“Jackson,” I whisper, and he takes my hand, then holds it tight. And in that moment, I know that he’s wrong about me. I’m not strong. I’m weak. Because he’s comforting me, and I should be the one comforting him.
Oh, god. Oh, god, oh, god, oh, god.
Harriet is still talking and Jackson is answering. His voice sounds almost normal. Maybe tighter than usual, but it has an efficient clip. I’m not even listening to what they’re saying. I think she’s going over what will happen tomorrow. How he’ll be processed. How she’ll request bail, but with his temper he might be declined.
“And they want to interview you, Sylvia,” she says, making my head jerk up. “I can postpone that for a day or so, I think. I’ll explain to Detective Garrison that you’re in shock.”
“That’s true,” I say, and she nods with sympathy.
“You both need to understand that this isn’t over.”
She is looking at Jackson when she says that.
“Not over, but also not good,” he says. “The time I assaulted him. The witness who saw me, who heard Reed and I arguing. The movie and Ronnie. All of it,” he finishes. “All of it cuts against me.”
“Yes,” Harriet says. “But now is when we ramp up for the fight.”
He says nothing.
“I know you’re worried. I know you’re overwhelmed. That’s okay. That’s why you have me. This is what I do, Jackson. This is what you’re paying me for. So that I can take over the fight now. Trust me, okay? I’ll get you through this.”
“Getting through it might mean that we enter a plea. End up serving less time, but still years.”
“It might,” she agrees, as my stomach twists at the idea.
He meets her eyes. “I didn’t kill him.”
“I believe you,” she says.
But all three of us know that doesn’t really matter.
After Harriet leaves, I hold tight to Jackson as he practically vibrates with pent-up energy. The need for action. And, yes, the need to fight.
Right now, though, there is nothing and no one to fight.
He pulls me even closer, the motion wild and desperate, and for a moment I think that he wants me again. Wants to lose himself in sex. Wants to pummel his fear with passion.
But that isn’t what he is looking for. Not now. Instead, he holds me to him for a few seconds of blinding solidarity, then he releases me and begins to pace. His long strides eat up the length of the boat, and though he says nothing, by watching his face I can discern his purpose. He is thinking. Planning.
He is making a mental list, making sure that everything that matters to him is either already handled or that it will be by morning.
“Chester,” he says, looking hard at me. “Have him put together a list of architects I’ve worked with. You’ll want someone to monitor the work, just like you’d planned for Dean to do.”
“Jackson. Stop. I can handle it.”
He meets my eyes, his haunted.
“I can handle it,” I say again.
“Can you? Can you really? Because I’m not sure that I can.”
I step to him, then gently brush his cheek. “Yes,” I say. “You can. This is just a step. One step on the path, just like Harriet said. You’re going to get past this. You’re not going to prison.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“Yes,” I say, because I’ll be damned if I’ll tell him anything else tonight.
He rakes both of his hands through his hair. “I need to call Ronnie.”
“It’s past midnight in Santa Fe.”
“I know. But I might not—”
He doesn’t finish the sentence, but he doesn’t have to. “Go on,” I say. “She’ll think talking to you in the middle of the night is a grand adventure.”
He flashes a grateful smile, then disappears below deck. I hesitate, not sure what I want to do. I feel that same need for action. The need to move. To do.
But do what? There’s not a goddamn thing I can do.
I know, because if there was, I would have done it a long time ago.
Finally, after standing there too long feeling impotent, I take one of the blankets out of the waterproof chest and curl up on the lounge chair. I pull out my phone and dial Cass, but I only get her voice mail. I don’t bother leaving a message. She’ll call me back simply from seeing that I called. But considering the hour, I don’t expect to hear from her before morning.
I close my eyes, thinking that perhaps sleep will be a good refuge, but I don’t want that, either. Not now. Not with Jackson being arrested. That’s a surefire trigger for a nightmare, and I cannot afford a nightmare tonight.
Not because I couldn’t survive it, but because I don’t want Jackson to feel compelled to soothe it.
I pick my phone up again, and this time I dial Ethan. He answers on the first ring with a drunken, “It’s my big sister! Dudes, it’s Syl!”
I hear more drunken male voices behind him shouting things like, “Hey!” and “Yo, baby!” and despite the day I’ve had I can’t help but smile.
“Where are you?” I ask, when the commotion dies down.
“Mexico,” he says. “Gracias, por favor. Arriba!”
I laugh. “Your Spanish stinks. Are you really in Mexico?”
“Just for the weekend. I’m with Larry and Jim,” he adds, mentioning two friends from college. “I figured if I’m going to go, I might as well do it while I have leave. No diving. Just snorkeling and drinking. And enjoying the buffet of female companionship.”
I roll my eyes. “God. My brother the hound dog.”
“And proud of it. What’s up?”
“I just wanted to hear your voice,” I say, to which my brother, who knows me well, says, “Bullshit.”
“Fine. It’s Jackson. He’s being charged Monday. He’s supposed to surrender himself at nine.”
“Holy shit.” His voice has lost the drunken happy tone. “Syl, I’m—that’s just fucked up.”
“I know.”
“Are you okay?”
“No.” My voice cracks a little, but I’m determined not to cry. “No, but I guess I’ll have to be.”
“Do you want me to come back?”
I hug the blanket close, completely in love with my brother. “Thanks, but no. I’ll be okay.” I’m not sure how, but I have to believe it is true. “But I love you for offering.”
“Anything, Syl. You know that, right?”
“Yeah. I do.”
“How’s Jackson holding up?”
“Stoic. Scared. Pissed.” I close my eyes and sigh. “Pretty much everything you’d expect.”
“What about his little girl? Is she—I mean, are you going to take care of her?”
I lick my lips, because my mouth has gone suddenly dry. That possibility hadn’t occurred to me. “I don’t know,” I admit. “She’s in Santa Fe right now. I don’t know what Jackson wants to do. He’s talking to her right now. He wanted—” My voice breaks, and I have to try again. “He wanted to talk to her before he’s taken into custody.”
“Yeah.” I hear him draw in a long breath. “Listen, I should let you go. It’s late.”
“Sure. I’m glad I caught you. Have fun. I’ll talk—”
“Samantha was pregnant.” He blurts out the words.
I replay that in my head, not entirely certain I heard right. “Say again?”
“That’s why we broke up,” he says. “Why I left London. She was pregnant. I didn’t want a kid—didn’t figure I could handle a kid. We fought. I left.”
“Oh.” I lick my lips. “I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m the one who’s sorry.”
“Because you left?”
“No.” He sounds suddenly tired. “No, I mean it when I say I’m not cut out to be a dad. But I’m sorry for ragging on you about the kid thing. I was talking at you through a curtain of my own shit.”
“So you do think I can handle it?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” I can picture him tilting his head back with exasperation the way he does. “I really don’t know. Look at our role models, you know? But then again, we turned out okay.”