64
Peter
She’s late.
The ceremony is due to start in forty-five minutes, and Sara is still not here.
I give the photographer a scathing look as he pointedly glances at his watch, and he blanches, then looks away and starts fiddling with his cufflinks, as though that’s what he was doing all along.
According to the bodyguards watching Sara’s apartment, as well as the tracking devices I’ve planted on her, my bride is still at home with her mother. I’ve called both of them several times, but only Lorna picked up once. “Sara has an upset stomach,” she informed me curtly and hung up—and has been sending my calls to voicemail ever since.
Worried and increasingly irritated, I survey the people milling around the gazebo in small groups, drinking champagne and eating the artfully arranged cana
