That gives him pause, but in the end he decides not to address it. Instead, he asks, “So, how did you end up with it, then? If it belongs to the studio, how did it get to your house?”
“I don’t know. That’s the point. I don’t remember putting it on when I was getting ready earlier and I have no idea how it even got from the studio’s storage to my possession. I was there a couple weeks ago, picking up one of her dresses for an appearance the studio wanted me to make, but the only thing I took was the dress. That’s it. Just the dress. Or at least, that’s all I remember. Which is why, when you had the brooch in your hand earlier, I thought you were the one messing with me.”
“Hold on a minute.” His eyes narrow as he pulls back just far enough to be able to search my face. “What exactly do you mean when you say you don’t remember doing these things? That’s very different than saying you think someone did this to you. Do you think you actually put it in your hair and then had some kind of episode and forgot you did it?”
“That’s just it. I don’t know.”
“How can you not know? I don’t understand why your mind’s even going there—this isn’t something most people even think about. Either you did something or you didn’t. Have you had episodes where you forgot before?”
“I don’t know.” At this point, I sound as agitated as I feel. “This morning, there was this gardener and then, the bathtub last night, and I just don’t know. I don’t remember doing any of it, but then…how else could it have happened? I mean, I’m protected. It’s not easy for people to get to me. Between the bodyguards and the security…people can’t just come waltzing up to my home without my permission. So how the hell is it happening if I’m not making it happen?”
“Okay, hold on a minute.” He lifts me off his lap and sets me next to him on the couch. Immediately, I feel bereft—or like I’m being punished. Neither reaction makes sense, but that’s the least of my worries right now. “You’re saying other things have happened.”
When Ian says it like that, there’s no other way to answer except, “Yes.”
“Like what? No, wait, don’t answer that yet.” He reaches into the pocket of his suit pants and pulls out his phone. Then he lays it on the coffee table in front of us and opens a recording app.
I stare at him in disbelief. “What are you doing? You can’t record this!” A million headlines go through my mind in a flash, each one detailing my descent into madness. Each one a little worse, a little more lurid, than the one that came before it.
“It’s okay,” he tells me soothingly. “I’m not planning on using this for anything. It’s just a habit of mine, to record any and all information I get so that I can go back through it later and make sure I have the facts straight as I try to figure out how it fits with the big picture.”
“Which facts are those? The ones detailing my total and complete mental collapse?” I know I sound snippy, but come on. He can’t really think that I’m going to be okay with him recording this? The first thing they teach us in Being Famous 101 is not to let anyone record you saying anything that might possibly depict you in even the slightest derogatory light. “I’m not some book you’re writing. This is my life we’re talking about.”
“I know that.” He puts a hand over mine, squeezes tight. “Of course I know that. I’m just trying to help. You can trust me, Veronica.”
He sounds sincere, but I can’t help it. I laugh anyway. “I have trust issues, Ian. I don’t trust anyone—including the man I’m sleeping with.”
“Then what the fuck are we doing here?”
“I thought we were talking—”
“Bullshit!” he exclaims as he shoves a rough hand through his hair. “We’re doing a lot more than talking and you know it. You’re the one who said this wasn’t a one night stand.”
After everything I’ve done, this is what makes him angry? And he is, oh God, he is absolutely livid, absolutely infuriated. I want to placate him. I really do. But the truth is the truth. “I’m sorry, but there’s no way I’m going to let you record me admitting to the fact that I might be insane—”
“You’re not insane,” he snaps.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do know that. I’ve spent my entire career studying insane people. Sorry to disappoint you, sweetheart, but you’re not it.”
“You say that like you’re so certain—”
“I am certain!”
“How? How can you be so sure when you’ve got scratches all over you that prove there’s something wrong with me?”
“All it proves is that you were scared. And that you’ve got a right to be.” He reaches over and switches off the recording app. “But if this bothers you that much, you can just tell me your story. But don’t blame me if you have to keep going over it until I get it right.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not actually that complicated.”
He snorts. “Every single thing about you is complicated, Veronica. And if you think otherwise, you’re fooling yourself.”