by Anna Zaires
“I’m sorry,” I whisper as they drag me away. With each meter of distance between us, the cold inside me grows, the remnants of my humanity bleeding out of my soul. There’s no more pleading, no more bargaining with anyone or anything. I’m empty of hope, devoid of warmth and love. I can’t turn back the clock and hold my son longer, can’t stay behind like he asked me to. Can’t take Tamila to Moscow next year, like I promised her I would.
There’s only one thing I can do for my wife and son, and that’s the reason I’ll keep on living.
I will make their killers pay.
Each and every single one of them.
They will answer for this massacre with their lives.
2
United States, Present Day
Sara
* * *
“Are you sure you don’t want to come out for drinks with me and the girls?” Marsha asks, approaching my locker. She’s already changed out of her nurse’s scrubs and put on a sexy dress. With her bright red lipstick and flamboyant blond curls, she looks like an older version of Marilyn Monroe and likes to party just as much.
“No, thank you. I can’t.” I soften my refusal with a smile. “It’s been a long day, and I’m exhausted.”
She rolls her eyes. “Of course you are. You’re always exhausted these days.”
“Work will do that to you.”
“Yeah, if you work ninety hours a week. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re trying to work yourself to death. You’re no longer a resident, you know? You don’t have to put up with this bullshit.”
I sigh and pick up my bag. “Someone has to be on call.”
“Yes, but it doesn’t have to be you all the time. It’s Friday night, and you’ve worked every weekend for the past month, plus all those nightshifts. I know you’re the newest doctor in your practice and all that, but—”
“I don’t mind the nightshifts,” I interrupt, walking over to the mirror. The mascara I put on this morning has left dark smudges under my eyes, and I use a wet paper towel to wipe them away. It doesn’t improve my haggard appearance much, but I suppose it doesn’t matter, since I’m heading straight home.
“Right, because you don’t sleep,” Marsha says, coming to stand behind me, and I brace myself, knowing she’s about to get on her favorite topic. Though she has a good fifteen years on me, Marsha is my best friend at the hospital, and she’s been increasingly vocal about her concerns.
“Marsha, please. I’m too tired for this,” I say, pulling my unruly waves into a ponytail. I don’t need a lecture to know I’m running myself ragged. My hazel eyes look red and bleary in the mirror, and I feel like I’m sixty instead of twenty-eight.
“Yeah, because you’re overworked and sleep-deprived.” She folds her arms across her chest. “I know you need a distraction after George and all, but—”
“But nothing.” Spinning around, I glare at her. “I don’t want to talk about George.”
“Sara…” Her forehead furrows. “You have to stop punishing yourself for that. It wasn’t your fault. He chose to get behind the wheel; it was his decision.”
My throat closes, and my eyes prickle. To my horror, I realize I’m on the verge of crying, and I turn away in an effort to control myself. Only there’s nowhere to turn; the mirror is in front of me, and it reflects everything I’m feeling.
“I’m sorry, hon. I’m an insensitive ass. I shouldn’t have said that.” Marsha looks genuinely regretful as she reaches over and squeezes my arm lightly.
I take a deep breath and turn around to face her again. I am exhausted, which doesn’t help the emotions threatening to overwhelm me.
“It’s all right.” I force a smile to my lips. “It’s no big deal. You should get going; the girls are probably waiting for you.” And I have to get home before I break down and cry in public, which would be the height of humiliation.
“All right, hon.” Marsha smiles back at me, but I see the pity lurking in her gaze. “You just get some sleep this weekend, okay? Promise me you’ll do that.”
“Yes, I will—Mom.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I get the hint. I’ll see you Monday.” She walks out of the locker room, and I wait a minute before following her to avoid running into her group of girlfriends in the elevators.
I’ve had about as much pity as I can handle.
* * *
As I enter the hospital parking lot, I check my phone out of habit, and my heart skips a beat when I see a text from a blocked number.
