Until my stalker situation is resolved, it’s best if I keep to myself.
Andy’s face falls. “Oh, okay. Well, if you change your mind, ping me. Marsha has my number.”
“I will, thanks,” I say, but Andy is already hurrying away, walking as fast as her white sneakers allow.
On my way home, I listen to Kelly Clarkson’s “Stronger” and fight the urge to keep driving until I’m in another state. Or maybe even in another country. Canada and Mexico both sound appealing, as do Antarctica and Timbuktu. Instead of going to my camera-infested house, I could drive straight to the airport and hop on a plane to somewhere—anywhere.
I’d go to the North Pole if I had a guarantee Peter wouldn’t come after me.
Unfortunately, I don’t have that guarantee. Just the opposite, in fact. If I run, he’ll come after me. I’m sure of that. He’s a hunter, a tracker, and he won’t rest until he finds me, just like he found all the people on his list. I could go to another hotel or another continent, and it wouldn’t make any difference.
He won’t leave me alone until he gets what he wants—whatever that is.
My palms feel slippery on the steering wheel, and I realize I’m breathing fast, my calm dissipating as thoughts of last night creep in. I’m still not certain what he’s after, but it seems to be something other than just sex.
Something darker and far more twisted.
Realizing I’m on the verge of another panic attack, I switch from Kelly Clarkson to classical music and start doing my breathing exercises. Maybe I’m making a mistake by not going to the FBI. There’s at least a chance they might be able to protect me, whereas on my own I stand no chance at all. The best I can hope for is that he’ll get bored with me and move on to his next victim, leaving me alive and with most of my sanity intact.
I’m already reaching for my phone when I remember why I didn’t call Ryson right away: my parents. I can’t disappear and leave them, and it would be selfish to uproot them on the slim chance the FBI would be able to protect us. To explain the necessity for the move, I’d have to tell my parents everything, and I don’t know if my dad’s heart would survive that kind of stress. He had a triple bypass several years ago, and the doctors advised him to keep stressful activities to a minimum. Learning about a homicidal stalker who tortured me and killed George could literally kill my dad, and might even be dangerous for my mom.
No. I won’t do that to them. Getting my breathing under control, I put Kelly Clarkson back on. My parents have a happy, normal life, and I’ll do whatever it takes to keep it that way. If that means I have to deal with Peter on my own, so be it.
Hopefully, I’m strong enough to survive whatever he’ll dish out.
20
Sara
What he dishes out is food. Lots of deliciously smelling food.
Stunned, I gape at the spread on my dining room table. There is a whole roasted chicken, a bowl of mashed potatoes, and a big leafy salad—all of it prettily arranged between lit candles and a bottle of white wine.
I figured I might get ambushed in my house tonight, but I didn’t expect this.
“Hungry?” a deep, lightly accented voice asks from behind me, and I whirl around, my pulse leaping as Peter Sokolov steps out from the hallway. The front of his hair is wet, as if he just washed his face, and though he’s dressed in a blue button-up shirt and a pair of dark jeans, he’s not wearing shoes, only socks.
He looks gorgeous—and more dangerous than ever.
“What—” My voice is too high, so I take a breath and try again. “What is this?”
“Dinner,” he says, looking amused. “What does it look like?”
“I…” The air in the room thins as he stops a couple of feet from me, the intimate look in his eyes reminding me that I slept naked in his arms. “I’m not hungry.”
“No?” He arches his dark eyebrows. “All right, then. Let’s go to bed.” He moves as if to reach for me, and I jump back.
“No, wait! I could eat.”
A smile curves his lips. “I thought so. After you.”
He gestures in a courtly semi-circle, and I walk over to the table, trying to swallow my heart back into my chest as he turns off the overhead light, leaving only candlelight as illumination, and follows me to the table.
He pulls out a chair, and I sit in it. Then he walks over to the chair across from me and takes a seat himself. I notice that the table is set with two plates and my formal silverware—the one George liked me to use only for holidays and parties.
Silently, I watch George’s killer expertly cut up the chicken and put one of the drumsticks—my favorite part of the chicken—on my plate, along with several spoonfuls of mashed potatoes and a generous portion of the salad.
“Where did you get all this food?” I ask as he loads his own plate.
“I made it.” He looks up from his plate. “You like chicken, right?”
I do, but I’m not about to tell him that. “You cook?”
“I dabble.” He picks up his knife and fork. “Go ahead, try it.”
I push my chair back and get up. “I have to wash my hands.” I just came in from the garage, and the OCD doctor in me won’t let me touch food without first washing off the hospital germs.
“All right,” he says, putting down his utensils, and I realize he intends to wait for me.
My stalker has excellent table manners.
I go into the nearby bathroom and wash my hands, scrubbing between each finger and around my wrists like I always do. By the time I return to the table, he’s already
