Page 74 of Circle of Strangers
I swallow as he rambles on, nodding and smiling and giving him as much nonverbal reassurance as I can, but inside, my mind is racing, frantically searching for a way out of this prison he’s built. Because if I don’t find a way soon, there won’t be one.
56
The fluorescent lights in the donation center buzz overhead, making my head throb as I sit on the vinyl recliner, trying not to look at the needle in my arm. The tube snakes from the crook of my elbow, carrying my blood to the machine, where it spins away the plasma before pumping what’s left back into me.
The technician hums quietly, not noticing how my vein bulges painfully around the needle. It’s the third attempt today. My veins are stubborn, the kind that roll out of reach or collapse under pressure. I shouldn’t be doing this, but I don’t have a choice.
When it’s finally over, my arm feels heavy and numb. I pocket the crumpled bills—barely enough to cover a couple of tanks of gas—and walk out into the blinding sunlight, wondering how the hell I’m going to keep this up.
This isn’t sustainable. Not with these veins. Not with the bruising that’s already starting to spread beneath the bandage. Will is going to notice. Maybe not this time because I’ll take precautions, but I can’t hide something like this for long.
At dinner, I sit across from Will, discreetly rubbing my arm under the table. The ache in my vein throbs with each beat of my heart, radiatingthrough my elbow and down to my wrist. I adjust the sleeve of my sweater to make sure it covers the forming bruise.
The kids yammer between bites of spaghetti, oblivious as always. Will studies me, as if waiting for the right moment to say something. He never just blurts things out anymore—he’s too calculated for that.
Once the kids scamper off to the living room, meals half finished, Will leans back in his chair and folds his arms. “Mara and Oscar are starting to ask a lot of questions.”
I lift my chin high, appearing unworried. “What kind of questions?”
“Well, they’re presenting theories, mostly, asking me what I think.” He seems unbothered except for the tension in his jaw. “I tried to shut them down, but they’re persistent. They also think they should take care of Sozi’s packages until she gets back. I told them you’d handle it.”
I suppress the urge to snap at him. Of course I’ll be the one stuck with that. If I do get implicated in this, that’ll only make me look guiltier in retrospect.
“There’s more,” he says, watching my reaction. “I’m going to send a few texts between your phone and Sozi’s tomorrow—make it look like she’s alive, still in touch.”
“Won’t the location be obvious?”
He shakes his head. “I won’t do it at work. I’ll do it from somewhere generic—the grocery store, a gas station. Places without any connection to us.”
“With all due respect, you’re not a criminal mastermind, Will. You’re a doctor. Don’t get cocky about this.”
He reaches across the table and takes my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze that tightens at the very end.
“You have to trust me,” he says.
I force a smile, but inside, the word “trust” feels like ash on my tongue.
I’ll never be able to trust him again.
Later that night, I rest on the edge of the bed, going over the numbers in my head. I have to play this carefully if I want to stay afloat.
“Jackson needs new soccer cleats,” I tell him, keeping my voice casual. “They’re a hundred dollars. And Georgie’s ballet lessons for the month are due tomorrow. Those are two fifty.”
Will pulls his wallet from the nightstand without hesitation, thumbing through twenties and fifties. He hands me the exact amount, his eyes locking with mine. “Please give me the receipts when you’re done.”
I bite the inside of my cheek and nod. “I also need to pick up groceries. Those are usually a couple hundred, sometimes more.”
“Order them on the app,” he says. “Use my card to pay. You can hot spot my phone.”
I give a small, tight-lipped smile.
The next morning, I sit at the kitchen table, scrolling through the grocery store’s app on my phone. I load the cart with the basics—bread, milk, snacks for the kids. Then I throw in a few high-ticket items: a couple of moderately priced skincare items, a tablet, a new air fryer. Nothing too outrageous. I need to stay under the radar.
At checkout, I add a couple of Visa gift cards—balances just enough to avoid suspicion. Once the groceries are delivered, I’ll head straight to the store and return the high-dollar items for cash or store credit. I’ll pocket whatever I can, siphoning off small amounts week by week until I have enough.
It’s a slow, careful game. But I’ll play it for as long as I have to.
That evening, as we lie in bed, the mood is quietly oppressive, filled with unspoken tension—at least for me. Will flips through his medical journal, his mind already elsewhere, as if nothing about this situation fazes him.