Stopping, I swipe across the screen with an unsteady finger.
All is well, but have to postpone this weekend’s visit, the message says. Scheduling conflict.
My breath whooshes out in relief, and right away, the familiar guilt bites at me. I shouldn’t feel relieved. These visits should be something I want to do, instead of an unpleasant obligation. Only I can’t help the way I feel. Every time I visit George, it brings back memories of that night, and I don’t sleep for days afterward.
If Marsha thinks I’m sleep-deprived now, she should see me after one of those visits.
Slipping the phone back into my bag, I approach my car. It’s a Toyota Camry, the same one I’ve had for the past five years. Now that I’ve paid off my med school loans and accumulated some savings, I can afford better, but I don’t see the point.
George was the one into cars, not me.
The pain grabs at me, familiar and sharp, and I know it’s because of that text. Well, that and the conversation with Marsha. Lately, I’ve had days when I don’t think about the accident at all, going about my routine without the crushing pressure of guilt, but today is not one of those days.
He was an adult, I remind myself, repeating what everyone always says. It was his decision to get behind the wheel that day.
Rationally, I know the truth of those words, but no matter how often I hear them, they don’t sink in. My mind is stuck on a loop, replaying that evening over and over again, and as hard as I try, I can’t stop the ugly reel from spinning.
Enough, Sara. Concentrate on the road.
Taking a steadying breath, I pull out of the parking lot and head toward my house. It’s about a forty-minute drive from the hospital, which is about forty minutes too long right now. My stomach is beginning to cramp, and I realize part of the reason I’m so emotional today is that I’m about to start my period. As an OB-GYN, I know better than anyone how powerful the effect of hormones can be, and when PMS is combined with long hours and reminders about George… Well, it’s a miracle I’m not a blubbering mess already.
Yes, that’s it. I’m just hormonal and tired. I need to get home, and all will be well.
Determined to get a handle on myself, I turn on the radio, tune in to a late-nineties pop station, and begin singing along with Britney Spears. It might not be the most serious music, but it’s upbeat, and that’s exactly what I need.
I won’t let myself fall apart. Tonight, I will sleep, even if I have to take an Ambien to make that happen.
* * *
My house is on a tree-lined cul-de-sac, just off a two-lane road that winds through farmland. Like many others in the upscale area of Homer Glen, Illinois, it’s huge—five bedrooms and four baths, plus a fully finished basement. There’s an enormous back yard, and so many oaks surround the house it’s as if it’s sitting in the middle of a forest.
It’s perfect for that big family George wanted and horribly lonely for me.
After the accident, I considered selling the house and moving closer to the hospital, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I still can’t. George and I renovated the house together, modernizing the kitchen and the bathrooms, painstakingly decorating each room to give it a cozy, welcoming vibe. A family vibe. I know the odds of us having that family are nonexistent now, but a part of me clings to the old dream, to the perfect life we were supposed to have.
“Three kids, at least,” George told me on our fifth date. “Two boys and a girl.”
“Why
not two girls and a boy?” I asked, grinning. “What happened to gender equality and all that?”
“How is two against one equal? Everybody knows girls twist you around their pretty little fingers, and when you have two of them…” He shuddered theatrically. “No, we need two boys, so there’s balance in the family. Otherwise, Daddy is screwed.”
I laughed and punched him in the shoulder, but secretly, I liked the idea of two boys running around raising hell and protecting their little sister. I’m an only child, but I’ve always wanted a big brother, and it was easy to adopt George’s dream as my own.
No. Don’t go there. With effort, I push away the memories, because good or bad, they lead to that evening, and I can’t cope with that now. The cramps have gotten worse, and it’s all I can do to keep my hands on the wheel as I pull into my three-car garage. I need Advil, a heating pad, and my bed, in that order, and if I’m really lucky, I’ll pass out right away, no Ambien required.
