19
Sara
The rest of November passes in a blur of hospital visits, random FBI interrogations, and waiting. Endless waiting. I feel like I’m constantly on edge, waiting for Peter to show up. Each time I cross the hospital parking lot, walk down the street, or fall asleep in my old bedroom at my parents’ house (my house, by virtue of belonging to a wanted criminal, has been seized by the government), I expect to be snatched up and carried away—if not by Peter, then by one of the men he hired to watch me.
And they are watching me. I know it. I feel it. It’s the same itchy feeling as before, the same paranoia-inducing sensation of hidden eyes following me. Some of it is due to the FBI agents stalking my every move, but not all. I’ve gotten good at spotting the Feds. It’s always the nondescri
