Lovegame(37)

It ended up working pretty well and I haven’t had cause to use the scent since then. The fact that I decided to do so tonight—when I can’t even remember coming into the bathroom let alone turning the bathtub on—makes no sense at all.

A chill works its way down my spine as it occurs to me—really occurs to me—that something is wrong here. That this kind of forgetfulness, this inability to recollect, isn’t normal. Unless I didn’t do it, after all. Unless some stalker followed me home and did this in an attempt to get my attention. Or as some kind of sick joke.

Just the thought that someone was in my house—that they might still be in my house—has fear ripping through me and the wine sloshing unpleasantly around in my stomach. With my heart beating much too fast and panic skating along my nerves, I slip and slide my way back across the bathroom until I reach the entrance. Once there, I snatch my robe from where it’s hanging in its usual spot on the back of the door and pull it on over my nude body. Then I make a mad dash for the phone on my nightstand and dial the guard shack at the front of my very exclusive street.

I feel a little bit like an idiot explaining the situation to Jesse, the night guard, but not enough to hang up. Jesse assures me he’s on the way and then there’s nothing for me to do but wait, ears straining for the sound of an intruder as I pray…for what exactly? That there’s nobody in my house? Or that there is, because the last thing I want to believe is that I’m loopy enough to have done this and have no recollection of it at all.

Jesse shows up in under three minutes, pounding loudly on the front door and announcing his presence through the thick glass. I open the door to him right away and try not to notice how his eyes widen slightly when it registers how little I’m wearing. Even though he’s signed an NDA, I can’t help wondering just how many of his friends he’s going to tell this story to. I think at this point the best I can hope for is that when he does, he’s not also telling them just how paranoid, how bat-shit crazy, Veronica Romero is.

But once he gets over the shock of seeing me in my thin, silk bathrobe, Jesse is nothing but professional. He listens as I tell the story a second time, then has me come with him as he goes through my house one room at a time.

He looks in every closet, under every bed. Checks every window and door for signs of forced entry. Examines the alarm to see if anyone opened any door but the one that leads to my patio and down to the beach. He even goes outside and looks around both my back and front yards for intruders, footprints, something. Anything.

He finds nothing.

It should be a relief—it is a relief—but it’s also upsetting, because it means I did turn that bathwater on. I did choose that scent. And I did, somehow, forget all about doing both of those things.

I apologize to Jesse profusely and give him a substantial tip for going above and beyond. He tries to refuse the money—says he’s just doing his job—but I insist. Dealing with crazy movie stars has to get old quickly.

In the end, he takes the money and leaves with a cheerful wave, after warning me to set the alarm after him. As if I need the warning. I may show hints of being crazy, but I’m not reckless. Surely that has to count for something.

Still, as I head back to my bathroom to finish cleaning up the mess, I get more and more upset. How can I not remember doing this? How could I have just blocked it out so completely? It doesn’t make any sense. I’m not forgetful. I’m not absentminded. I’m not crazy, present circumstances not withstanding.

But here I am anyway, on my hands and knees scrubbing water off my bathroom floor. It makes absolutely no sense. And yet, as I use towels to mop from one side of the bathroom to the other, I get a glimpse of myself in the mirrors that line the back wall.

What I see chills me to the bone.

It’s all so familiar. Too familiar, if I’m being honest. Because I’ve been here before, right here, before. Acting out this very scene at least once in the not-so-distant past.

I was in a black silk robe then, too. I was on my knees on another bathroom floor. My face was this pale, my hands this cold, my hair falling down around my cheeks just like this.

The only difference is that this time it’s water I’m wiping up. Then it was blood. Gallons of the stuff that had poured out of my victim, Stephanie Jayne, when I dismembered her. When I chopped her into pieces.

No, not me. The Belladonna. She did that. She killed Stephanie. She desecrated her body. She scrubbed her bathroom clean. I only pretended to.

All the blood I cleaned up in that scene was fake. Man-made. Pretend.

Just like me.

God.

I take a deep breath, lower my head. Force myself to turn away from the too-familiar image in the mirror. But just because I don’t look at it again doesn’t mean it’s not still there—in the mirror and in my memories.

By the time I finish cleaning up the water, I’m shaking. Even after I climb to my feet, after I deposit the sodden towels in my washing machine and turn it on, after I get dressed in a pair of yoga pants and a tank top, I can’t get the shivering to stop.

I walk from room to room, trying to quiet my mind. Trying to settle into my normal evening rhythm. But I can’t do it. My mind is whirling, my stomach churning and this house…this house that has always been my sanctuary suddenly feels a lot more like a prison.

It’s that thought that tips me over the edge, that has me grabbing my cellphone and slamming my feet into a pair of running shoes. If I can’t shake it off, maybe I can run it off.