“Did you tell your attorney?” I ask. “About seeing the photo? Because what we heard after you confessed was that you were basically killing him to make things easier on Jackson. But if he provoked you, then surely that will come into play when you’re negotiating the plea.”
“I’m not going to say a word about those photos. You think I want those things out in the world? As it stands, nobody else knows, right?”
I nod. Harriet knows about the blackmail, but she’d learned it in the course of representing her client, and wouldn’t say a word. Not only that, but as far as she knows, Reed’s copies of the photos are still missing.
“I’m staying silent,” my dad says again. “I’m not going to make it worse for you than I already have.”
“Daddy.” I blink, realizing that my eyes have filled with tears.
He starts to reach for me, but has to stop because of the cuffs. “Oh, hell, honey. Did I screw up that bad? Did I destroy you?”
“I—” I close my mouth because I don’t know what to say. Yes? No? Sometimes I feel ripped to pieces? Sometimes I’m okay?
I choose to stay silent, and he just sighs.
“I fucked up, Sylvia, I did. And I know I hurt you, but look at you. You’re so damn strong. Look at everything you’ve done. At all you’ve become. You’re smart and you’re poised and you go after what you want. And I think that’s the only reason I can stand my life right now. Because I know that despite what I did to you, that you were strong enough not to let me destroy you.”
He draws in a deep breath. “Jackson’s a good man. I wanted to hurt the fucker for rubbing my nose in the truth. But I’m glad he did it. You deserve a man who’ll protect you. God knows it wasn’t your father. Least not until I killed that bastard.”
It’s only when a fat tear lands on the metal table that I realize I’ve been crying. “Daddy,” I say, but then I have to stop, because I can’t get any more words out. After I calm myself and breathe a little, I try again. “Daddy, you have to tell them about the blackmail. They need to know you acted in a moment of passion. That’s got to be important.”
“Hell, no.”
“Then I’ll release the pictures to the press and I’ll tell the cops myself.” Even as I say the words, I know that I mean them. For years, I’ve been scared of those damn photos. Of the past they represent. Of the shame. But I’m tired of giving them power. Hell, I’m tired of giving Reed power.
Jackson’s right—I know how to fight my nightmares. And the way to do it is by ripping the last bit of control from Reed’s hands.
“No, honey, no. I already worked out a nice deal. A good deal. We pleaded down. No premeditation. Three years at most.”
He’s right, I know. That is a good deal. But it could be better if I turn over the photos.
But when I suggest it, my dad steadfastly shakes his head. “No,” he says firmly as he meets my eyes.
“Why not? I can handle it. And if we just turn them over to the prosecutor, they might even seal them.”
“Maybe you can, and maybe they would, but I want to do that time.”
I blink, confused. “What? Why?”
“I owe you, Elle,” he says softly, calling me by the name I stopped using when Reed started touching me.
“Being in a cage doesn’t change anything.”
His smile is infinitely sad. “Maybe not. But it makes me feel better.”
The guard raps on the window, signaling time.
“I don’t know if I can truly forgive you, Daddy,” I say as the guard opens the door and starts to walk toward my dad. “But I think maybe I want to try.”
twenty-nine
The only reason Jackson got through the rest of Sunday was because he had Ronnie to take care of. And the only reason he survived Monday morning was because Stella took care of Ronnie, and Jackson buried himself in work.
But by mid-afternoon, even the pull of the resort wasn’t keeping him on track. He was edgy. Lost. Angry.
He wanted to lash out, and more than once during the morning he’d considered calling Sutter and getting him to open the gym. Maybe even go a few rounds. But the idea of losing himself to the dance and weave, the sweat and pain, the screaming muscles and pumped up adrenaline wasn’t doing it for him today.
No, he knew what the goddamn antidote for his misery was—and she’d up and left him.
Goddammit.
And for that matter, goddamn her. He wanted to be patient. He wanted to help. But at the same time he wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake some sense into her. And it frustrated the hell out of him that while he could grab control from her in bed, in life, she had to make her own choices, her own decisions.
He only hoped she made the right one. Because he loved her, and he knew that she loved him. He wanted to make a family with her, a life. And he believed with all his heart that she wanted the same thing. But it was fear that had pushed her away. And all he could do was hope that her innate strength would bring her back. She had a lot of strength, after all. She’d pulled him back, hadn’t she?
Hell.
He glanced at the clock, saw that it was Ronnie’s snack time, and decided to go see if he could share a PB&J with his daughter and her nanny. He was almost to the elevator bank when his assistant, Lauren, called out to him. “Mr. Steele? Rachel just called down. She says there’s someone to see you on thirty-five.”
Sylvia? Surely not, but maybe she was being coy. He allowed himself the pleasure of the fantasy that she was waiting for him at her desk, but when he arrived, he was disappointed to see that it wasn’t her—and confused that it was Graham Elliott instead.
“Mr. Steele,” Graham said, walking to him and holding out his hand. “I’m sorry to bother you at the office. I’ve met Evelyn Dodge a time or two socially, and when I said I wanted to talk to you, she suggested I come by.” He shot a Hollywood smile toward Rachel, who looked like she was going to float out of her chair. “Ms. Peters has been nice enough to entertain me.”
“I, um, water? Would you like water? Or coffee? Or—”
Graham shook his head. “I’m fine. Thanks.”
Jackson slid his hands into his trouser pockets. “What can I do for you?” He tried to say it politely; he wasn’t sure he succeeded. This was the man who wanted to play him in a movie about the Fletcher house, after all. This was the man willing to foment the kind of scandal that would throw slime all over Jackson’s daughter.
“Two things, actually. I wanted to say congrats on getting your name cleared. And I wanted to tell you that I’m off the movie.”
Jackson shifted his weight. Not relaxing—not yet—but interested. And dubious. “Is that so?”
Graham seemed to deflate a bit. “Look, I’m breaking a confidence, but you should know that your dad was in bed with Reed. He was keen on getting the movie made. Figured it would be one hell of a payday. Even dropped that bombshell about you and your brother when interest waned. Guess he figured it would pick back up.”
Jackson stood perfectly still. “And you? Why were you involved?”
“The material rocks, man. And it’s not defamation. All that shit that happened to you—to the Fletchers—it’s a damn solid story and it would make one hell of a movie.”
“And yet you’re not going to make it.”
Graham met his eyes. “I’m not,” he said. “The material’s good, but my perspective has changed. My girlfriend’s pregnant, and if anyone messed with my kid, I’d fuck them up one side and down the other. But I guess you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you? That’s why you were trying to kill the movie.”
Jackson nodded. “Yes. It was.”
“Was your dad the leak? About your daughter, I mean.”
“I don’t know, but I don’t think so. I think the press just did their job and found the court papers in New Mexico.”
Graham nodded. “Listen, I can’t promise that no one else will hop on, but I can promise they’ll get no support from me. And with you no longer a suspect, the tabloids will back off. I predict they lose interest.”