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—”