“Megan?” I don’t understand what this redhead has to do with a movie about a house Jackson built in Santa Fe.

Santa Fe.

“It’s her house? She’s a Fletcher?” The Santa Fe house—the one that pretty much launched Jackson’s career—was commissioned by Arvin Fletcher.

Jackson nods. “He’s her dad.”

“Oh.” Arvin Fletcher is one of the biggest land developers in the country. He started out ranching in New Mexico and was smart about his investments. He’s not worth as much as Damien, but I bet it’s close. And when he hired a then relatively unknown architect to build him a residence just outside of Santa Fe proper, he put Jackson on the map. Afterward, the house grew in notoriety. Because one of Fletcher’s three daughters murdered her twin and then killed herself. Megan, I realize, is the surviving sister.

Wow.

I stand and start to pace, trying to get my head around this. “So you don’t want the movie to happen because you’re close to this family. Fletcher gave you a huge break and you want to protect them?”

“That’s part of it. But only a small part. Megan’s bipolar. She’s a lot of things, actually, but that’s the easiest label. She’s been steady for years—the drugs help and she was good with Tony. But since his death, it’s been harder. She’s off-center, not taking her meds the way she should.”

“Oh.” I’m not entirely sure what to say. “That’s a shame.”

“It’s a lot of things. That’s one of them.” He presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “I worry about her raising Ronnie. And I worry about the press getting a peek at all the family skeletons. And they will, you know. If they make this movie, the family will become an open book. Even if the screenwriter doesn’t poke and prod, the media will. And I don’t want it to get out about Megan’s illness. About how bad it can get. Or about the fact that Amelia had issues, too.”

“She’s the one who killed herself and her twin?”

He exhales, then nods, but it’s clear that talking about this upsets him. “Yes. She shot Carolyn. Megan is their older sister.”

“The script suggests Amelia went crazy because of you,” I say gently. I haven’t actually read the script, but I heard that from Jamie who heard it from her Hollywood sources.

His expression darkens. “She was infatuated, yes. But I wouldn’t want to guess as to why she did anything.”

I just nod, realizing that I’ve struck a nerve.

“The bottom line is that I don’t want Ronnie growing up in the midst of high drama. She’s had enough trouble, and now with Tony passing it’s hard enough for Megan to focus.”

“Can she take care of Ronnie? I mean, if she’s not taking her meds?”

“We’ve had a few heated discussions about that very thing. But I’m not family, so there’s not a lot I can do. Not legally, anyway.” His voice is bitter. Harsh. After a moment, he looks straight at me. “Syl, I need to tell—never mind.”

I move to him and take his hand. “What?”

“I just need to fix this—and I don’t know how.”

“Fix it? You mean, get Megan better? Back on her meds?”

There is a long pause before he nods.

“You can talk to her,” I suggest. “To her family.”

He draws a deep breath. “I do. But she swears she’s going to take them religiously. And she says she has enough help.”

“Does she?”

“How much is enough? Megan’s grandmother helps out. And there’s some extended family in the area, too.”

“Arvin?”

“No.”

I don’t ask. From the way Jackson said the word, I can guess that the circumstances surrounding Megan’s pregnancy didn’t meet with her father’s approval.

“At any rate, now you know most of it. There’s more, of course. But the bottom line is that I want Reed to keep his nosy, voyeuristic ass away from the people I care about.” He reaches for my hand. “Can you understand that?”

“Yeah.” I squeeze his fingers. “I do. And I really am sorry I was such a bitch earlier.”

He chuckles. “You weren’t.”

“Oh, I totally was.”

He moves his hand to my cheek and I lean against it, soaking in his warmth. I look up at his face, and his expression is fierce. “No,” he says. The word is firm.

He sucks in air, then runs his fingers through his hair before pushing out of his chair and walking across the open space to a window that overlooks the open sea. He looks out at the darkness, and I can see the tension in his shoulders. I want to go to him, to hold him and help him ease his worry about his friends. But I force myself to stay seated. To wait until he’s said everything there is to say.