I want to punch something. Or more specifically, I want to fly across the country to Liam Brogan’s cell in Lancaster and beat him within an inch of his life. And then I want to do it again. The sick, sick fuck.
Veronica has stopped talking now and I don’t know if it’s because she doesn’t want to say any more or if she just doesn’t know how to say it. I don’t push her, though there’s a part of me that wants to know just how bad it got, that wants to know just how damaged she really is. But this is her story and I’m willing to wait forever for her to tell it, if that’s what it takes.
Eventually, she starts talking again and I know that we’ve gotten to the bad part just from the sound of her voice. I hold her closer, press kisses to her hair, and wish with everything inside me that I could somehow make this easier for her. Somehow make what she has to say just a little less painful. Just a little less devastating.
“The Christmas I turned eight, my parents went to Greece for a month. My dad was shooting some scenes for his movie, Lush, and he wanted her to come with him for a kind of second honeymoon. She was all over that, of course, loved the idea of having his exclusive attention on her for that length of time. And so they went, right after Christmas. My nanny quit a couple days before they left and Mom convinced Dad that William could handle me. After all, I wasn’t exactly what you’d call a problem child. And we had housekeepers and other staff to feed me and take care of me. The nanny had pretty much been superfluous for a while, so everything was set.”
“Your parents flew off to Europe and left you in the care of a grown man whom they’d employed for only a few months?” I don’t even try to keep the judgment out of my voice.
“They did…and it went pretty much like you’d expect it to.”
And there it is, the confirmation I really, really didn’t want to hear. Fuck. Just fuck. Just FUCK. “That picture,” I ask, abruptly furious. “Why the fuck does she still have it in her room?”
“She likes me in that dress.” Veronica’s voice is flat now, nearly toneless. “Or at least that’s what she told me when I finally worked up the nerve to ask her about it.”
“That’s not why.”
“No, of course not.” She pauses. “But how do you know that?”
It’s a perfect opportunity for me to tell her the truth. But I can’t do that to her—not now and maybe not ever. I’ve spent years on this book, have already sold it and received an advance for it. And for the first time since I fell down this rabbit hole three years ago, I really think it was all for nothing. All the work, all the research, all the hours I spent trying to figure this shit out. Because now that I understand what happened, now that I know just how badly Veronica’s been hurt, now that I care about her as deeply as I do…how can I put it out there? How can I publish this book and let the whole world know about what happened to her? It could so easily turn into a feeding frenzy.
“Ian?” she asks again, her voice even quieter than before. “Did she say something about it to you last night at the party?”
“Of course she didn’t.” I insert my tongue firmly in my cheek as I continue. “But I’m pretty good at figuring out what’s going on in someone’s head.”
“Oh, right.” She gives her eyes a self-deprecating roll. “I guess I never really thought about how your years as a behavior analyst affect not just your books, but your everyday interactions with people. Is it weird, knowing so much about a person when you meet them, just from something they say or do?”
“You make it sound like I’m always on, always trying to figure people out.”
“Aren’t you?”
I laugh, but it sounds strained even to my own ears. “Not even a little bit.”
“So I’m wrong to feel like you’re always on around me?”
“That’s a leading question if I’ve ever heard one.”
It’s her turn to laugh. “It is, isn’t it? But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t answer it.”
“Baby, I have to be on around you. Otherwise you’d chew me up and spit me out in about three seconds flat. As it is, you’re always five steps ahead of me anyway, so who exactly is leading who in this relationship?”
“As if. I’ve had to work my ass off to stay half a step ahead of you since the day we met.”
“Well, then, let me be the first to let you know that it’s working.”
“Oh, darling,” she says, turning around so she can pat my cheek. “I already knew that.”
I cover her hand with my own, press it firmly into my cheek. Then turn my head and give her palm a long, lingering kiss. I’m hoping it will make her smile, but instead her eyes cloud over and her face falls.
“Do you want to hear the rest?”
“If you want to tell me.”