“Just using the bathroom,” I call out, hoping Julian doesn’t hear the adrenaline-induced shakiness in my voice. At the same time, I open Julian’s email program and begin searching for Frank’s name. “I’ll be out soon.”
“Of course, baby, take your time.” The words are accompanied by the fading sound of footsteps.
I let out a relieved breath. I have a few more minutes.
I begin scanning through the emails containing the word “Frank.” There are over a dozen from last week, but the one I want should have a little attachment icon next to it . . . Aha! There. Quickly, I open it.
It’s a spreadsheet containing names and addresses. Automatically, I glance through them. There are over a dozen rows, and the addresses run the gamut from cities in Europe to various towns in the United States. One in particular jumps out at me: Homer Glen, Illinois.
It’s a place near Oak Lawn, my hometown. Less than a forty-minute drive from my parents’ house.
Stunned, I read the name next to the address.
George Cobakis.
Thank God. It’s nobody I know.
“Nora?” Julian’s voice is back, and the tense note in it makes my heart jump into my throat. His next words confirm my fear. “Nora, do you have my computer?”
“What? Why?” I hope I don’t sound as guilty as I feel. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Frantically, I save the list to the desktop and open a new browser.
“Because my laptop is missing.” His voice is tight with the beginnings of fury. “Are you in there with it?”
“What? No!” Even I can hear the lie in my voice. My hands are beginning to shake, but I get to the Gmail page and begin putting in my username and password.
The doorknob rattles. “Nora, open the door. Right now.”
I don’t respond. My hands are shaking so much that I mistype the password and have to put it in again.
“Nora!” Julian bangs on the door. “Open this fucking door before I break it down!”
I’m finally in my Gmail. My heart hammering in my chest, I search for the last email from Peter.
Bang. The door shakes from a hard kick.
My nausea intensifies, my pulse racing as I find the email.
Bang. Bang. More kicks against the door as I click “reply” and attach the list.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
I hit “Send”—and the door flies off the hinges, crashing to the floor in front of me.
Julian is standing there naked, his eyes like icy blue slits in his beautiful face. His powerful hands are clenched into fists, and his nostrils are flared, spots of color burning high on his cheekbones.
He’s magnificent and terrifying, like an enraged archangel.
“Give me the laptop, Nora.” His voice is frighteningly calm. “Now.”
Bile rises in my throat, forcing me to swallow convulsively. Standing up, I walk over to him on trembling legs and hand over the computer.
He takes it from me with one hand and, before I can back away, wraps the other one around my right wrist, shackling me to him.
Then he looks at the screen.
I see the exact moment when he realizes what I did.
“You sent it to him?” Setting the computer down on the bathroom counter, he grabs my other arm and drags me closer to him. His eyes burn with fury. “You fucking sent it to him?” He gives me a hard shake, his fingers biting into my skin.
My stomach somersaults, nausea washing over me in sickening wave. “Julian, let go—”
And jerking out of his hold with desperation-fueled strength, I dive for the toilet bowl, just barely reaching it before I throw up.
* * *
“How long have you had this nausea?” Dr. Goldberg takes my pulse as I lie on the bed, with Julian pacing around the room like a caged jaguar.
“I don’t know,” I say, my eyes tracking Julian’s movements. He’s wearing a T-shirt and jeans now, but his feet are still bare. He’s making circles in front of the bed, every muscle in his body taut and his jaw tightly clenched.
He’s either still mad at me, or madly worried about me. I’m guessing it’s a combination of the two. Within minutes of my throwing up, he had the doctor in our room and me bundled comfortably on the bed.
It reminds me of how quickly he acted when I got appendicitis on the island.
“I think I just ate something bad or maybe caught a virus,” I say, turning my attention back to the doctor. “I started feeling sick at dinner.”
“Uh-huh.” Dr. Goldberg takes out a plastic-wrapped needle with a tube attached to a vial. “May I?”
“Okay.” I don’t particularly want him to take my blood, but I have a feeling Julian won’t let me refuse. “Go ahead.”
The doctor finds a vein in my arm and slides the needle in while I look away. I’m still slightly nauseous and don’t want to test my stomach’s fortitude with the sight of blood.
“All done,” he says after a moment, removing the needle and swabbing my skin with an alcohol-scented cotton ball. “I’ll run the tests and let you know what I find.”
“She’s also constantly tired,” Julian says in a low voice, stopping next to the bed. He’s not looking at me, which annoys me a bit. “And she’s sleeping poorly, with the nightmares and all.”
“Right.” The doctor rises to his feet, clutching the vial. “I need to run this to my lab. I’ll be back within the hour.”
He hurries out of the room, and Julian sits down on the bed, looking at me. His face is unusually pale, a frown etched into his forehead. “Why didn’t you tell me you were feeling sick, Nora?” he asks quietly, reaching out to pick up my hand. His fingers are warm on my palm, his grip gentle despite the turmoil I sense within him.