“No, that’s…” I reach for my glass of wine and take a big gulp. “That’s okay.”
He nods and begins eating. I have no appetite anymore, but I force myself to follow his example, transferring some pasta onto my plate. It’s delicious, the seafood and the pasta perfectly cooked and coated in the rich, savory sauce, but I can barely taste it. I’m dying to reach into my bag and take out the little vial sitting there, but for that, I need Peter to be distracted, to look away from his wine glass for at least twenty seconds. I timed it back in the hospital, practicing with a vial of water: five seconds to open the vial, five more to reach across the table and tip the contents of the vial into the wine glass, and three more to yank my hand back and compose myself. That’s about thirteen seconds, not twenty, but I can’t have him suspect anything, so I need the extra cushion.
“So, tell me about your day, Sara,” he says after most of the linguini on his plate is gone. Looking up, he pins me with a cool silver gaze. “Anything interesting happen?”
My stomach contracts, knotting around the linguini I forced down my throat. Peter couldn’t know about me running into Joe, could he? My tormentor hasn’t said anything, but if in his mind, this weird thing between us is some kind of courtship, he might object to me talking to—and making plans with—other men.
“Um, no.” To my relief, my voice sounds relatively normal. I’m getting better at functioning under extreme stress. “I mean, one woman came in with extra-heavy spotting and turned out to have miscarried twins, and we had a fifteen-year-old girl come in with a planned pregnancy—she’s always wanted to be a mom, she said—but that wouldn’t be all that interesting for you, I’m sure.”
“That’s not true.” He puts his fork down and leans back in his chair. “I find your work fascinating.”
“You do?”
He nods. “You’re a doctor, but not just someone who preserves life and cures disease. You bring life into this world, Sara, helping women when they’re at their most vulnerable—and most beautiful.”
I inhale, staring at him. This man—this killer—couldn’t possibly understand, could he? “You think… pregnant women are beautiful?”
“Not just pregnant women. The whole process is beautiful,” he says, and I realize that he does understand. “Don’t you think so?” he asks when I continue looking at him in mute shock. “How life comes about, how a tiny bundle of cells grows and changes before emerging into the world? Don’t you find that beautiful, Sara? Miraculous, even?”
I pick up my wine glass and take a sip before responding. “I do.” My voice sounds thick when I finally manage to speak. “Of course I do. I just didn’t expect you to feel that way.”
“Why?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” I put down my glass. “You take life. You hurt people.”
“Yes, I do,” he agrees, unblinking. “But that only makes my appreciation for it stronger. When you understand the fragility of being, the sheer transience of it—when you see how easy it is to snuff something out of existence—you value life more, not less.”
“So why do it, then? Why destroy something you value? How can you reconcile being a killer with—”
“With finding human life beautiful? It’s easy.” He leans in, his gray eyes dark in the flickering light of the candles. “You see, death is part of life, Sara. An ugly part, sure, but there’s no beauty without ugliness, just as there’s no happiness without sorrow. We live in a world of contrasts, not absolutes. Our minds are designed to compare, to perceive changes. Everything we are, everything we do as human beings, relies on the basic fact that X is different from Y—better, worse, hotter, colder, darker, lighter, whatever it may be—but only in comparison. In a vacuum, X has no beauty, just as Y has no ugliness. It’s the contrast between them that enables us to value one over the other, to make a choice and derive happiness from it.”
My throat feels inexplicably tight. “So you what? Bring joy to the world with your work? Make everyone happy?”
“No, of course not.” Peter picks up his wine glass and swirls the liquid inside. “I have no delusions about what I am and what I do. But that doesn’t mean I don’t comprehend the beauty in your work, Sara. One can live in the darkness and see the light of the sun; it’s even brighter that way.”
“I…” My palms are slippery with sweat as I pick up my wine glass and surreptitiously reach into my bag with my free hand. As fascinating as this is, I have to act before it’s too late. There’s no guarantee he’ll pour himself a second glass. “I’ve never thought of it that way.”
“No reason why you should.” He puts his glass down and smiles at me. It’s his dark, magnetic smile, the one that always sends heat surging to my core. “You’ve led a very different life, ptichka. A gentler life.”
“Right.” My breaths are shallow as I pick up my glass and bring it to my lips. “I guess I have—until you came into it.”
His expression turns somber. “That’s true. For what it’s worth—”
My glass slips out of my fingers, the contents spilling out onto the table in front of me. “Oops.” I jump up, as if embarrassed. “So sorry about that. Let me—”
“No, no, sit.” He stands up, just as I hoped he would. Though he’s in my house, he likes to play at being a good host. “I’ll take care of this.”
It takes him only a few strides to reach the paper towel rack on the