Holding back a groan, I close the garage door, punch in the code for the alarm, and drag myself into the house. The cramps are so bad I can’t walk without bending, so I head straight for the medicine cabinet in the kitchen. I don’t even bother turning on the lights; the light switch is inconveniently far from the garage entrance, plus I know the kitchen well enough to navigate around it in the dark.
Opening the cabinet, I find the Advil bottle by feel, extract two pills, and throw them in my mouth. Then I go to the sink, fill my hand with water, and swallow the pills. Panting, I grip the kitchen counter and wait for the medicine to kick in a little before I attempt to do something as ambitious as going to the master bedroom on the second floor.
I feel him only a second before it happens. It’s subtle, just a displacement of air behind me, a whiff of something foreign… a sense of sudden danger.
The hairs on the back of my neck rise, but it’s too late. One moment, I’m standing by the sink, and the next, a big hand is covering my mouth as a large, hard body traps me against the counter from the back.
“Don’t scream,” a deep male voice whispers in my ear, and something cold and sharp presses against my throat. “You don’t want my blade to slip.”
3
Sara
* * *
I don’t scream. Not because it’s the smart thing to do, but because I can’t make a sound. I’m frozen by terror, utterly and completely paralyzed. All my muscles have locked up, including my vocal cords, and my lungs have ceased functioning.
“I’m going to remove my hand from your mouth,” he murmurs into my ear, his breath warm on my clammy skin. “And you’re going to stay silent. Got it?”
I can’t so much as whimper, but I somehow manage a faint nod.
He lowers his hand, his arm looping around my ribcage instead, and my lungs choose that moment to resume working. Without meaning to, I pull in a wheezing breath. Immediately, the blade presses deeper into my skin, and I freeze again as I feel hot blood trickling down my neck.
I’m going to die. Oh God, I’m going to die here, in my own kitchen. The terror is a monstrous thing inside me, piercing me with icy needles. I’ve never been so close to death before. Just an inch to the right and—
“I need you to listen to me, Sara.” The intruder’s voice is soft, belying the knife digging into my throat. “If you cooperate, you’ll walk out of here alive. If you don’t, you’ll leave in a body bag. It’s your choice.”
Alive? A spark of hope cuts through the haze of panic in my brain, and I realize he has a faint accent. It’s something exotic. Middle Eastern, maybe, or Eastern European.
Oddly, that detail centers me a little, provides something concrete for my mind to latch on to. “W-what do you want?” The words come out in a quaking whisper, but it’s a miracle I can speak at all. I feel like a deer in the headlights, stunned and overwhelmed, my thought processes bizarrely slow.
“Just a few answers,” he says, and the knife retreats slightly. Without the cold steel cutting into my skin, some of my panic subsides, and other details register, like the fact that my assailant is at least a head taller than me and packed with muscle. The arm around my ribcage is like a steel band, and there’s no give in the large body pressing against my back, no hint of softness anywhere. I’m of average height for a woman, but I’m slim and small-boned, and if he’s as muscular as I suspect, he must be almost double my weight.
Even if he didn’t have the knife, I wouldn’t be able to get away.
“What kind of answers?” My voice is a little steadier this time. Maybe he’s just here to rob me and all he needs is the combination to the safe. He smells clean, like laundry detergent and healthy male skin, so this is not some meth addict or bum off the streets. A professional burglar, maybe? If so, I’ll gladly give up my jewelry and the emergency cash George stashed in the house.
“I want you to tell me about your husband. Specifically, I need to know his location.”
“George?” My mind goes blank as a new fear bites at me. “W-what… why?”
The blade presses in. “I’m the one asking questions.”
“P-please,” I choke out. I can’t think, can’t focus on anything but the knife. Hot tears slide down my face, and I’m shaking all over. “Please, I don’t—”
“Just answer my question. Where is your husband?”
“I—” Oh God, what do I tell him? He must be one of them, the reason for all the precautions. My heart is beating so fast I’m hyperventilating. “Please, I don’t… I haven’t—”
“Don’t lie to me, Sara. I need his location. Now.”
