Total pages in book: 767
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
* * *
My house is again dark and empty when I get home that evening, and as I get ready for bed, I’m aware of a peculiar melancholy. Having Peter in my house was terrifying, but he was still a human presence. Now I’m alone again, as I’ve been for the past two years, and the feeling of loneliness is sharper than ever, my bed colder and emptier than I recall it being.
Maybe I should get a dog. A big one that I would spoil by letting it sleep with me. That way, I’d have someone to greet me when I came home, and I wouldn’t miss something as perverse as my husband’s killer holding me at night.
Yes, I’ll get a dog, I decide, climbing into bed and pulling the blanket over myself. Once I sell the house, I’ll rent a place closer to the hospital and make sure it’s dog-friendly—maybe near a park of some kind.
A dog will give me what I need, and I’ll be able to forget about Peter Sokolov.
That is, assuming he forgot about me.
Chapter 34
Sara
By Monday, I’m almost convinced that Peter left for good. Over the weekend, I scoured my house from top to bottom in an effort to uncover his hidden cameras, but either they’re all gone or they’re concealed in such a way that a layman like myself has no hopes of finding them. Alternatively, they might not have been there in the first place, and my stalker knew the things he knew in some other way. Either way, there’s been no sign of him, no contact of any kind. I spent most of the weekend at the clinic, and though I felt eyes on me as I walked to my car, it could’ve been remnants of my paranoia.
Maybe my nightmare is finally over.
It’s silly, but the knowledge that I drove Peter away with sex stings a little. I hoped that once I stopped being the unattainable “ice princess,” he’d leave me alone, but I didn’t expect the results to be quite so immediate. Maybe I’m bad in bed? I must be, if one time was all it took for Peter to realize I’d never live up to whatever fantasy he had in his mind.
After stalking me for weeks, my tormentor abandoned me after just one night.
It’s a good thing, of course. There are no more dinners, no more showers where I’m cared for like a child. No more dangerous killers wrapped around me at night, fucking with my mind and seducing my body. I go about my days as I’ve done for the past several months, only I feel stronger, less shattered inside. Confronting the source of my nightmares has done more for my mental wellbeing than months of therapy, and I can’t help but be grateful for that.
Even with shame gnawing at me whenever I think of the orgasms he gave me, I feel better, more like my old self.
“So, tell me how you’ve been, Sara,” Dr. Evans says when I finally go see him after his vacation. He’s bronzed from the sun, his thin face for once glowing with health. “How did the Open House go?”
“My realtor is fielding a couple of offers,” I reply, crossing my legs. For some reason, today I feel uncomfortable in this office, like I no longer belong here. Shaking the feeling away, I elaborate, “They’re both lower than I’d like, so we’re trying to play them off against one another.”
“Ah, good. So some progress on that front.” He tilts his head. “And maybe on other fronts as well?”
I nod, unsurprised by the therapist’s perceptiveness. “Yes, my paranoia is better, and so are my nightmares. I was even able to turn on the water in the kitchen sink on Saturday.”
“Really?” His eyebrows rise. “That’s wonderful to hear. Anything in particular bring it on?”
Oh, you know, just having the man who tortured me and killed my husband reappear in my life.
“I don’t know,” I say with a shrug. “Maybe it’s time. It’s been almost seven months.”
“Yes,” Dr. Evans says gently, “but you should know that’s nothing in the timeline of human grief and PTSD.”
“Right.” I look down at my hands and notice a rather ragged-looking hangnail on the left thumb. It might be time to get a manicure. “I guess I’m lucky then.”
“Indeed.”
When I look up, Dr. Evans is regarding me with that same thoughtful expression. “How is your social life?” he asks, and I feel a fiery blush creep across my face.
“I see,” Dr. Evans says when I don’t answer right away. “Anything you’d like to talk about?”
“No, it’s… it’s nothing.” My face burns even hotter when he gives me a disbelieving look. I can’t tell him about Peter, so I scramble for something plausible. “I mean, I did go out with some coworkers a couple of weeks back and had a good time…”