me want to delve deeper into her secrets, and when she closed her lips around my fingers and started sucking on them, the hunger I’d been trying to suppress returned, my cock hardening uncontrollably.
I could’ve taken her then, and she would’ve let me. Fuck, she would’ve welcomed me with open arms. The drug had lowered her inhibitions, stripped away all her defenses. She’d been open and vulnerable, needy in a way that called to the deepest parts of me.
Don’t leave me. Please, don’t leave.
Even now, I can hear her pleas, so much like Pasha’s the last time I saw him. She didn’t know what she was asking, didn’t know who I was or what I was about to do, but her words shook me to the core, making me long for something utterly impossible. It had taken all my willpower to walk away and leave her tied in that chair for the FBI to find.
It had taken everything I had to leave and continue with my mission.
My attention returns to the present when Cobakis’s colleague stops speaking, and Sara approaches the podium. Her slim, dark-clothed figure moves with unconscious grace, and anticipation coils in my gut as she turns and faces the crowd.
A black scarf is wrapped around her neck, shielding her from the chilly October wind and hiding the bandage that must be there. Above the scarf, her heart-shaped face is ghost pale, but her eyes are dry—at least as far as I can tell from this distance. I’d love to stand closer, but that’s too risky. I’m already taking a chance by being here. There are at least two FBI agents among the attendees, and a couple more are sitting unobtrusively in government-issue cars on the street. They’re not expecting me to be here—security would be much tighter if they were—but that doesn’t mean I can let my guard down. As it is, Anton and the others think I’m crazy for showing up here.
We normally leave town within hours of a successful hit.
“As you all know, George and I met in college,” Sara says into the microphone, and my spine tingles at the sound of her soft, melodious voice. I’ve been watching her long enough to know that she can sing. She often sings along to popular music when she’s alone in her car or while doing chores around the house.
Most of the time, she sounds better than the actual singer.
“We met in a chemistry lab,” she continues, “because believe it or not, George was thinking about going to med school at the time.” I hear a few chuckles in the crowd, and Sara’s lips curve in a faint smile as she says, “Yes, George, who couldn’t stand the sight of blood, actually considered becoming a doctor. Fortunately, he quickly discovered his true passion—journalism—and the rest is history.”
She goes on to talk about her husband’s various habits and quirks, including his love for cheese sandwiches drizzled with honey, then moves on to his achievements and good deeds, detailing his unwavering support for the veterans and the homeless. As she speaks, I notice that everything she says has to do with him, rather than the two of them. Other than the initial mention of how they first met, Sara’s speech could’ve been made by a roommate or a friend—anyone who knew Cobakis, really. Even her voice is steady and calm, with no hint of the pain I glimpsed in her eyes that night.
It’s only when she gets to the accident that I see some real emotion on her face. “George was many wonderful things,” she says, gazing out over the crowd. “But all those things ended eighteen months ago, when his car hit that guardrail and went over. Everything he was died that day. What remained was not George. It was a shell of him, a body without a mind. When death came for him early Saturday morning, it didn’t get my husband. It got only that shell. George himself was long gone by then, and nothing could make him suffer.”
Her chin lifts as she says
this last part, and I stare at her intently. She doesn’t know I’m here—the FBI would be all over me if she did—but I feel like she’s speaking directly to me, telling me that I failed. Does she sense me on some level? Feel me watching her?
Does she know that when I stood over her husband’s bedside two nights ago, for a brief moment I considered not pulling the trigger?
She finishes her speech with the traditional words about how much George will be missed, and then she steps off the podium, letting the priest have his final say. I watch her walk back to the elderly couple, and when the crowd starts to disperse, I quietly follow the other mourners out of the cemetery.
The funeral is over, and my fascination with Sara must be too.
There are more people on my list, and fortunately for her, Sara is not one of them.
