Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91004 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91004 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Peter Sokolov was in the club with me. It wasn’t my mind playing tricks; he was actually there.
I swallow convulsively as my nausea worsens. The water beats down on me, the spray almost painfully hot, but I can’t stop shivering.
The monster from my nightmares is real.
He’s coming after me.
My dizziness intensifies, and I lie down, curling into a fetal ball on the tile floor. My hair is all over my face, wet and thick, and my throat constricts as memories of that night press in. For the first few days after the attack, I avoided washing my hair because I couldn’t take the feeling of water streaming over my head, but eventually, the need to be clean won out over the phobia.
One breath in. One breath out. Slow and steady.
Slowly, the suffocating sensation recedes, leaving only misery behind. I feel drunk and sick, and it takes all my strength to struggle to my feet and turn off the shower.
Why is he here? What made him come back? What does he want from me?
The questions streak through my mind as I towel off, but I’m no closer to answers than I was back at the club. My mind feels like a swamp, all my thoughts sluggish and slow.
Wrapping the towel around my wet hair, I stumble to the bedroom and fall onto my king-size bed. The ceiling rocks back and forth, as though I’m on a ship, and I know I’m in for a brutal hangover tomorrow. I haven’t been this drunk since college, and my body doesn’t know how to handle it.
Taking small, shallow breaths, I curl up on my side, hugging the blanket to my chest. The alcohol is dragging me under, but for once, I’m fighting the lure of sleep. I need to think, to understand what happened and figure out what to do.
The killer who waterboarded me wants to meet for coffee tomorrow.
It would be comical if it weren’t so terrifying. I don’t understand what he’s after. Why come up to me in the club? Why ask me to meet him in public again? He’s wanted by just about every law enforcement agency out there; surely he has to know that. Why take that kind of risk?
Unless… unless he feels it’s not a risk.
Maybe he’s arrogant enough to think he can evade justice forever.
Anger ignites inside me, clearing some of the haze from my brain. I sit up, fighting a wave of dizziness, and reach for the corded phone on my nightstand. It’s a dinosaur, clunky and unnecessary in the age of cellphones, but George insisted on having a landline in the house.
“You never know,” he said in response to my objections. “Cell phones aren’t always reliable. If power goes out during a winter storm, what are you going to do?”
My eyes sting at the recollection, and I pick up the phone with an unsteady hand. I have a knack for remembering numbers, so I dial Agent Ryson’s from memory, pushing one button after another.
I have most of the number keyed in when a sudden thought freezes me in place.
Could Peter have bugged my phone? Is that what he meant when he said he’ll know if they set a trap for him?
My mind leaps to another possibility.
Could he be watching me right now?
My breathing quickens, my skin prickling with adrenaline. Before the club, I would’ve dismissed the idea as a manifestation of my paranoia, but it’s not paranoia if it’s real.
I’m not insane if it’s truly happening.
Peter has resources, Ryson said. Could he have access to high-tech spyware?
Are there cameras and listening devices inside my house?
My heart hammering, I drop the phone back on its cradle and grab the blanket, pulling it up to cover my naked breasts. I rarely bother putting on a robe in my bedroom; even in the winter, I sleep in the buff, covered only by my blanket. I’ve never been self-conscious about my body—George loved it when I walked around naked—but the thought that his killer might’ve seen me nude makes me feel violated and painfully exposed.
It also makes me recall my twisted dreams.
No. No, no, no. Panting, I wrap the blanket around me and stumble to the closet to grab a T-shirt and a pair of underwear. I can’t think of those dreams. I refuse to. I’m drunk; that’s the only reason my mind went there in connection with that monster.
Except he doesn’t look like a monster. Even with the scar cutting through his eyebrow, he’s a stunningly good-looking man, the kind that women salivate over. If I’d met him at the club without knowing who he is, I would’ve danced with him.
I would’ve wanted his strong arms around me, his hard body grinding against mine.
My hands shake as I pull on the underwear, and I feel a spot of dampness where my sex touches the cotton fabric.