The afternoon shifted from a happy, laid-back reunion to a frantic flurry of activity, with calls between New Mexico and California, lawyers squabbling, deals churning.
At the end of it all, Jackson was permitted to stay the weekend, on condition that he go straight to the Beverly Hills Police Department Monday morning. In truth, Jackson could have garnered much more time—unless the police wanted to actually arrest him, their leverage was limited—but his attorney wisely advised against it. After all, playing games isn’t the way to win either police cooperation or public opinion. And while we don’t yet know what physical evidence the police have collected, we do know that the cops can point to plenty of motive for Jackson to have killed Reed.
Motive.
The word sounds so clean compared to Reed, who was a dirty, horrible man.
Not only had he abused and tormented me when I was a teen, but he’d recently threatened to release some of the vile photographs that he’d taken of me back then if I didn’t convince Jackson to stop trying to block a movie that Reed was trying to greenlight. A movie that would expose secrets and deceptions—and that would thrust Ronnie, an innocent child, into the middle of a very public, very messy scandal.
Did Jackson want the movie stopped? Hell, yes.
Did he want to protect me from the horror of seeing those pictures flashed across the internet? Damn right.
Did he want to punish Reed for the things he’d done to me so many years ago? Absolutely.
Did Jackson kill Reed?
As for that one—I truly don’t know. For that matter, I don’t care. My only fear is that Jackson will be taken away from me. That if he did kill Reed, the system will make him pay, even for the death of a monster. And that if he didn’t kill Reed, it won’t matter. He will be an innocent man falsely convicted, punished for the potency of his hate rather than the reality of his actions.
I can’t bear the thought of losing him, and yet that fear now colors my world. It is Jackson’s fear, too, I know. Only, his is even more potent. Because he would lose not only me, but Ronnie. Not to mention the life and career that he has worked so hard to build.
I reach for him and take his hand in mine. How many times in the hours since we arrived have I searched for the perfect words to soothe him? But there are no perfect words. I can only do my best. I can only just be here.
I squeeze his hand and he smiles, just a little, then wraps his free arm around Ronnie and pulls her close, the action so full of wild, heart-breaking emotion that it almost shatters me.
“You should go outside,” Jackson tells the little girl. “Fred’s probably wondering where you are.”
At the mention of the new puppy, her blue eyes, so like Jackson’s, go wide. “You’ll come, too?”
“Absolutely,” he promises. “Let me talk to Syl while she drinks her coffee, and then I’ll come find you.”
“And eat your toast?” she asks, her earnest question aimed at me.
“I can’t wait for the toast,” I say. “I bet it’s the best toast ever.”
“Yup,” she confirms, then shoots like a rocket out of the room.
Jackson watches her go, and I watch Jackson. When he turns back, he catches me eyeing him, then smiles sheepishly. “It’s hard to believe sometimes,” he says. “That she’s really mine, I mean.”
I think about the little girl’s dark hair and blue eyes. Her cleverness coupled with a vibrant personality and fierce determination. “Not hard to believe at all.”
I had hoped to coax a smile, but still he just looks sad.
“Are you okay?” It’s a stupid question, of course, and it hangs there, as awkward and inadequate as I feel.