“And how are your moods? Any sadness? Thoughts of self-harm.”
I shake my head, choosing my words carefully. “Before the incident, when Lone Star Security stepped in, I sometimes felt helpless. Like a hamster on a wheel. Like I have no say in my own life.”
She nods, eyes warm but cautious. “Our legal team is still reviewing the conservatorship. But from what I’ve seen, your feelings are justifiable.”
“All I wanted was a break. A stop from the touring, the performing, a moment to breathe. Especially after the shooting. If anyone had been injured on account of me…”
“Or if you’d been hurt,” she urges.
I pause, letting the words sink in. Sadness floods me, stinging the backs of my eyes. “You’re right,” I say suddenly, eyes searching hers. “You speak to me like I’m a human being—not a commodity.”
“Because you are,” she answers, expression determined. “And you have been all along.”
I nod, swallowing hard.
Fingers glide through my hair all over again. A gruff voice rumbles next to me, reassuring me—not saying goodbye.
“Dinner’s served at six. Here’s a copy of the menu.” She leans across the table, handing a laminated paper to me.
“If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call. A housekeeper comes through once a day to check on things, and we’ll also be checking in with you regularly to meet court requests and to facilitate your case.”
“I can’t thank you enough,” I whisper.
“The grounds are secure and heavily monitored, and your room has a small private patio, if you’d prefer to avoid other residents. But everyone here is very welcoming, not intrusive.”
“Other residents?” Panic grips me.
She nods, the corners of her mouth turning up. “Other high-profile women in need of assistance. Whether it’s the wife of a politician going through an abusive divorce or an actor transitioning from rehab. You’ll find many like-minded women here. People who understand, but only when you’re ready.”
“Okay.” I exhale.
“In that case, let me show you to your room. I’ll assume you can shower and go about daily activities without supervision?”
Her question startles me. “Yes.”
A single sheet of paper slides across the desk with a pen.
I eye it suspiciously.Is she really asking me to sign paperwork?I’m used to autographs, not decisions … or consent.
“There will be more where that came from, but I’ll walk you through everything later. This acknowledges that you understand the house rules and have accurately self-reported your current physical and mental states. And it also provides a waiver for medical intervention if needed.”
My hand hovers over the paper, pen suspended in mid-air.
“What do you mean, medical intervention?”
“If there’s ever an emergency. Some reason an ambulance might need to be called.”
My eyes scan the paper, seeing places to initial and then sign related to first responders, resuscitation, a life directive.
“If you’d prefer to hold off on signing that until you can consult our legal team, that’s fine, too. The intricacies of your case are such that it might make more sense.”
I smile bitterly. “You mean that I’m uncertain whether I can make these decisions at all?”
She nods. “Hopefully, that will change sooner than later.”
“Hopefully,” I repeat, scanning the sheet of paper. “What’s the date?” I ask as I initial and sign it.
“The sixteenth.”
