She rolls her eyes. “Of course.”
“I hate that my evasiveness undermines your trust, but I have no choice.”
“If you hate it, then why not tell me the truth?” She searches my face, before adding, “I promise I can keep a secret!”
“All I can tell you is that it was a VIP that I greatly admire.” I cover her hand with mine. “It’s killing me that he might be dead now.”
“Were you trekking in those mountains together? Is he a hiking buff like my mom and dad?”
“We were in a helicopter together with two other people,” I say. “The pilot died. We were going down. The rest of us parachuted, and I fell into that crevice.”
She listens keenly.
Can she tell that I’m being truthful?I hope so.
“That’s when my parents found you, right?” she asks.
“They must’ve seen my gemstone tattoo through a tear in my clothes. Unfortunately for me, it must resemble the symbol on their talisman, so they decided it was a sign.”
“And so, instead of calling mountain rescue, they transported you here,” she finishes my tale of woe.
I bring her hand to my lips and kiss her delicate fingers. “And then you found me.”
“Here’s a trick question for you.” She slants me a mischievous look. “As a bodyguard, what do you do if your VIP is being followed?”
Her silly little test makes me laugh. “Here I am, being stark honest, and you still don’t believe me.”
“I do… I just…” She shoots me a pleading look. “I want to make a confession, too, which is why I need to be certain you aren’t duping me.”
“If my assessment is that the follower doesn’t represent a threat, I might choose to simply let them know that I’m aware of them.”
“What if they’re a threat?”
“Then I’ll be covert about it at first, while trying to ID the person. I’ll warn my VIP, and as soon as we have an opening, we’ll lose them.”
She mulls over my answer.
I feign concern. “Did I pass or fail?”
“Here’s my confession.” She takes a few fortifying breaths but doesn’t say more.
I don’t rush her. This isherinitiative. Shewantsto talk. She’ll do it when she’s ready.
“I’m unstable,” she finally says. “As in, mentally ill. I have a condition called DID, dissociative identity disorder. It used to be calledmultiple personality disorder, if that helps.” She skews a bitter smile. “Not to be confused with schizophrenia.”
I frown. “Are you sure?”
“You couldn’t tell, could you? I’m on meds. You don’t want to know what I’m capable of when I’m not.”
My gaze riveted to hers, I object, “I do want to know. Try me.”
She squeezes her eyes shut. “I can’t. You’ll despise me.”
“Like I said, try me.”
She shakes her head.
“All right,” I say. “Don’t give me the specifics. Is what you’ve done against the law?”