Part II
Chapter 6
Sara
“Darling, are you not eating again?” Mom asks with a worried frown. Though she was vacuuming when I dropped by, her makeup is as perfect as always, her short white hair is prettily curled, and her earrings match her stylish necklace. “You’ve been looking so thin lately.”
“Most people would consider that a good thing,” I say dryly, but to appease her, I reach for a second serving of her homemade apple pie.
“Not when you look like a chihuahua could drag you away,” Mom says and pushes more pie toward me. “You have to take care of yourself; otherwise, you won’t be able to help those patients of yours.”
“I know that, Mom,” I say between bites of the pie. “Don’t worry, okay? It’s been a busy winter, but things should slow down soon.”
“Sara, darling…” The worry lines on her face deepen. “It’s been six months since George—” She stops and takes a breath. “Look, what I’m saying is you can’t keep working yourself to death. It’s too much for you, your regular workload, plus all this new volunteering. Are you sleeping at all?”
“Of course, Mom. I sleep like the dead.” It’s not a lie; I pass out the moment my head hits the pillow and don’t wake up until my alarm goes off. Or at least that’s what happens if I’m completely worn out. On the days when I have something approaching a normal schedule, I wake up shaking and sweating from nightmares, so I do my best to exhaust myself every day.
“How’s the house sale going? Any offers yet?” Dad asks, shuffling into the dining room. He’s using a walker again, so his arthritis must be acting up, but I’m pleased to see that his posture is a bit straighter. He’s actually following his physical therapist’s orders this time and swimming in the gym every day.
“The realtor is having an Open House next week,” I answer, suppressing the urge to praise Dad for doing the right thing. He doesn’t like to be reminded of his age, so anything having to do with his or my mom’s health is off limits as far as dinnertime conversation. It drives me crazy, but at the same time, I can’t help but admire his resolve.
At almost eighty-seven years of age, my dad is as tough as ever.
“Oh, good,” Mom says. “I hope you’ll get some offers from that. Be sure to bake cookies that morning; they make the house smell nice.”
“I might ask my realtor to buy some and microwave them before the first visitors arrive,” I say, smiling at her. “I don’t think I’ll have time to bake.”
“Of course she won’t, Lorna.” Dad takes a seat next to Mom and reaches for a slice of pie. Glancing up at me, he says gruffly, “You probably won’t be home at all, right?”
I nod. “I’m supposed to go to the clinic straight from the hospital that day.”
He frowns. “You’re still doing that?”
“Those women need me, Dad.” I try to keep the exasperation out of my voice. “You have no idea what it’s like in that neighborhood.”
“But, darling, that neighborhood is precisely why we don’t want you going there,” Mom interjects. “Can’t you volunteer elsewhere? And going there at night, after you’ve already put in one of your long shifts…”
“Mom, I never carry cash or valuables with me, and I’m only there for a couple of hours in the evenings,” I say, hanging on to my patience by a thread. We’ve had this argument at least five times in the last three months, and each time, my parents pretend like we’ve never discussed this before. “I park right in front of the building, and go straight in. It’s as safe as can be.”
Mom sighs and shakes her head, but doesn’t argue further. Dad, however, keeps frowning at me over his slice of pie. To distract him, I get up and say, “Would anyone like some coffee or tea?”
“Decaf coffee for your dad,” Mom says. “And chamomile tea for me, please.”
“One decaf coffee and one chamomile tea coming up,” I say, walking over to the fancy coffee machine I got for them last Christmas. After I make the requested drinks and bring them to the table, I go back and make a cup of real java for myself.
After this dinner, I’m going to be on call and could use the caffeine.
“So guess what, darling?” Mom says when I rejoin them at the table. “We’re going to have the Levinsons over for dinner on Saturday.”
I take a sip of my coffee. It’s hot and strong, just like I like it. “That’s nice.”
“They’ve been asking about you,” Dad says, stirring sugar into his coffee.
“Uh-huh.” I keep my expression neutral. “Please tell them hello for me.”
