Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Third floor?
That’s where Ryson’s office is.
Could he have been there?
Is he among the dead?
I’m not fully cognizant of swaying on my feet, but I must have, because suddenly, Peter is there, his powerful arm looping around my back. “Here, sit down, ptichka,” he murmurs, guiding me to the couch. “You look like you’re about to faint.”
I blink up at him, struck by how calm he appears as he sits beside me. Other than some tension in his jaw, nothing about Peter’s expression suggests that anything unusual is going on. Then again, I’m sure he’s seen worse.
Maybe even done worse.
An awful thought nibbles at the back of my mind, but I shove it away, not wanting to so much as verbalize it to myself.
I’m not going there, not even for a second.
“I can’t believe this,” Dad says, his voice shaking, and I turn to see him sitting next to me, his face as pale as Mom’s as he stares at the TV. “The FBI building of all places. How could they have gotten past all that security?”
How indeed?
The dark thought flickers back to life, but I determinedly stamp it out. This horrible tragedy has nothing to do with me or Peter.
“Are you okay, Dad?” I ask, reaching over to touch his arm.
This can’t be good for his faulty heart.
He nods, his eyes still glued to the screen. “Thank God it’s a Saturday. Can you imagine how many people would’ve died if today was a weekday?”
I look back at the TV, where firefighters are battling the flames and victims are being carried away on stretchers—a lot fewer victims than I would’ve expected from an explosion of this size. Of course, some people might’ve been blown apart, with their remains yet to be discovered, but I suspect Dad is right, and there were fewer people because it’s the weekend.
“Maybe the bomb went off late. Or early,” Mom says unsteadily as she sinks into a stuffed chair next to the couch. “I’m sure the animals who did this wanted to kill as many as possible.”
“I’m not so sure,” Peter says, and I turn to see him regarding the screen with a thoughtful expression. “Whoever’s behind this clearly knew what they were doing.”
I swallow thickly, my stomach beginning to churn around the boulder-like weight of the quiche inside. I don’t want to think about the people who did this, because that way lie those dark, awful thoughts, the ones I don’t even want to acknowledge.
“Excuse me,” I mutter, standing up. The nausea that’s tormented me all morning is getting worse by the second. “I’ll be right back.”
Naturally, Peter comes after me, catching me right before I reach the bathroom downstairs.
“You okay, my love?”
I nod, swallowing. Saliva is pooling unpleasantly in my mouth, and the churning in my stomach is reaching washing-machine speeds. “Just need the restroom,” I manage to say, and stepping around him, I dive for the open door.
I barely have time to slam it shut and kneel over the toilet before I lose the contents of my stomach.
Of course, it was too much to hope that Peter would hear the retching noises and slink away like most normal husbands would. I’m still heaving into the bowl when I feel his strong hands gathering my hair to hold it away from my face, and as soon as I lift my head, he helps me up and hands me a glass of water to rinse my mouth.
I’m pathetically grateful for his support as I bend over the sink and grab a toothbrush with trembling fingers. My legs feel like they belong to a jellyfish, and my T-shirt is sticking to my sweaty back.
I brush my teeth twice, then wash my face while Peter flushes the toilet and wipes the lid with a paper towel, looking concerned but not the least bit grossed out.
“Come, my love, let’s get you to bed,” he says when I’m done. “You’re clearly not well.”
“I’m fine now,” I protest as he lifts me up to hold me against his chest. “Really, I feel better.”
“Uh-huh.” He carries me out of the bathroom and past my parents in the living room, who stare at us with round eyes. “You’re either severely upset or sick, and you need to be resting.”
“What happened?” Mom hurries after us as Peter heads for the stairs. “Is Sara sick?”
Peter nods grimly. “Yes, she—”
“May be pregnant,” I blurt out, then mentally curse myself as both Peter and my mom freeze in place with identical looks of shock on their faces.
This is not how I planned to share the news.
Well, possible news. I still haven’t taken the damn test.
Mom recovers first. “Pregnant? Oh, Sara!”
“I don’t know for certain yet,” I say quickly as tears—presumably of joy—appear in her eyes. “It’s just that my period is a few days late and—”
“You’re pregnant?” Peter’s voice is strained, and when I look up, I see the strangest expression on his face.