Page 23 of Bitter Truth
“No.” I smack the table to accentuate my point as I say, “Absolutely not.”
“It wouldn’t be forever. Just until after you testify at his trial.”
“His trial isn’t for months. I’m not the criminal here. Why should I have to be the one to disrupt my life?”
“I agree it isn’t fair.”
“It’s more than that.” My voice shakes with the words. My whole body is trembling. “We both know that they don’t need my testimony to get a conviction. Which means even if the court excused me, this wouldn’t be over. He’s not after me to keep me silent. This is about revenge.”
“It’s possible that you’re right.”
Squeezing my eyes shut, I struggle to stay calm, but it’s a battle I’m close to losing. All the deep breathing in the world isn’t going to help. My insides are at a rapid boil.
“So then, what this really means is that in order to stay safe, I’d have to stay in WITSEC until Bianchi’s execution. That’s only, what? Twenty years away, with appeals?”
“I agree that this isn’t ideal—”
“It’s more than just ‘not ideal,’” I snap. Shooting a look toward the doorway, I lower my voice, and say, “WITSEC is not an option. Period. There’s got to be another way.”
“Well, if you think of one, I’m all ears.”
I’m at risk of biting through my tongue, so I release it from between my gritted teeth. Spit out a wry, “Thanks.” Swallowing down the curse words that want to follow, I ask, “Is there anything else?”
“No.”
“Then I appreciate the update. I’ve got to go.”
I don’t give her an opportunity to reply before I hang up, ending the call. Tears of frustration sting my eyes. I glare at my hands, clenched into fists on the table before me, until they reabsorb.
I’m not going to allow this to happen. I don’t care what lines I have to cross, what I have to do, I’m not going to live the rest of my life in fear—or have it shortened by some hitman.
Unfurling my fingers, ignoring the half-moons weeping blood on my palms, I think about what it is that Bianchi has that’s enabling him to do this. Power. Wealth. Life. If it means saving myself and the future I have planned? I’ll find a way to take all of those things from him.
CHAPTER 13
I’ve suffered a lot of injuries over the course of my life. I’ve been hit, strangled, branded, abused in a number of ways. This is as painful as any of those things. Yet I keep coming back. Even though I have to because the Bureau requires it for me to keep receiving a paycheck, I still suspect that makes me a masochist.
Dr. Evangeline sits across from me in an overstuffed chair. Today she’s wearing a tailored pantsuit in her signature color, white. Pure, spotless white. As usual, I inspect her outfit, looking for a mark, a stain, anything that would suggest she’s the same species of human as me. But as usual, she’s flawless.
“I saw your picture in the paper,” she says.
I freeze. As far as I know, there wasn’t a story about me after the sniper attack. It’s possible that I might have missed it, but if I did, I need to find out what it says. What it reveals. What key piece of information some reporter might have inadvertently provided the next hitman that could improve their odds of success.
Or maybe I’m worrying about nothing. Surely someone would have said something if it were true. And I haven’t been here for almost a month, not since I was placed on medical leave yet again after my most recent run-in with a serial killer. It’s possible the picture she’s referring to appeared closer to our last appointment than this one.
But thinking about the most recent photograph of me that I’m aware had been printed, one where I’m sitting outside the shed where I’d been held captive, an incident I’d used to buy me as much time off from these weekly sessions as I was able, doesn’t make me feel much better.
“Your boyfriend was in it too. He’s very attractive, isn’t he?”
Exhaling with relief, I smile. She must be talking about the shot of Jake and me attending the annual Myers and Kleinman gala.
“I think so.”
She smirks in a way that suggests I just made the understatement of the year. I toss one right back at her because I’m feeling belligerent and fractious and maybe even a bit like I want to start a fight, even though it’s probably not a good idea to go to war with your therapist.
“That was a gorgeous dress you were wearing.”
“Is this what the Bureau’s paying you to talk to me about? Fashion?”
