“Oh, baby.” He releases my arm, and this time when he kisses my lips there is such tender sweetness that I go a little limp.

“I can’t lose it,” I say. “And I can’t lose you. So, yeah. If I can help you, I will. And if that pisses you off, then that’s just too damn bad.”

We’re in the reception area. A wall of windows exposes the twinkling lights of the city and the ocean beyond.

He looks at me, his expression soft. Calm. He nods once. Just a simple incline of his head, but I see the apology in it.

I sigh, then walk to the window and press my palm to the glass. It’s easy to see the line where the city meets the impenetrable depths of the ocean. But beyond that ribbon of black, I see the faint, twinkling lights of Catalina Island. And beyond that, unseen, is Santa Cortez.

Jackson comes up behind me and very gently reaches around to lay his hand atop mine. “We’re not losing it.”

I want to believe him, but I can’t deny that I’m still scared. Scared of losing my island. Of losing him. Of having everything I’ve worked so hard for—that means so much to me—ripped away.

But just knowing that he understands me so well—that he can see my face and read the direction of my thoughts—comforts me.

We ride the elevator down in silence, holding hands. I’m exhausted, both mentally and physically. It’s been a very, very long day, and a hard one. And ending it on this meeting hasn’t made it easier. There is no certainty for me. Nothing I can look at and say, yes, this is how it will end because no other result is possible.

I turn to him, knowing that he might not tell me. Knowing that I shouldn’t even ask. But I’m grappling here, searching for something to hang on to. Something good to hold close. Something bad to fight against. Something. Because this uncertainty is killing me.

“I need to know,” I finally say. “I need to know if you killed him.”

Jackson looks at me, and for the first time I cannot read the expression in his eyes. For a moment, I’m afraid that he will argue. That he’ll cite the rules and his attorneys’ instructions. But then he simply sighs and shakes his head.

“I wanted to. Christ, I wanted to so much I could taste it.” He draws a deep breath, then drags his fingers through his hair. “But no,” he finally says, though he doesn’t quite meet my eyes. “I didn’t.”

I nod, but I don’t feel better. On the contrary, I feel strangely disappointed, as if by not killing Reed, Jackson has failed me in some perverted way. More than that, I’m not certain that I even believe what he has said.

In the end, though, it doesn’t matter, and I shiver as I dig deep and acknowledge the real core of my lingering fear—it’s that even Jackson, a man to whom control is everything, is helpless. Because guilt or innocence doesn’t really matter. It’s not about reality. It’s about evidence and motive and judges and juries. Twelve people who have their own beliefs and biases. And no matter how much I want to believe in the system, I can’t quite seem to manage.

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?”