six
I’m screwing around on my phone when Jackson turns from Century Park East onto Santa Monica Boulevard. So it’s not until he makes another turn in relatively short order that I look up, because unless traffic is a mess and he’s searching for a shortcut, it should be one straight shot to the 405 and then down to the marina.
But there is no eighteen-car pileup. It’s just Jackson, who for some reason is not only heading away from the beach but is now steering us into Beverly Hills.
“Are we taking the scenic route?”
“Something like that.” He keeps his eyes on the road as he speaks, and while there’s nothing inherently odd about that, I can’t ignore the chill that flickers up my spine, making the hairs at the nape of my neck prickle.
I’m about to say something—to ask just what exactly is he doing—when he makes a left turn. I see the house that dominates the end of the block, and the answer to that question becomes blazingly, horribly, obviously clear.
“What the hell are you doing?” I demand. “Shit, Jackson, anyone could be watching.”
“I just want to see it.” He grips the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles are white. I’m looking at his profile, and his jaw is firm, but a muscle in his cheek twitches. He’s trying to hold it in—anger, fear, all of it. And dammit, this is not the place he needs to be.
“Jackson, I mean it. We should get out of here.”
“It’s a crime to drive by the house of a dead man? A dead man who fucked with my life? Who threatened my girlfriend? Who’s screwing with me even now that he’s in the grave?”
“A crime?” I repeat, my voice rising. “I don’t know. Is stupidity a crime?”
For the first time, he turns to me, his motion sharp and quick, and I see the fire of temper light his eyes.
I sit up straighter, because I know that I am right, and I am not backing down. “It’s not a crime, but driving past the house of the man you’re accused of killing just screams boneheaded to me. Especially when we already know you were here the day of the murder—and that they just might be taking you into custody tomorrow.” My voice breaks a little, telegraphing my fear.
“They’re either going to arrest me or they won’t.” His voice is flat. “Where I drive today isn’t going to change anything.”
He’s right. I know he’s right. But that doesn’t change the fact that I want to lash out at him. To pound some sense into him. Or maybe I just want to kick and scream and throw a tantrum, because nothing is going the way I want it to right now, and I hate this sensation of staring down a track at the headlight of an oncoming train. I force myself to breathe. To just breathe as I try to keep my shit together, if for no other reason than I need to be strong for Jackson.
Finally, Jackson puts the car in gear and starts to drive. He’s silent at first, but after a few blocks, he pulls over and sighs deeply, his attention entirely on the house that faces us from the lot at the end of this cul-de-sac.
“They’re on it, you know,” I say gently. “Harriet’s team is going to find out who really did this.”
Jackson’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. “I know. If her team can bring in other viable suspects, it increases reasonable doubt. It’s just that . . .” But he doesn’t finish the sentence. Instead he trails off with a shake of his head, then leans back and closes his eyes in what looks like an expression of complete exhaustion.
A knot of fear tightens in my stomach. “Jackson—” But like him, I don’t finish my thought. What am I supposed to say? Are you scared they won’t find anyone else because you’re the one who did it? Or maybe, I hope you killed him because the bastard deserved it, but at the same time I’m terrified I’m going to lose you?
“Jackson,” I begin again, but once more I lose the words.
This time, he takes my hand. “Oh, baby, it’s okay. I’m okay.” He hesitates, his eyes on me, as if he is feeling out my mood. “I just hate not being the one calling the shots. Hell,” he adds, his mouth quirking up into the slightest hint of a smile, “maybe I should be the one investigating. At least then it will feel like I’m doing something. And who knows how many suspects I could track down?”
The knot in my stomach loosens. “I get that,” I say. “Hell, I get you, and I know it’s driving you nuts not to be in control. But you have to be careful, Jackson. You may look like a movie star, but this isn’t a movie, and you can’t traipse around like you’re Sherlock Holmes or something.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “I don’t traipse,” he says, and relief flutters over me, as soft as a butterfly, because the cloud over him seems to be lifting.
“Fair enough. You don’t prance, either. I’m going to say that’s a good thing.”
“I’d do both if I thought it would help me aim the cops’ spotlight on somebody else.”
I start to tell him that he can’t control the whole world, and he needs to let his attorneys do their job. But the words just sit in my head, stale and stupid. Because this is Jackson, and if he can’t control the world, who can? And frankly, if it were my freedom on the line, I wouldn’t be able to sit still, either.
“Well, we can’t risk having you prance or traipse,” I say airily. “Do you want me to talk to Ryan?” I figure if anyone would know how to help with an investigation, it’s Stark International’s security chief.
But Jackson shakes his head. “No. I’ll handle it.”
I study his face. “Are you going to hire your own consulting detective?”
“Actually, I think I’m going to ask for a little brotherly advice.”
“Really?” I can’t help the way my voice rises in surprise.
“The guy knows how to get his hands on information.” He glances sideways at me. “And I think it’s fair to say he knows how to defend against a murder charge, too. If nothing else, he knows who to pay when he needs results.”
“So maybe he’s worth knowing, after all?”
“Well, you respect him,” he says dryly. “So how bad can he be?” But he’s grinning, and I know he means it. For the most part, anyway.
I settle back as Jackson maneuvers onto the freeway. Jackson and Damien may never be as close as I am with my brother, Ethan, but at least they’ve left epic acrimony and distrust behind. Then again, considering who their father is, maybe they’ll bond over their mutually wretched childhoods. That would put them leaps and bounds ahead of me and Ethan, because as much as I love my brother, I haven’t shared with him the hell I went through during our youth. Not only because I don’t want his pity, but because I don’t want his guilt.
Ethan knows that I modeled, and that the money I earned went toward the medical treatments that saved his life. But he doesn’t know how much those treatments cost or what exactly our father was selling to Reed. Not just my image, but me. To photograph, to touch. To use.
And though I hated every goddamn minute of it—though I begged my father to make it stop—I never did the one thing that was always in my power to do. I never ran. Because I knew that we needed the money. That despite the horror of it all, somehow I was helping to save my brother.
I shift uncomfortably in my seat, because now my father is in my head, and I really, really don’t want him there. I’d pushed him out after he called me in Santa Fe, and I’m not at all pleased that I’ve let him back in.
“Dammit,” Jackson says under his breath, and for a moment I actually think he’s commenting on my thoughts.
When I come to my senses, I’m absurdly grateful for the distraction. “What?”
“I completely forgot to call Ronnie at bedtime, and now it’s almost eleven there.” He slams his hand against the steering wheel. “Shit. So much for father of the year.”
“Text Betty,” I suggest. “Tell her not to answer her phone. Then call and leave a message for Ronnie that she can play to her in the morning.”