82
Sara
“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” Peter asks for the tenth time as we approach Esguerra’s mansion after dinner, and I nod, looking up at his concerned expression.
“Don’t worry. I will be just fine.”
For the first time in a week and a half, I’m not lying. My eyes feel like I’ve been rubbing them with sandpaper, and I have a pounding headache from all the crying—not to mention some soreness from our living room lovemaking—but all of that is minor. The worst of the pain—the grief and guilt I’d been unable to face all these days—is lessening, though it may never be fully gone.
Of course, there’s still the matter of the nineteen dead hostages, but I’m trying not to think about it. Because what would be the point?
My husband might be a monster, but I can’t live without him an
