36
Peter
She’s sleeping when I enter the room, her slender body swaddled in a blanket from head to toe. Quietly, I turn on the lights and stop, my breath catching in my chest. During the past two weeks, as I lay recuperating from the stab wound I sustained in Mexico, I’ve entertained myself by watching her on the house cameras and devouring the Americans’ reports on her activities. I know everything she’s done, everyone she’s spoken to, all the places she’s gone. That should’ve lessened the feeling of separation, but seeing her like this, with her shiny chestnut hair spread over her pillow, steals the air from my lungs and sends a stab of longing through me.
My Sara. I missed her so f*****g much.
I approach the bed, curling my hands into fists to contain the need to reach for her, to g
