by Tracy Wolff
I’m moving slowly, the shock of it making my body weak and my mind sluggish.
“I need to sleep,” I say, leaning heavily on my mother as she helps me cross the kitchen.
“I know, darling. I know.” She takes me down the hall to the elevator and as we step on, I bury my head in the crook of her neck. The room is spinning, my vision going dark and shadowy, and it’s all I can do to stay on my feet.
A couple minutes later we’re in the Picasso room, though I don’t have a clear recollection of how we got there. Then again, it’s not like I care. My thoughts are getting wilder and more confusing and all I want is to check out for a little while. To disappear into sleep where I don’t have to think about the fact that last night I told Ian everything he wanted to know, every dirty, disgusting detail of what William Vargas did to me.
God, I’m so stupid.
“Sit down, darling,” my mother says from what sounds like far away. “I’m afraid you’re going to fall down.”
I ignore her, bracing my hands on the bed as I kick my shoes off. And then I’m falling facedown into the white comforter, falling down, down, down the rabbit hole, and sliding—blessedly—into sleep.
Chapter 29
Where the fuck is she?
I check my phone for the twentieth time in as many minutes, hoping—praying—that I missed a text. A phone call. Something. Anything.
But there’s nothing…of course there’s nothing, considering it’s only been about thirty seconds since I last checked.
The profiler in me knows it’s crazy that I’m getting this worked up. After all, Veronica texted me hours ago to let me know that she had a busy day planned and that she’d call me tonight when everything was done. Considering we’re not officially together, that’s more than I have a right to expect. It’s not like she owes me an explanation for where she is.
I’m calling bullshit on the thought even as it’s running through my mind. After everything we’ve shared the last few days, after everything that went down between us over the last twenty-four hours…she doesn’t owe me an explanation, but she sure as shit should be giving me one anyway. And she sure as shit should have woken me up before she left this morning.
Because…busy day or just running away? That’s the question I want an answer to.
Running away is a perfectly normal response to what she told me yesterday—she’s feeling vulnerable, fragile, maybe even humiliated. Needing time to get her head on straight and deal with all of that is perfectly normal. Perfectly acceptable.
Unfortunately for me, knowing the psychological process she needs to go through right now doesn’t make it any easier to accept that she’s gone. That she’s somewhere licking her wounds right now and I can’t get to her. I can’t help her. I can’t even hold her as she goes through the pain.
It makes me crazy.
As does the idea that someone is gaslighting her, trying to get inside her head. Trying to make her question her sanity—or worse, ride her so hard that her sanity actually becomes a question.
I wish I knew more about Veronica, about the people that she lets close to her. Because right now I’m standing here trying to figure this out, but I feel like I’m flying blind. I don’t know enough of her life—enough of her people—to even formulate a hypothesis about who’s doing this to her.
That needs to change though, and it needs to change quickly. Because whoever is doing this is escalating quickly, pushing her toward an endgame that I can’t quite put my finger on yet—except to know that it’s going to be bad for Veronica. And that is not acceptable to me.
She’s been through enough. There’s no way I’m going to let her suffer any more than she already has.
I glance at my phone again. Still nothing. I’ve already texted her twice, once to check in and once, ostensibly, to let her know that I was leaving her house and to ask if she wanted to give me the code so I could set the alarm.
I never got an answer. And while I can tell myself over and over again that she’s fine, that she’s processing, that she just needs time, I know there’s no chance I’m going to be able to relax until I hear her voice. Until I see her face.
Until I can judge for myself what kind of shape she’s in.
Which is why I’m currently pacing my hotel room floor, doing my best to miss the pieces of shattered glass from my fit of temper two nights ago. I should probably start cleaning the mess up—and let the management know about the broken sliding glass door, but right now I can’t concentrate on anything but Veronica for longer than a minute.
Then again, how can I when the sheets on the bed still smell like her? When I still smell like her despite the shower I took after getting back here this morning?
I’m swiping across the display on my phone yet again, checking my text messages yet again, when the thing vibrates in my hand. It’s so unexpected, and so goddamn welcome, that for a second I just stare at the thing, mind blank.
But then it registers that it isn’t Veronica calling me and my jumpy stomach settles back down. I almost let it go to voicemail—she’s the only one I want to talk to right now—but it’s my agent and I’ve got something to say to him and it should be said sooner, rather than later.
“Hey, Mitch,” I say, as soon as I swipe to accept the call.
“Ian! How are you?”
Fucking terrible. “I’m good. How are things going with you?”
He laughs. “Good, good. I’m not going to lie—they’ll be better once I’ve got an estimated completion date for the Red Ribbon Strangler book. Your publisher’s breathing pretty heavily down my neck right now.”
Of course they are. Of fucking course. “I was actually going to call you. I need to talk to you about that.”
“Okay.” He sounds wary. “How are things going with Veronica? I know she cut the interview short—do you need help finding another in? Maybe I can pull some strings—”
“I don’t need an in. I’ve already spoken with her.”
