Scarlett took a seat in one of the pleather chairs, turning to the pile of magazines on a side table next to her and half-heartedly rifling through them. She almost gasped when she slid one aside to reveal one of those weekly tabloids she always avoided in the grocery store, to see Royce Reynolds’s face staring up at her in living color, the title screaming, Hollywood’s Golden Boy Reveals Battle With Mental Illness. Scarlett felt her stomach drop.
With a quick glance at Haddie to make sure she was still being entertained by the fish, Scarlett grabbed the magazine, folded the cover back, and flipped through the pages until she found the article. She read it quickly, skipping over some of the words so she could take it all in before her daughter grew tired of the fish and came to sit next to her. In a nutshell, Royce Reynolds had recently completed a stay in a private mental facility and, because he’d been photographed leaving the hospital and widespread speculation occurred, he’d made the decision to open up about his lifelong battle with mental illness in the hopes that it might help someone else who, like him, had spent too many years hiding a condition they could not help, nor control. What Scarlett read between the lines, was that the speculation over his stay at the hospital, specifically the rumor that he was battling drug addiction—and losing—had cost him a big role, and the admittance of his mental illness was at least in some part, about damage control and attempting to get ahead of the story by giving his personal account.
“Royce has spent his life battling an illness that he suffers with, through no fault of his own,” his agent was quoted as saying, driving home Scarlett’s assumption. “Despite his overwhelming struggle, he has risen to fame and fortune, moving millions of people with his captivating film roles, and working tirelessly on behalf of his many philanthropic interests. He is a true inspiration, and an American hero. Let it never be said that those struggling similarly cannot work around challenges just as Royce has.”
She stared at the page, a myriad of emotions swirling within her. Whether or not there was a PR spin going on, Scarlett had every compassion in the world for someone suffering a mental illness, even this man who had lied to and used her, and then sent his wife to deal with the consequences. She didn’t care if the majority of citizens thought of Royce Reynolds as an American hero, what she was most focused on was whether or not his unnamed mental illness might have been passed on to their daughter.
Worry sluiced like acid in her gut. Haddie had said mean things to another child. Twice. And then not remembered what she’d done. She’d wet herself and looked petrified when she’d first seen Camden . . . yet had thought nothing of it. Did any of it—or all of it—have to do with a mental illness like Royce had?
Just below his agent’s quote was another, this one from Royce himself. “We realize this is controversial, and it’s not a choice everyone in my position would choose to make, but my wife and I have decided to forgo having children of our own, and instead to adopt our family. I would never want anyone to suffer what I’ve suffered, and there are so many needy kids in the world.”
I would never want anyone to suffer what I’ve suffered. Scarlett felt mildly ill.
Her gaze lingered on a photo that was dated the week before, of Royce and a fellow actor posing with a fan. Apparently, Royce had just started filming a new movie in Los Angeles. Scarlett brought the magazine closer, squinting. She recognized the corner of the hotel they were standing in front of. Wasn’t that the—
“Haddie Lattimore?”
Scarlett jerked her head up, tossing the magazine, front side down on the table next to her and standing quickly.
“Ready?” She smiled at Haddie as she turned, taking her hand, and following the nurse into the exam room.
The doctor entered a few minutes later, an older man in his sixties, completely bald, with a long face, a pair of round spectacles, and an easy smile. “Ms. Lattimore? I’m Dr. Bill Woodrow. Some of the kids call me Dr. Bill. You must be Haddie,” he said after shaking Scarlett’s hand and moving his attention to Haddie.
He squatted down in front of the chair where Haddie sat, resting his elbows on his knees. Haddie drew back, appearing as if she was trying to press herself into the wall. Her eyes widened and her expression soured.
“Uh,” Scarlett said, taking Haddie’s hand in hers. “Haddie can be shy, Dr. Woodrow.” She squeezed Haddie’s hand but Haddie didn’t move, seemingly glued to her chair as she eyed the man sideways.
Dr. Woodrow slapped his knees lightly, smiled, and stood. “I understand. I used to be shy when I was a kid too. Now what brings you into my office today?”
Once the appointment was over and Scarlett had buckled Haddie into her seat, she pulled out of the lot, glancing at Haddie in the rearview mirror. “You didn’t seem to care for Dr. Woodrow much,” she said, trying to keep her tone conversational. Dr. Woodrow had only stayed in the room long enough to get Haddie’s history, and take down Scarlett’s concerns about the one-time loss of bladder control. The nurse had come in and performed the rest of the tests after that, and Haddie had seemed markedly more comfortable with the young woman.
Haddie shook her head, but didn’t elaborate. Scarlett’s eyes lingered on her daughter for a moment before she looked back at the road. “Any particular reason?”
Haddie seemed to think about it but then shook her head again. “He doesn’t feel good,” she finally said. Haddie had said similar things about other people before. Based on what? Scarlett wanted to yell. But she didn’t think Haddie knew. Again, one of those Haddie-isms Scarlett had to accept, while simultaneously hoping she’d outgrow it or learn to verbalize it. He doesn’t feel good. Worry twisted through her when she thought back to the magazine article and the fact that Haddie’s birth father had a self-professed mental illness.
Do you hear voices, Haddie? Is that why you always seem so far away? Are you too busy listening to them to focus on me? And if so, what do they tell you, sweetheart? Do they scare you?
Unfortunately, the article about Royce hadn’t spoken of his specific diagnosis. That might have helped. As it was, she had nothing more to go on. As it was, she could only wonder if it was something that might be hereditary, something that Royce Reynolds had passed on to his unacknowledged child.
Haddie’s immediate medical test results hadn’t helped shed light on the loss of bladder control or the strange behavior. She didn’t have an infection, or a fever, or bloodwork that showed anything even remotely concerning. As far as her physical assessment went, her girl was as healthy as a horse.
Scarlett thought of that small snippet of the downtown LA hotel she’d spotted and wondered if that was where he was staying while he filmed.
Do you dare?
Did she dare go to the hotel and hope to spot a member of his security detail who might remember her and pass a message to Royce? The prideful part of her shriveled at the idea. Not only had she signed a contract that promised she wouldn’t contact him, but he’d been distant and dismissive toward her when she’d called to tell him she was pregnant . . . scared and alone.
But it’d been enough of a task just to get a message to Royce the first time she’d contacted him. She couldn’t do that this time, not only because it’d be unlikely that he’d call her back, but because she couldn’t leave the “paper trail.” She chewed at her lip. It would be a risk to break the contract in person too. It could mean being sued . . . losing Lilith House . . . her dream . . . the life she’d planned for the two of them.