Destiny Mine (Tormentor Mine #3)(14)
By the time Dad left the hospital, she knew more about his condition and treatment options than most cardiologists.
Her dry lips move again. “No, I meant…” She struggles to form the words. “You’re here. How did you…?”
“Peter brought me home, Mom,” I say softly, squeezing her hand again. “As soon as we heard about the accident, he brought me home.”
It’s a dangerous game I’m playing—maintaining the lie (which is now the truth) of being Peter’s lover for my parents, while denying it to the FBI. But I don’t see any other way to handle it. Peter will be back for me, and I can’t have my parents thinking he’s a monster when he takes me away again. As risky as it is, they need to believe we’re in love. And at the same time, the FBI need to believe I’m Peter’s victim. I have no idea how I’m going to manage this tightrope act, but I’m going to try my best.
Not that Dad actually believes me. While we were waiting for Mom to wake up, he put me through an interrogation that made the FBI’s pale in comparison. His goal was to poke holes in the fairy tale I’ve been telling them all these months, and despite my best efforts, he wasn’t entirely unsuccessful.
No, I didn’t know Peter was a wanted man when we met and started dating, I told Dad, repeating what I said before about believing my new boyfriend was a contractor working for various firms in the US and abroad. No, I didn’t know he was in trouble with the law when I left the country with him, though I was beginning to have some suspicions. No, he’s not as dangerous as they say; it’s all a big misunderstanding. He does, in fact, work as an independent contractor doing security consulting; it’s just that some clients of his are not entirely law-abiding, and that’s what got him in trouble with the FBI. Yes, we first met in a nightclub in Chicago and dated in secret for several weeks. Yes, he bought my house through a shell corporation, like the FBI said. Why? Because he thought I’d regret selling it so impulsively.
Some questions were more difficult to answer. I know what the FBI have told my parents about Peter’s alleged crimes: next to nothing, invoking the classified status of his case. However, my parents aren’t stupid, and they did some investigating on their own. The “suspected terrorist” and “killed people” bits came from a conversation Dad overheard between the agents, but he also somehow linked my abduction to a high-speed chase on I-294, during which a police helicopter blew up, causing a massive pile-up and a renewed outcry about gang-related violence in Chicago.
“It happened the night you disappeared and was all over the news for weeks,” Dad told me. “The FBI wouldn’t admit it to us, but I know it was him. It had to be. Why else would they send an entire SWAT unit to retrieve you? The man is dangerous, and the Feds know it. I don’t know if he’s involved in drugs, terrorism, or what have you, but he’s bad news.”
And no matter how much I tried to convince Dad that Peter’s alleged crimes are white-collar in nature and that I don’t know anything about that interstate incident (which I don’t, because I was drugged during my abduction), he refused to believe me.
“Tell me about Marsha and the Levinsons,” I finally said, desperate to change the topic. “How did they come to be there with you?”
Thankfully, that worked, and for the next couple of hours, we talked about my parents’ life in my absence and how the Levinsons really stepped up, helping my parents through the crisis in a variety of ways. And Marsha too—apparently, she’d taken to calling my parents every week, checking on them and inquiring about me.
“As soon as she heard that Lorna was brought into the ER, she showed up, getting the best doctors on her case and helping us cut through the red tape,” Dad said, his eyes gleaming with tears. “If it weren’t for her, I don’t know if your mom would’ve—” He broke off, dragging in a shuddering breath, and I hugged him, feeling the familiar burn of guilt and shame, of self-disgust mixed with rekindled anger at Peter.
Yes, my tormentor brought me back, but first, he stole me. For months, he kept me from my family. I can’t forget that. I should’ve been there for my parents, not Marsha and their friends. I should’ve been the one to make sure Mom got the best care. Instead, I was in Japan, falling for my husband’s murderer… letting him burrow into my heart and mind as I lied to my parents, over and over again.
I want to hate Peter for that—for everything, really—but instead, I just hate myself. I hate that I already miss him, that being home hasn’t lessened my desperate longing one bit. I crave him so intensely it’s like a physical ache; my skin literally hurts when I think of how badly I want his touch.
Soon, I tell myself as I bend down to kiss Mom, who closed her eyes again. I know Peter—he won’t stay away from me for long. I should enjoy this time with my family instead of pining for the man who’ll take me from them.
I’m a terrible daughter, but they don’t need to know that yet.
They’ll find out soon enough.
14
Sara
By noon, I finally convince Dad to go home and get some rest, and I stay at the hospital with Mom, alternating between keeping her company and napping on a cot the nurses brought to her room. Whenever I come out to grab a coffee or a bite to eat, several suspicious-looking men follow me. FBI agents, most likely, though they could also be plain-clothes police—I have no idea how their jurisdictions work. I’m obviously not off the hook, but for now, they’re letting me get on with my life, and I’m grateful for that.