“I don’t know it, I swear. Please, we’re—” My voice cracks. “We’re separated.”
The arm around my ribcage tightens, and the knife digs in a fraction deeper. “Do you want to die?”
“No. No, I don’t. Please…” I’m shaking harder, the tears streaming down my face uncontrollably. After the accident, there were days when I thought I wanted to die, when the guilt and pain of regrets were overwhelming, but now that the blade is at my throat, I want to live. I want it so badly.
“Then tell me where he is.”
“I don’t know!” My knees are threatening to buckle, but I can’t betray George like this. I can’t expose him to this monster.
“You’re lying.” My assailant’s voice is pure ice. “I’ve read your messages. You know exactly where he is.”
“No, I—” I try to think of a plausible lie, but I can’t come up with one. Panic is acrid on my tongue as frantic questions pop into my mind. How could he have read my messages? When? How long has he been stalking me? Is he one of them? “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The knife presses in a hair deeper, and I squeeze my eyes shut, my breath coming in sobbing gasps. Death is so close I can taste it, smell it… feel it with every fiber of my being. It’s the metallic tang of my blood and the cold sweat running down my back, the roar of my pulse in my temples and the tension in my quivering muscles. In another second, he’ll nick my jugular, and I’ll bleed out, right here on my kitchen floor.
Is this what I deserve? Is this how I atone for my sins?
I clench my teeth to prevent them from chattering. Please forgive me, George. If this is what you need…
I hear my attacker sigh, and in the next instant, the knife is gone and I’m flipped over onto the counter. My back hits the hard granite, and my head flops backward into the sink, my neck muscles screaming from the strain. Gasping, I kick out and try to punch him, but he’s too strong and fast. In a flash, he leaps onto the counter and straddles me, pinning me in place with his weight. He secures my wrists with something hard and unbreakable before gripping them with one hand, and no matter how hard I struggle, I can’t do anything to get free. My heels slide uselessly on the sleek counter, and my neck muscles burn from holding up my head. I’m helpless, pinned down, and a new kind of panic washes over me.
Please, God, no. Anything but rape.
“We’re going to try something differen
t,” he says, and a piece of cloth drops over my face. “See if you’re truly willing to die for that bastard.”
Panting, I twist my head from side to side, trying to throw off the cloth, but it’s too long and I can barely breathe underneath it. Is he trying to suffocate me? Is that the plan?
Then the faucet handle squeaks, and everything becomes clear.
“No!” I struggle harder, but he grips my hair with his free hand, holding me under the faucet with my head arched back.
The initial shock of wetness isn’t so bad, but within seconds, the water travels up my nose. My throat clenches, my lungs seize, and my whole body heaves up as I gag and choke. The panic is instinctive, uncontrollable. The rag is like a wet paw clamped over my nose and mouth, squeezing them shut. The water is in my nose, in my throat. I’m suffocating, drowning. I can’t breathe, can’t breathe…
The faucet turns off, and the cloth is yanked off my face. Coughing, I suck in air, sobbing and wheezing. My whole body is a heaving, trembling mess, and white spots dance in my vision. Before I can recover, the cloth is slapped over my face again, and the water is turned back on.
This time, it’s even worse. My nasal passages burn from the water, and my lungs scream for air. I’m heaving and gagging, choking and crying. I can’t breathe. Oh, God, I’m dying; I can’t breathe—
In the next instant, the cloth is gone, and I’m convulsively dragging in air.
“Tell me where he is, and I’ll stop.” His voice is a dark whisper above me.
“I don’t know! Please!” I can taste the vomit in my throat, and the knowledge that he’ll do it again turns my blood into acid. It was easy to be brave with the knife, but not this. I can’t handle dying like this.
“Last chance,” my tormentor says softly, and the wet cloth drops over my face.
The faucet begins to squeak.
