Lovegame(95)

“Anyway, that’s not the part of the story I wanted to tell you. It’s just kind of background.”

That’s what I’ve been afraid of all along. “Okay.” The truth is burning a hole in my gut and I don’t know what else to say.

“So William took over and he was good at his job. Or, at least, he wasn’t bad at it. Sometimes I would see my mother talking to him in a way that made me uncomfortable. Too close, too intimate. Then again, sometimes I’d feel the same way when he was talking to me. I tried to tell my dad about it once, but he told me I was too young to understand.

“The thing is, I wasn’t. Living with them, traveling with them, by the time I was eight I knew more about power and sex and ambition than people three times my age.”

I can totally believe that. I realized the other day that the way she is today, the way she uses her sexuality as a weapon, is a habit that she was forced into. And a habit that started young. But as her story unfolds before me, I’m reading between the lines here, my blood running a little colder with each new revelation. Each shift of the puzzle pieces.

“As time went on and my father grew more and more engrossed in his latest project, my mom and William grew closer. I don’t think it was sexual between them at first—and that was more his choice than hers.”

Of course it was. Because he wasn’t interested in Melanie Romero. He was interested in her daughter. He pandered to the mom so that he could keep his unrestricted access to Veronica. It’s all coming together for me now, the whole Lolita-esque tragedy that was Veronica’s childhood.

I want to punch something. Or more specifically, I want to fly across the country to Liam Brogan’s cell in Lancaster and beat him within an inch of his life. And then I want to do it again. The sick, sick f*ck.

Veronica has stopped talking now and I don’t know if it’s because she doesn’t want to say any more or if she just doesn’t know how to say it. I don’t push her, though there’s a part of me that wants to know just how bad it got, that wants to know just how damaged she really is. But this is her story and I’m willing to wait forever for her to tell it, if that’s what it takes.

Eventually, she starts talking again and I know that we’ve gotten to the bad part just from the sound of her voice. I hold her closer, press kisses to her hair, and wish with everything inside me that I could somehow make this easier for her. Somehow make what she has to say just a little less painful. Just a little less devastating.

“The Christmas I turned eight, my parents went to Greece for a month. My dad was shooting some scenes for his movie, Lush, and he wanted her to come with him for a kind of second honeymoon. She was all over that, of course, loved the idea of having his exclusive attention on her for that length of time. And so they went, right after Christmas. My nanny quit a couple days before they left and Mom convinced Dad that William could handle me. After all, I wasn’t exactly what you’d call a problem child. And we had housekeepers and other staff to feed me and take care of me. The nanny had pretty much been superfluous for a while, so everything was set.”

“Your parents flew off to Europe and left you in the care of a grown man whom they’d employed for only a few months?” I don’t even try to keep the judgment out of my voice.

“They did…and it went pretty much like you’d expect it to.”

And there it is, the confirmation I really, really didn’t want to hear. Fuck. Just f*ck. Just FUCK. “That picture,” I ask, abruptly furious. “Why the f*ck does she still have it in her room?”

“She likes me in that dress.” Veronica’s voice is flat now, nearly toneless. “Or at least that’s what she told me when I finally worked up the nerve to ask her about it.”

“That’s not why.”

“No, of course not.” She pauses. “But how do you know that?”

It’s a perfect opportunity for me to tell her the truth. But I can’t do that to her—not now and maybe not ever. I’ve spent years on this book, have already sold it and received an advance for it. And for the first time since I fell down this rabbit hole three years ago, I really think it was all for nothing. All the work, all the research, all the hours I spent trying to figure this shit out. Because now that I understand what happened, now that I know just how badly Veronica’s been hurt, now that I care about her as deeply as I do…how can I put it out there? How can I publish this book and let the whole world know about what happened to her? It could so easily turn into a feeding frenzy.

“Ian?” she asks again, her voice even quieter than before. “Did she say something about it to you last night at the party?”

“Of course she didn’t.” I insert my tongue firmly in my cheek as I continue. “But I’m pretty good at figuring out what’s going on in someone’s head.”

“Oh, right.” She gives her eyes a self-deprecating roll. “I guess I never really thought about how your years as a behavior analyst affect not just your books, but your everyday interactions with people. Is it weird, knowing so much about a person when you meet them, just from something they say or do?”

“You make it sound like I’m always on, always trying to figure people out.”

“Aren’t you?”

I laugh, but it sounds strained even to my own ears. “Not even a little bit.”