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.
More than that, I’m not allowed to ask. According to Charles Maynard, Jackson’s attorney, it is very likely that the police will interview me, too. And there is no privilege for girlfriends. Which means Charles wants me to be able to honestly say that Jackson was under strict orders from his attorneys, and that he didn’t say anything to me about whether he did or did not kill Reed. Not yes, not no, not maybe. Just nothing.
Nothing.
I know what that means, of course. Nothing is code for probably.
Nothing is code for that way you can’t later incriminate him.
Nothing is code for we’re trying to forestall the worst.
Just thinking about it makes me tremble, and I sit up, my back against the headboard and my pillow tight in my arms as I watch the man I love set the tray and the newspaper on the small table tucked in beneath the still-curtained window.
It’s a small task, but he performs it with confident precision, just as he does so much else in his life. Jackson is not a man to let circumstance get the better of him, and he is not a man who will let an injury go unavenged. He is a man who protects what he loves, and I know with unwavering certainty that the two things he loves most in this world are his daughter and me.
He would, I’m certain, kill to protect either of us, and that’s a thought that sends a little shiver of pleasure through me. But it’s tempered by fear and dread. Because Jackson would go even further; he’d sacrifice himself if he thought it would protect us. And I’m horribly afraid that’s exactly what he has done.
And, honestly, if Jackson ends up behind bars, I don’t know if I’m strong enough to bear the guilt.
He comes over to sit on the edge of the bed and is immediately assaulted by a three-year-old cyclone demanding to be tickled. He smiles and complies, then looks at me. But the smile doesn’t quite warm his ice blue eyes.
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.
“Anything about you in there?” I ask with a nod to the paper that he’s left on the table.
“No, but since that’s the local Santa Fe paper I wouldn’t expect there to be.”
I frown. “Do you want me to look?” I’m not talking about the local paper, and he knows it. I’m offering to hop online and scope out the various gossip sites from back home, especially those that focus on Los Angeles, Beverly Hills, and all things murder and celebrity.
He shakes his head, and his response only deepens my frown. He told me yesterday that he didn’t want anything to mar this time with Ronnie, and I get that. But we’ve already got the cloud of a murder hanging over us—and knowing the gossip means being prepared.
I argued as much last night, but I’m willing to make my case again. In fact, I’m opening my mouth to do just that when he presses his finger to my lips. “I looked this morning,” he says gently. “There’s nothing.”
“Really?”
“Really,” he confirms. He squeezes my hand, then holds out his free one for Ronnie. “I got on my tablet and looked while this little one was making toast. Didn’t I?” he asks, as she scrambles into his lap. “Didn’t I?” he repeats, then tickles her until she squeals and says, “Yes! Yes!” even though she clearly has no idea what we’re talking about.
“Your witness seems a little tainted to me.” I fight a smile. He’s such a natural dad, and the ease with which he’s slid into the role awes me a bit.
“Maybe. But the testimony is all true.” He kisses the top of her head, then pulls her close, the action so full of wild, heartbreaking emotion that it almost shatters me.
“You should go on outside with Grammy,” Jackson tells the little girl. “Fred’s probably wondering where you are.”
At the mention of the 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.