“Why don’t you come over too, darling?” Mom says, as though the idea just occurred to her. “I know they would love to see you, and I’ll make your favorite—”
“Mom, I’m not interested in dating Joe—or anyone—right now,” I say, softening my refusal with a smile. “I’m sorry, but I’m not there yet. I know you love Joe’s parents, and he’s a wonderful lawyer and a very nice man, but I’m just not ready.”
“You won’t know if you’re ready until you get out there and try,” Dad says while Mom sighs and looks down into her tea cup. “You can’t let yourself die alongside George, Sara. You’re stronger than that.”
I gulp down my coffee instead of replying. He’s wrong. I’m not strong. It’s all I can do to sit here and pretend that I’m okay, that I’m still whole and functional and sane. My parents, like everyone else, don’t know what happened that Friday night. They think George passed away in his sleep, his death the belated result of the car accident that put him in a coma eighteen months earlier. I explained away the closed-casket funeral as a way for me to cope with my grief, and nobody questioned it. If my parents knew the truth, they’d be devastated, and I’ll never do that to them.
Nobody except the FBI and my therapist know about the fugitive and my role in George’s death.
“Just think about it,” Mom says when I remain silent. “You don’t have to commit to anything or do anything that you don’t want to do. Just please, consider coming over this Saturday.”
I look at her, and for the first time, I notice the strain hidden under her perfect makeup and stylish accessories. My mom is nine years younger than my dad, and she’s so trim and energetic that sometimes I forget that age is taking a toll on her too, that all this worry about me can’t be good for her health.
“I’ll think about it, Mom,” I promise and get up to clear the dishes off the table. “If I don’t have to work on Saturday, I’ll try to come over.”
Chapter 7
Sara
My on-call shift is a blur of emergencies, everything from a five-months-pregnant woman coming in with severe bleeding to one of my patients going into labor seven weeks early. I end up performing a C-section on her, but luckily, the baby—a tiny but perfectly formed boy—is able to breathe and suckle on his own. The woman and her husband sob in happiness and thank me profusely, and by the time I head into the locker room to change out of my scrubs, I’m physically and emotionally drained. However, I’m also deeply satisfied.
Every child I bring into this world, every woman whose body I help heal, makes me feel a tiny bit better, alleviating the guilt that
smothers me like a wet rag.
No, don’t go there. Stop. Only it’s too late, and the memories flood in, dark and toxic. Gasping, I sink down on the bench next to my locker, my hands clutching at the hard wooden board.
A hand over my mouth. A knife at my throat. A wet cloth over my face. Water in my nose, in my lungs—
“Hey, Sara.” Soft hands grip my arms. “Sara, what’s happening? Are you okay?”
I’m wheezing, my throat impossibly tight, but I manage a small nod. Closing my eyes, I concentrate on slowing my breathing as the therapist taught me, and after a few moments, the worst of the suffocating sensation recedes.
Opening my eyes, I look at Marsha, who’s staring at me with concern.
“I’m fine,” I say shakily, standing up to open my locker. My skin is cold and clammy, and my knees feel like they’re about to buckle, but I don’t want anyone at the hospital knowing about my panic attacks. “I forgot to eat again, so it’s probably just low blood sugar.”
Marsha’s blue eyes widen. “You’re not pregnant, are you?”
“What?” Despite my still-uneven breathing, I’m startled into a laugh. “No, of course not.”
“Oh, okay.” She grins at me. “And here I thought you were finally living it up.”
I give her a get real look. “Even if I were, you think I don’t know how to prevent pregnancy?”
“Hey, you never know. Accidents happen.” She opens her locker and starts changing out of her scrubs. “Seriously, though, you should grab a bite with me and the girls. We’re heading out to Patty’s right now.”
I raise my eyebrows. “A bar at five in the morning?”
“Yeah, so what? We’re not going to be boozing it up. They have breakfast twenty-four-seven, and it’s way better than the cafeteria. You should try it.”
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