Lovegame(13)
“Which side would you like to see first?” she asks.
I start to say her rooms, of course, but something stops me and I say, “The west wing, if you don’t mind.”
“Why should I mind?”
As she leads the way, she talks a little about the history of the house. About where the marble in the columns came from. About the awe-inspiring art on the walls. About the various antiques we pass. I take it all in, but what I’m really paying attention to is the fact that this whole wing seems to exist in a place out of time.
Her father died over four years ago, yet there’s a stack of books on the coffee table in the sitting room that I’m pretty sure belonged to him.
A box of cigars sits half-open on an end table.
A beautiful Hermès scarf is draped over the back of one of the chairs, as if her mother had dropped it there this morning instead of several years ago. Then again, for all I know, she did. Maybe she stays over regularly and this is just detritus of that existence.
But something about the careful way Veronica skirts or skims over any object that is even remotely personal makes me think that that isn’t the case.
Again there’s the little tingling at the base of my spine that tells me to push, that tells me there’s a story here, one that just might help me unravel the mystery that is Veronica Romero. Before I can so much as formulate a question, though, she leads me into the opulent master suite. And every thought I have is pushed aside as I stare at the huge photograph hanging on the wall opposite the door.
It’s Veronica on what I assume is Christmas morning, if the glowing tree in the background is any indication. She’s maybe seven or eight and she’s sparkling as brightly as the tree, with shining eyes and a huge smile that stretches across her whole face. She’s wearing a red velvet dress with white lace trim and her hair is tied back with a long, red satin ribbon. In her arms she’s holding a large white teddy bear with a matching ribbon around its neck.
For several long seconds I can do nothing but stare at the picture as a million different thoughts race through my head. Puzzle pieces that I’ve struggled with for months start falling into place at an alarming rate, but I try to take a step back. Try to maintain some small semblance of objectivity as I warn myself to be careful. To take it slow.
But when she turns to look at me quizzically—like she’s noticed something isn’t quite right—I find myself asking, “When was that picture taken?”
“The Christmas I turned eight.” She’s cool as a cucumber as she answers, her face blank and her voice pleasant. She doesn’t have a clue. But I do.
There it is, I think over and over again. There it is. The puzzle piece—the smoking gun—I’ve been looking for for the last two and a half years. The one that tells me my instincts, and my research, have been right all along.
Because the Christmas Veronica turned eight—the Christmas she wore that red ribbon in her hair—is the same Christmas that William Vargas, the man who later became the Red Ribbon Strangler and one of the most depraved serial killers this country has ever seen, was employed by her parents as her bodyguard.
Chapter 4
I chose to take Ian to my parents’ bedroom first because the thought of him poking around my bedroom looking for clues into my psyche doesn’t sit well. But the second he asks about the photograph I realize I’ve made a grave miscalculation. Because there is something in his eyes—something in his voice—as he asks that tells me the answer is as important to him as it is to me.
I don’t like it. Don’t like him asking about that picture. Don’t like him even looking at it, if I’m being honest, and I never would have brought him in here if I’d thought it was going to be an issue. Because he sees too much and the absolute last thing I want is for true crime writer Ian Sharpe to look beyond the glamour of the picture to the truth behind it. Not when I’ve spent so long and worked so hard to make sure that nobody sees anything but what I want them to.
He’s dangerous in a way most of the journalists I meet aren’t. I knew it the moment he started digging during lunch yesterday and nothing he’s done in the last twenty-four hours has changed my mind.
Determined to get him out of here and away from the photograph he continues to stare at so intently, I head for the door at a fast clip. At this point, I’d much rather he spend the next hour poking and prodding and examining every little thing in my room than for him to stand here thinking, watching, unraveling. I want him far away from the immortalized memory of a holiday I haven’t let myself think about in months. Years. Want him as far away from that picture as I normally stay.
“Ready to move on?” I ask, making sure my voice is firm, yet relaxed. No need to clue him in about just how uncomfortable I’m feeling.
“No, not yet,” he answers, the firmness I was striving for obviously going right over his head as he steps even closer to the photograph. Then again, maybe not. Maybe it’s just that whatever he sees in that picture is more important than whatever control I’m trying to assert.
Just the thought has my skin crawling, my blood freezing, and I think about simply walking out. But everything I’ve learned about Ian over the last two days tells me even that wouldn’t hurry him along if he doesn’t want to be hurried. He’s not the kind of guy to walk away from a question that intrigues him…if I know nothing else about him at this point, I know that. Why else have I felt like a bug under a microscope all damn day?