10
Sara
I still can’t breathe by the time I get into the car with Peter, the weight of Monica’s revelations sitting like an iceberg on my chest.
“What’s wrong, ptichka?” he asks as we start driving. “Are you okay?”
I want to laugh hysterically. Am I? Should I be?
Is there a wellness barometer for when you’ve inadvertently commissioned a hit?
“Sara?” Peter prompts, glancing at me, and though his tone is mildly curious, there’s a glimmer of dark knowledge in his gaze.
He must’ve noticed Monica at the clinic.
Whatever hopes I’d harbored about this being a horrible coincidence evaporate, leaving behind a deepening horror.
Peter committed this murder for me.
His victim’s blood is on my hands.
There’s no point in asking, but I can’t help it. I have to hear the words out loud. “Did you
