13
Sara
I don’t know how I make it home, but somehow I find myself in my shower, naked and shivering under the hot spray. I have only a vague recollection of making some awkward excuse to Andy and stumbling out of the club to catch a cab; the rest of the trip is a blur of shock-induced numbness and alcoholic haze.
Peter Sokolov spoke to me. He held me.
My husband’s killer, the man who tortured me and ripped apart my life, danced with me.
My knees fold under me, and I sink to the floor, panting. A wave of dizziness makes the shower stall rotate around me, and all the drinks I consumed threaten to come up.
Peter Sokolov was in the club with me. It wasn’t my mind playing tricks; he was actually there.
I swallow convulsively as my nausea worsens. The water beats down on me, the spray al
