CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Kathleen watched Veronica closely as the words settled in. She looked tense, her shoulders stiff as if ready to be turned away. And she looked tired and older.
“Are you staying or going?” Kathleen asked.
Veronica met her eyes. “Do you want me to stay?”
It was a question Kathleen hadn’t thought through properly. Her world was tilted, not orderly or neat how she liked it.
Veronica was chaos.
She crossed her arms, not to shield herself, but to stay upright. “I don’t know. Part of me wants to slam the door in your face. Another remembers what it felt like to have you beside me at night… that part wants you to stay.”
Veronica didn’t smile, merely nodded. “Then I’ll stay, not as Veronica but who I truly am. There will be no more lies.”
Kathleen held still. “Tell me who that is.”
Veronica hesitated, slowly slipped her coat off, and sat on the couch before she looked up again. “My name is Marise Cummings,” she said quietly. “I’ve been alone since I was seventeen.”
Kathleen took the seat opposite and listened.
“I grew up in a place that you would have hated. It was a concrete slum where nothing bloomed, only bruises and cigarette ash. My mother had a string of boyfriends, all of them dropkicks, some of them violent.” Her voice stayed steady, but her eyes had gone somewhere far away. “There was one in particular I loathed. When he beat me, I learned soon enough that no one was coming to save me. My mother ignored the violence; it was simply part of her world.”
Kathleen felt her chest tighten.
“By fifteen I was working at a motel, cleaning rooms for cash. At sixteen, I was slinging coffee at a twenty-four-hour diner and hiding my wages in a tin under the floorboard. At seventeen, I walked out with a backpack and a high school diploma. My mother, already half-wasted at eleven in the morning, didn’t say goodbye. She stared at me like she was betting how long it’d take before I came crawling back.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No. I never did.” Veronica’s voice roughened. “I slept in shelters. Hostels. Shared flats with five girls and a dog, worked double shifts and started studying psychology—one subject at a time. Not because I wanted to help people, but because I needed to understand why people hurt each other. Why others let it happen.”
Kathleen moved to the edge of the couch, her arms slack, listening not only to the words but the silence behind them. Kathleen’s fingers tightened around the edge of the cushion as as Veronica told her story. The disappointment of her job at the crisis centre, her first real paying position and the people who tried to control her.
When Veronica finally raised her head, there was something unguarded in her expression. “I walked out and never went back. Burned the SIM, changed my name and went freelance. Took contracts, but was never directly involved with what happenedafterwards. Clients remained anonymous. I was a ghost who could find anything.”
“And this contract?”
“Someone paid me a lot of money to find out what you were working on and if you were nearly finished the project. That’s all, find the info and get out.”
Kathleen said after a long moment. “I was evasive, so you tried to find out from Ted.”
“That’s right.”
“At the cabin…why didn’t you tell me?”
Veronica sighed. “Because I didn’t want to lose you.” She looked at her pleadingly. “I didn’t expect to care this much.”
Kathleen swallowed hard. Her throat felt dry, her chest tight. “You lied to me.”
“I did and I’m sorry for all of it. I don’t expect forgiveness, but I needed you to know the truth.”
There was an uncomfortable silence between them, then Kathleen said quietly, “So what now?”
Veronica met her gaze. “I’ll go if you want me to. If you’ll have me, I’ll stay. Not as Veronica. As me. Marise.”
Kathleen walked to the window and stood there a long moment, watching the lights of the city blink against the dark. Then she turned back, her voice low. “There has to be no more secrets. If it’s all right, I’ll continue to call you Veronica. I don’t like the woman you were.”
“Maybe you’re right. A new name, a fresh start,” Veronica said.