“Oh, yeah?” He loses the wariness, sounds excited again. “How’d that go? What did she say when you told her about the connection? Have you written that piece up yet? I’d love to see it—”
“I haven’t written it up. In fact—”
“Okay, I get it. You need more time. I can hold them off a little longer, but they’re anxious. With the movie coming out, your name is white-hot right now. They want to capitalize on that—we all do. And with the subject matter of this book? It’s going to hit the Times list for sure. In fact—”
I give up waiting for an in and just give him the bottom line. “I’m not writing the book, Mitch.”
For the first time since I answered the phone, there’s silence on the other end. “You’re not writing the book?” He sounds skeptical, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing.
“No, I’m not.”
“You have to write the book.”
“No, I really don’t.”
“Yes, you really do. You’ve got a contract. They’ve already paid you a high six figure advance. Not to mention all the time you’ve put into it—and the fact that you don’t have anything else in the pipe right now. Your career is white-hot at the moment, but if you disappear for another two years—”
“I’ll pay the advance back. And I’ll figure something out for the next book—”
“Pay the whole advance back?” he stutters out. “Have you lost your goddamn mind? What the hell did Veronica Romero say to you?”
Too much. Not enough. I want inside her head, I want to know what she’s thinking. What she’s feeling. That’s not the profiler talking, either. It’s the man. She was a mess last night, understandably, and the idea that she’s out there today, suffering, and that I’m not with her…it makes me want to break another glass door. Makes me want to punch something and keep punching until my knuckles are bloody and the pain is so bad I can’t think anymore.
I don’t tell him any of that, though. Mitch might be one of my closest friends as well as my ag
ent, but what goes on between Veronica and me is none of his business. Her secrets are nobody’s business but hers. “My decision has nothing to do with Veronica.”
“Bullshit,” Mitch snarls. “You’ve been all about this book for almost three years, man. Three years spent researching, gathering evidence, doing interviews. And now, less than a week after you meet with a woman whose role in the story is small but pivotal, suddenly you don’t want to write it anymore? I’m not stupid, you know. Of course it has to do with Veronica. And I get it, I do. She’s famous and whatever you managed to get out of her could damage her career and credibility. But what about your career? Your credibility?”
“This has nothing to do with her,” I repeat. I’m working damn hard not to snarl back because I get why he’s upset. I do. I’ve pretty much just given him the shittiest job a client can give his agent and of course he doesn’t want to go back to the publisher with what I’m telling him. We’ve both worked damn hard through the years to get me where I am right now and this book, this story, could totally take me to the next level. It could take my career from hot for now to guaranteed hot for the foreseeable future. That’s what pretty much every author wants, and yet…“I can’t do the book, Mitch.”
“You mean you won’t do the book.”
I think of Veronica, of how shattered she looked when she told me her story. Of how broken. “If that’s how you want to put it, then fine. I won’t do the book.”
“Why not?”
Because she’s already been betrayed by so many people. People who were supposed to have her back. People who were supposed to protect her. There’s no way in hell I’m going to be just one more.
When I don’t answer immediately, Mitch starts talking again. “I can’t just go back to the publisher with Ian’s changed his mind. They’ve seen the first half of the book and they’re salivating over it. Ripping it away from them in the eleventh hour…Your career will be over. So give me something to work with here. Something that will help them understand what’s happening. Hell, I’ll take something that will help me understand what’s going on.”
Fuck. I know he’s right—I do owe him an explanation. But at the same time, I don’t want to betray Veronica. It’s a fine line to walk and I’m fucked up enough right now that I’m not sure I can manage it. Still, I’m smart enough to know I have to try. “This story…it’s ugly, Mitch.”
“Of course it’s ugly. That’s kind of the point. We’ve known that all along.”
“Yeah, but…”
“But now you care about her, so it seems even uglier.”
“Maybe. Or maybe it’s just that the truth is uglier than I ever imagined it would be. It’s not my story to tell.”
“Then whose story is it?” he demands. I don’t answer, but then I don’t have to. The silence stretches between us for long seconds before Mitch blows out a long breath and continues, “Okay, look. I get where you’re coming from, I do. You don’t want to use Veronica in the book. Fine. What about not going there?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, the Red Ribbon Strangler is hella big news all on his own. You’re the only one that we know of who ever made the connection between him and Veronica Romero. So don’t use it. Write his story and leave her out of it completely.”
It’s a reasonable suggestion, one that might just work. Except…there is no story without Liam Brogan’s origins. Without his trigger. Otherwise, it’s just another half-assed slasher book and I don’t write those. I have no desire to write them.
Mitch has known me long enough to take my silence for what it is—tacit disagreement. But he also knows me well enough not to push any more than he already has. At least not right now.
“Okay, look. Take a couple of days and think about this.”
“I don’t need to think about it—”
“Yeah, well, I disagree,” he shoots back. “And since I’m the one who has to go to the publisher with this disaster, we’re doing it my way. You think about it for a couple of days—think about how you can do the book without so much as alluding to Veronica. If you haven’t figured something out by the end of the week, then I’ll put the ball in motion to try to get you out of this contract. Okay?”
