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)
“A favor?” An answering fury blazes to life inside me, burning away all caution. “He was a good man, you… you psycho! I don’t know what you think he did, but—”
“He massacred my wife and son.”
Shock paralyzes my vocal cords. “What?” I gasp out when I can finally speak.
A muscle pulses in Peter’s jaw. “Do you know what your husband did for a living, Sara? What he really did?”
A sick sensation spreads through me. “He was a… a foreign correspondent.”
“That was his cover, yes.” The Russian’s upper lip curls as he straightens in his seat. “I figured you didn’t know. The spouses rarely know, even when they sense the lies.”
My world tilts off its axis. “What do you mean, cover? He was a journalist. He wrote stories for—”
“Yes, he did. And in the process of getting those stories, he gathered information for the CIA and carried out covert missions for them.”
“What? No.” I frantically shake my head. “You’re wrong. You made a mistake. You had the wrong man. I knew you must’ve had the wrong man. George wasn’t a spy. That’s impossible. He didn’t even know how to change a tire. He—”
“He was recruited in college,” Peter says flatly. “University of Chicago, which you both attended. They often do that, hit up college campuses to round up the best and the brightest. They look for certain things: few family ties, a patriotic bent, smart and ambitious but lacking focus… Any of that sound like your husband?”
I stare at him, my chest squeezing tighter and tighter. George’s mother died in a car accident during his last year of high school, and his father, a Marine, had been killed in Afghanistan when George was just a baby. His elderly uncle helped put him through college, but he died too, several years back, leaving only distant cousins to attend George’s funeral six months ago.
No. It couldn’t be true. I would’ve known.
“Only if he told you,” Peter says, and I realize I spoke my last thought out loud. “They teach them how to conceal their real job from everyone, even their own families. Didn’t you find it suspicious how Cobakis discovered his passion for journalism overnight? How one day he was a biology major, and then he was interning at magazines abroad?”
“No, I—” My chest is so tight I can barely take a breath. “That’s just college. You’re supposed to discover yourself, find your passion.”
“And he did: working for your government.” There’s no mercy in the Russian’s silver gaze. “They trained him, gave him the focus he was lacking. Taught him how to lie to you and everyone else. When he graduated, they got him a job at the paper, and he had an excuse to go to every hotspot in the world.”
I jump to my feet, unable to listen further. “You’re wrong. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He stands up too, his large frame towering over me. “Don’t I? Think back, Sara. Think back to the man you married, to the life you really had together. Not the perfect one you showed to the world, but the one you led behind closed doors. Who was he, this husband of yours? How well did you really know him?”
My insides feel like lead as I take a step back, my head shaking in nonstop denial. “You’re wrong,” I repeat in a choked voice, and spinning around, I run out of the coffeeshop, heading blindly for my car.
It’s only when I stop at a red light near my house that I realize Peter Sokolov didn’t do anything to stop me.
He just stood there and watched me go.
Chapter 15
Peter
I watch through the binoculars as Sara enters her parents’ house; then I open my laptop and bring up the camera feed from inside the hallway.
Sara’s parents live in a small, neat house that could use a few upgrades but is otherwise warm and cozy. Even I can tell it’s a home, not just a place to live. For some bizarre reason, it reminds me of Tamila’s house in Daryevo, though this suburban American home is nothing like a mountain village hut.
Sara kisses both of her parents in the hallway, then follows them to the dining room. I switch to the camera feed there, zooming in on her face as she greets the other guests—an older couple and a tall, lean man in his mid-thirties.
It’s the Levinsons and their son Joe, the lawyer Sara’s parents want her to date.
Something ugly stirs inside me as Sara shakes the lawyer’s hand with a polite smile. I don’t want to see her with him; just the idea of it makes me want to plunge my blade between his ribs. Yesterday, when the bartender was smiling at her, I wanted to smash my fist into his grinning mug, and the violent urge is even stronger today.