“I know the stories,” I say. “And I knew that Hollywood’s been buzzing about doing a feature film that centers on Jackson. But I didn’t know it was about that house.” Honestly, I wasn’t sure why it would be. The whole murder-suicide stuff happened after the project was wrapped and Jackson was off to conquer the next mountain of stone and steel. “How the hell could I not have heard that?”
“Why would you?” Jamie asks, which is a good question considering she doesn’t know that I have followed every bit of Jackson Steele trivia over the last five years.
“I don’t think it’s public knowledge,” she continues. “I know a guy who knows a guy who did a rewrite on the script. I think they’re keeping it pretty close to the vest. I guess Jackson’s not thrilled. My friend says he’s the reason the woman went ape shit.”
“The woman?” Jamie has completely lost me.
“In the story. The woman who murdered her sister and then killed herself. It was because of Jackson. At least in the script, anyway. Not sure about real life.”
I realize I have tightened my grip on my phone to the point that it is painful. “Oh my god,” I say, because I can think of nothing else. “Is it true? I mean, what does that mean, ‘because of Jackson’?”
“Not a clue. But there’s another rumor that he beat the shit out of the first screenwriter. Also unconfirmed,” she says, and I can’t help but think about Jackson’s temper. About the cut across his face and the way his knuckles looked so raw today.
“But what I can confirm,” Jamie continues, “is that he doesn’t want the movie made at all. That I know is true because one of Ollie’s law school buddies represents him.”
Ollie is the attorney that I’m hoping to hook Cass up with for her franchise questions. He’s also a friend of Jamie’s. I have no idea who Jackson uses as legal counsel, but I have no reason to doubt Jamie’s intel. As far as gossip goes, Jamie is part bloodhound.
“It sounds like a huge mess,” I say, because at the moment, that’s the only take-away I have.
“Oh, a complete clusterfuck,” Jamie says cheerily. “Anyway, I’ve done my duty and delivered your daily dose of gossip. Now I’ve got to send out a million more Evites and make a million more follow-up calls. I have no idea how we’re gonna fit all these people in my condo, but I’m going to make it work. You’re coming, right?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
“Awesome. Later! Ta!”
I’m not sure how long I stand there with my head full of Jackson, my mind spinning in a freakish mix of desire and question, angst and anticipation. But there is no way I’m obsessing over this for another hour, much less another minute. Instead, I grab a knife from the kitchen, then slice open the tape on one of the boxes sitting on my coffee table.
Since I’d been in a hurry to move, I hadn’t taken the time to label anything that wasn’t a necessity like clothes and pantry items. That has made unpacking both frustrating and exciting, because I never know when I might be about to open a treasure trove.
In this box, I find my photographs.
Dozens and dozens of prints in every size, ranging from eight by tens all the way down to three by fives. I pull a few out and feel a little karmic tingle. Because they’re images of the Winn Building in New York. The soaring testament that Jackson built in Manhattan, and that I’d made a pilgrimage to see last summer.
I’d been traveling for business, going with Damien to meet with a number of his East Coast executives. I hadn’t yet seen the Winn Building, although I’d read everything I could get my hands on about it. I’d told Damien I was going to the museum one afternoon—I’m not sure why I lied—and I’d gone to the financial district instead. I’d stood across the street, my head tilted back, and I’d simply let myself go with the pleasure of those clean, perfect lines reaching up to the heavens and a sky as blue as the eyes I remembered so well.
And, yes, in some small way standing there in the shadow of what Jackson built was a bit like standing by the man himself.
I’d taken dozens of pictures, but as I look at them now, I can see that none comes close to capturing what in my memory is so raw and so vivid. I toss them back into the box, my dissatisfaction with the images reminding me that I need to reschedule with Wyatt and Nikki.
Before I can give Wyatt a call, though, my intercom buzzes. I’m not even close to ready for tonight, and I jump a little, only to sag in relief when a guy’s voice announces, “Got a delivery for Sylvia Brooks.”
