Lovegame(83)

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.”

“Says the FBI profiler who gets off on tying women to his bed.”

“Former FBI profiler, thank you very much. And I never said I wasn’t complicated, too.” He settles back into the couch. “Now talk.”

I glance behind me at the phone where it still rests on the coffee table. “The recorder’s off.” I say it just to be sure. “This is off the record.”

“Yes, it’s off.” He rolls his eyes. “And of course it’s off the record. You know, right, that you’re going to have to trust me eventually?”

“I already told you. I don’t trust anyone. It’s nothing personal.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” I’m as exasperated as he is now. I hate it when he does the cryptic thing.

“Don’t do that. Don’t act like there’s nothing personal between us. I f*cked up last night—I know I did. And if, when we’re done dealing with your stuff you still feel up to getting into mine, then I’ll tell you all about why I freaked out the way I did this morning. But don’t act like what’s happened between us over these last four days isn’t personal.” He picks me up, puts me back on his lap, and this time there’s barely room enough to slide a piece of paper between us. “Because it is, and you damn well know it.”

He’s right. I may not want him to be, but he is. Just because neither of us had planned for it, doesn’t mean it didn’t happen just the same.

And so I tell him. About the bathwater. About the shower gel I haven’t used for months. About the gardener and the ruined plants and the rows upon rows of belladonna. I tell him all of it, growing more and more anxious with each detail I reveal.

Ian listens through it all, interrupting only to ask a question or to clarify some detail I glossed over in my determination to get this finished as soon as possible.

And when I’m done—when I’m empty and distraught and so, so scared, he gathers me in his arms and whispers that everything’s going to be okay. That I’m not crazy. That somehow we’ll find a way to fix all of this.

I don’t believe him.

I want to—God, do I want to. But years of living in Hollywood—of seeing smoke and mirrors used time and again to hide the fact that everything falls apart—makes it impossible.

That doesn’t stop me from letting him gather me in his arms, though. It doesn’t stop me from reveling in the small kisses he presses all over my face. And it sure as hell isn’t going to stop me from asking him for the story he promised me in return for mine.





Chapter 23


Jesus Christ. She’s been through the f*cking ringer, hasn’t she?

First, she’s spent her life dealing with that mother of hers, who obviously loves her, but just as obviously feels upstaged by her and does whatever she can to remedy that whenever she can.

Then William Vargas invades her childhood and, I’m pretty certain, turns it into the stuff of nightmares no matter how she tries to hide it.

And finally, to top it all off, she lands the most iconic role of her career only to find herself straddling the edges of her own sanity because some jerk has it out for her.

She just can’t catch a f*cking break.

The thought infuriates me, almost as much as the idea of some * with access gaslighting her just to see her squirm. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe that’s not what’s happening here. But frankly, I know crazy, and Veronica isn’t it. Which means someone else is pulling the strings here. Someone else wants to discredit her, wants her to think she’s crazy. The only questions are who and why.

I start to ask her about it, think about poking around inside her head to see what she knows about who might be doing something like this to her. But it’s nearly dawn and frankly, she looks exhausted. Tomorrow, or more precisely, later today will be soon enough to badger her.

No wonder she has trust issues. Someone who knows her pretty well, someone who has access to her life, is trying to make her think she’s insane. In my book, it doesn’t get much worse than that.