They’d arrived before I did at eight this morning. Jackson had told me not to come. “You can’t go into the interview, so you’ll be sitting by yourself worrying. Go to work. Do something. Don’t think about it. And I’ll be with you before you realize any time has passed at all.”
It was a great plan in theory, and when Jackson dropped me by my condo on his way to Beverly Hills, I was totally on board. But then my car decided it had other plans, and I ended up on Rexford Drive at the art deco–inspired building.
Now I’m doing exactly what Jackson said I would be doing—worrying instead of working.
And, yes, I know that he won’t be saying anything except, “On the advice of my attorney, I refuse to answer,” yada yada yada. But what if they arrest him? What if the last moments he had free were last night?
What if today is the day that I lose him?
I pull out my phone to call Cass, but on Mondays she doesn’t open the studio until two, and so she tends to sleep in. I know she won’t mind if I wake her, especially under the circumstances, but she and Siobhan haven’t been back together that long, and I hate to interrupt. Especially since I’m so happy that Siobhan is back in Cass’s life—and Zee is so very out of it.
I stroke my thumb idly over the surface of my phone, debating. But in the end I slide it back into my purse. I’m a big girl, after all. I can go it alone.
Oh, god.
Those words slice through me, because I do not want to go it alone. Not now in this hallway and certainly not for the rest of my life.
Breathe. Just breathe.
I do, and that’s my mantra for about ten minutes—just breathe. But as each minute ticks by, my fear is ratcheting up, too. And when I can’t stand it anymore, I yank my phone out of my purse and am just about to dial when I hear my name from the wrong end of the hallway.
I glance automatically toward the doors through which I expect Jackson to emerge. He’s not there, of course, and when I turn in the other direction, I see Orlando McKee striding toward me.
“Ollie?”
Ollie works as an associate at Bender Twain, but I can’t imagine why he’s here. I leap to my feet, suddenly panicked. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I haven’t heard a thing. Nikki asked me to come.”
“Really?”
I must sound as astounded as I feel, because he laughs. “I guess Damien told her you weren’t at the office, and she figured you were here. Worried. So she called me.”
“That’s incredibly sweet.” I’m genuinely touched. I like Nikki a lot, and we’ve become friends, but in the grand scheme of things we still don’t know each other that well—the only truly close friend I’ve ever had is Cass. But I think it’s a friendship worth working on, and the simple fact that she sent Ollie to hold my hand tells me that she feels the same way.
“How’s Cass?” he asks. “Has she decided what she’s going to do?”
“She wants to go forward,” I say, referring to Cass’s plan to franchise Totally Tattoo. “I’m sure she’ll call you soon about the next step, but right now she’s in that blissful new relationship stage. Renewed, actually, but why split hairs?”
“Good for her. I hope it sticks.”
Since I happen to know that his attempts to renew a relationship were less than successful, I change the subject. “I’m having drinks with her and my brother tomorrow night. I’ll tell her you said hi. Maybe that’ll nudge her.”
“Definitely tell her hello for me, but no need to nudge. She needs to take her time and be sure.”
“You sound very lawyerly.”
“I practice in the mirror every morning,” he deadpans, making me laugh.
“You’re looking very lawyerly, too.” His long hair has been cut short, and his glasses have been replaced by contacts. Basically, Orlando McKee has gone from hippie to hot.
“I decided—well, I decided it was time to grow up a bit.”
I smile in response, but the truth is that I’ve surpassed my small-talk quota. I turn away from Ollie to stare at the closed door at the end of the hall. The door that leads to the bull pen and the detectives’ offices and an interview room with Jackson in it.
“I’m starting to really get scared.” My words are so soft that I’m not even sure that Ollie has heard them.
“I know.” He hooks an arm around my shoulders and I lean against him. “But even if they arrest him, that’s not—”
He doesn’t finish the sentence because the door opens at the end of the hall. For the flash of an instant, my imagination runs wild, and I picture Jackson in an orange jumpsuit, his wrists bound in cuffs.
The image is so vibrant, so horrible, that it propels me to my feet. And when I really do see him—unfettered and striding toward me with his usual confident air—I can’t help myself. I race to him and launch myself into his outstretched arms.
“You’re here,” he says as Harriet moves away toward Ollie to give us privacy.
“Of course I am.”
My legs are wrapped around his hips and he’s holding me up by the waist. Now, he releases me, and I slide down his body, relishing the sensation of being with him. Of being able to touch him. Of the world having righted itself.
When my feet are on the floor, I hook my arms around his neck and he bends forward, his forehead pressed to mine.
“How was it?”
“I’m not in a cell. I’m counting it as a win.”
I frown. “Don’t joke about that.”
“Sweetheart,” he says, “I’m not joking.”
I look at his face—at the tension there, at the exhaustion. And worry swirls in my gut. “Oh, god. What do they know?”
He runs his hand over his hair. “Not much. Not yet.” But then he meets my eyes. “My number on his cell phone. I called him on Halloween before I went to his house.”
“Oh, god.” I reach for the wall and then drop down onto the nearby bench. Jackson immediately sits beside me.
“No,” he says. “No. All they know is I called. And as Harriet says, why would I do that if I was going to kill him? Leave an electronic trail? That wouldn’t be smart.” He tilts my chin up with the tip of his finger. “And we both know I’m smart.”
I hug myself to ward off a chill, but I nod. He is. Smart enough to double back, create false leads. To plan a murder if he wanted to. Or angry enough to fly off the handle and let all that intelligence fly right out the window. Either way the cops play it, that’s a piece of a much larger puzzle. A piece that I wish didn’t exist at all.
Jackson’s hands twine with my own. “Hey,” he says softly. “I’m a free man right now. Let’s celebrate that, okay, and not the what-ifs?”
I nod, feeling raw and hollow and like I could use a good long cry. I’m overwhelmed, I know. Battered by emotions. But what I want to be is numb.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he tells me again. “I don’t think I could get through this without you.”
I manage a tremulous smile, because I know that he needs to see it. “You won’t ever have to,” I say, and even as I speak, the horrible, awful reality that has been poking at my subconscious breaks through, and it is all that I can do not to bury my face in his shirt, hold him close, and cry.
Because I have spoken the truth: I will always be there for him.
But if he’s arrested—if he’s convicted—the same won’t be true for me.
I’ll be alone.
And I honestly don’t know if I’m strong enough to survive without Jackson at my side.
“This one is completely impossible,” Rachel says as she hands me an envelope addressed to Damien.
I’ve spent the last hour helping her sort through various pending items that have built up as she’s manned Damien’s desk. I’m glad for the work. Jackson and I had a quick celebratory breakfast on the way to the office, but just because the ax hasn’t fallen doesn’t mean it’s not still poised to do just that. And I can’t spend the day wondering what’s going to happen next.