It’s not okay. It’s a perfectly reasonable request made by a perfectly reasonable man, and still it isn’t okay. Still I want to definitively end it here, now, so that it’s over. So that I don’t have to feel guilty any longer for the fact that Veronica doesn’t know what my real agenda was.
But I owe it to Mitch—and my publisher—to at least think about his suggestions. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I can come up with some way to tell the story that still works. I don’t think so, considering how important Veronica is to the story. But maybe. Maybe. And considering I’m pretty sure Mitch isn’t going to do anything until I agree to these terms, I decide what the hell.
“Okay, fine. I’ll think about it. See what I can come up with. But if I call you in a couple days and I don’t have anything, then you’re going to go with me on this. No more arguing. All right?”
“No, it’s really not all right. But since it’s the best I’m going to get out of you…then yes. Fine. We’ll go with that.”
“Okay. Good.”
I can all but see Mitch’s hair standing on end. It’s a habit of his when he’s stressed, shoving his hands through his hair and pulling as hard as he can until the stuff is sticking straight up. I feel bad about stressing him out, but nowhere near as bad as I’d feel if I hurt Veronica.
There’s nothing else to say, so I hang up with him a couple minutes later after promising once again to call after giving the book some more thought. It’s a compromise neither one of us is happy with, but considering where we’re both coming from, I figure that’s to be expected.
After hanging up, I check my messages yet again. Still nothing from her. The anxiety in the pit of my stomach grows until I’m nearly sick with it. Where is she? What is she doing? Is she okay?
I fire off a third text to Veronica, wait impatiently for her to answer. When ten minutes have gone by and there’s no reply, I decide fuck it. Just fuck it. I’m done with waiting. It’s time to find her.
It’s time to make her understand that no matter what she thinks, she’s not alone in this.
Not anymore.
Not ever again.
Chapter 30
My phone is buzzing insistently from its spot on my nightstand and I reach out a hand to slap at it. I’m so tired, so, so tired, and all I want to do is lie here and sleep for a thousand years. Maybe longer if I can get away with it.
I’m smart enough to know that it’s part exhaustion, part depression. I’m still half-asleep, but already my mother’s words are chasing themselves around in my head, circling over and over and over again.
I spilled my guts to Ian last night, told him things I’d never told anyone. And he’d let me, had held me and looked shocked and angry and horrified when all along, he’d known. All along he’d been getting close to me because he wanted my story for his book.
His book.
God, just the thought makes me nauseous. Makes my head spin and my stomach cramp and my whole body feel like it’s on ice.
How could I have been so stupid?
More, how could I have made such a rookie mistake?
It’s not like I didn’t know who he was, not like I didn’t know that he wanted my story. I was just too much of an idiot to know which story he was after…
My phone buzzes again, the sound grating on my raw nerves. My head is already pounding—a combination of lack of sleep and betrayal, I’m sure—and I can’t handle any more. I’ve already dealt with Ian’s betrayal today, and the fact that the Red Ribbon Strangler is my old bodyguard. Expecting me to deal with whoever’s on the other end of that line is one thing too many when it’s all I can do to keep the nausea at bay.
The phone buzzes yet again and I grit my teeth to keep from screaming, largely because I’m afraid once I start I’ll
never stop. I’ll keep screaming and screaming and screaming until they come and take me away to some hospital for movie stars and rich people, an insane asylum disguised as a place for plastic surgery and rehab. Considering where my mother ended up all those years ago, I’m intimately familiar with such establishments.
I am not her. I am not going to end up in one of them.
And so I keep my jaw locked against the screaming and the nausea and the betrayal so fresh that it burns like acid. I shove it all down as deep as I can get it, pretending as I do that it doesn’t make me sick. That it doesn’t make my stomach churn and my mouth taste like vomit.
The phone buzzes again—it’s vibrating this time, as whoever has been calling suddenly switches to texts. I moan, start to roll over to get away from the sound. But my body is heavy, lethargic. I can barely get it to move. In the end, I settle for grabbing a pillow and dragging it over my head to block out the noise—and the light.
Except the pillow is wet. Sticky. Salty. I shove it away with a gasp, struggling to open my eyes against the overwhelming lethargy that continues to pull me down, pull me under.
My face is wet from the pillow and I bring my hand to my cheek, try to rub the stuff away. I finally manage to get my eyes open and I glance down at my fingers, trying to see what’s on them.
I’m so out of it that what I’m seeing doesn’t compute for several long seconds. When it does—when I register that my hand is stained with something red and thick—my adrenaline finally kicks in. I stagger out of bed, staring in horror at the pillow I’d just pulled over my head. At the crisp white sheets and blankets that I’d been under.
They’re doused in blood, covered with the thick, viscous liquid. And so am I, my gown heavy with the stuff. My arms and legs streaked red with it.
I stumble backward, desperate to get away, but I get my foot tangled in the comforter that’s on the floor and go down hard—right in a puddle of blood. That’s when I start to scream, loud, high-pitched shrieks that can probably be heard in Mexico.
Over and over and over again I scream, my mind racing. My body working of its own volition, crab-walking backward away from the bed. From the blood.