“It wasn’t,” Jackson confirms, and when I see the way his body relaxes slightly, I know that he believes Damien.

“So how are you holding up?” Damien asks.

“Fine.” Jackson’s voice is clipped.

“Bullshit. You’re scared,” Damien says. “And if you’re not, then you’re not as smart as I thought you were, because you should be.”

I stand frozen next to Jackson, and despite my rant in the car about facing reality, Damien’s words are making my stomach twist so violently, I fear I might actually throw up.

“If you did it,” Damien continues, “you’re afraid that someone’s going to figure that out. If you didn’t do it, you’re even more afraid that you’ll end up in prison with a tight grip on the soap and your back to the wall, all because you told the wrong guy to fuck off, and that guy ended up dead.

“It’s a screwed up situation.” Damien’s voice, which had started out harsh, now takes on a more conciliatory tone. “And that’s why we’re all here. To make sure you don’t end up fucked.”

Jackson glances at me just long enough for me to see relief in his eyes. Then he turns toward Charles, who is approaching from where he’s been standing with a familiar-looking woman by the window near the bookshelf.

“Let me make sure you know everybody,” Charles says. “Damien and Evelyn are givens, obviously, and you’ve already met my paralegal, Natalie. Those two are UCLA law students,” he says, pointing to the sofa and giving us the interns’ names. “And this is Harriet Frederick,” he adds, and I have to stifle a little gasp as he gestures to the woman with whom he’d been talking.

Harriet Frederick is one of the most prominent criminal defense attorneys in California. Probably in the country. She’s poised and sharply dressed, but still has a semi-casual “working on Sunday” look about her. Her long hair is clipped back at the nape of her neck, and she wears minimal makeup. From what I can see, she doesn’t need much. She comes off as competent and sharp, and even if she’d just been one of the interns, I would be glad she’s on our team.

But I’m even more glad because Harriet Frederick has been all over the news, and I know she consulted a few times with Charles from stateside when Damien’s trial went forward in Germany with local defense counsel. I knew that Charles was bringing someone else on board for Jackson’s case—while he was more than capable of bailing Jackson out after the assault, his specialty is corporate law, not criminal. But I hadn’t anticipated we’d get Harriet, and seeing her here is more than a relief—it’s like getting a shot of undiluted hope.

She moves confidently across the room to shake Jackson’s hand. “Mr. Stark’s right. Being nervous is par for the course, but if you listen to me—if you’re honest with me—we’ll have a better chance of keeping you a free man.”

I lick my lips, hating what she’s not saying, but what I already know. That there are no guarantees. And even though she’s one of the most famous and well-regarded criminal defense attorneys out there, even Harriet Frederick cannot guarantee that I won’t lose the man I love to prison.

“We’ll apply for a change of venue, but we won’t get it. And that means the jury is coming from this community, and this is a community that loves movies and celebrities—and that includes Reed. So that means I want you on your best behavior, Mr. Steele.”

“I understand.”

She looks him up and down as if taking his measure, then she nods in what I hope is approval. “Well, I guess we’ll see.” She gestures to the table. “Why don’t we all sit down and get started?” We all sit, but she remains standing. “It’s unfortunate that we weren’t able to get ahead of the reveal about your relationship with your brother, but it’s relevant only to the extent that your overall persona is relevant. Unfortunately, in a high profile murder trial, your persona will be very relevant.”

Jackson is frowning, and I try to catch his eye. I want to know what he’s thinking, but he’s focused on Harriet, and I’m left to wonder.

“Damien and Evelyn were putting together a plan to get ahead of this revelation. Now we’ll rework that to get on top of it.”

Evelyn nods. “I’ll have something ready by tonight. I imagine the vultures will be circling Stark Tower tomorrow, not to mention the Beverly Hills PD.”

“We’ll take Jackson in and out through the back,” Harriet says. “No face time with the press tomorrow. And while much of this case will be tried in the media, our primary focus still has to be the evidence and what it’s going to look like to a jury.”

She crosses her arms as she studies Jackson, looking much like a stylist in a high-end clothing store. “You’re not testifying. You’re not answering their questions tomorrow. You go, I answer for you. You’re relying on the Fifth Amendment, Jackson.”

“Won’t that make him look guilty?” I ask.

She turns to me with a small shake of her head. “Better than him admitting he was in Reed’s house. Or, worse, not mentioning that he was there, and getting sideswiped when the forensics team finds evidence. Stay quiet, the police may never know. They’ll have a hard time proving Jackson killed Reed if they can’t prove he was at the crime scene.”

I nod. I understand all that—and I even get that pleading the Fifth doesn’t automatically mean a defendant’s guilty—but I can’t deny that the thought of it scares me, because I know that’s what the media will think. And the speculation will be everywhere.

“Sylvia.” Harriet’s voice is gentle, and I realize that I’ve been staring at the tabletop. I look up at her. “As far as the press is concerned, he already looks guilty. Taking the Fifth won’t change that. But how he interacts with the public can, which is why he’ll be personable and likable. And,” she added with a quick glance toward Jackson, “he won’t lose his temper.”

“Damn right, he won’t,” Evelyn says. Evelyn Dodge is a Hollywood establishment and knows her way around PR better than anyone. I’m thrilled she’s on Jackson’s side. I’m even more thrilled that she’s a friend.

She indicates Charles and Harriet. “We’ve been strategizing for the last few hours, and it comes down to you being gracious and charming.” She lifts an eyebrow. “Assuming you can handle that.”

Jackson almost smiles. “I’ll do my best.”

“Don’t approach the press, wave them off if they get in your personal space—that’s fair. But when you comment, you’re charming. You’re accessible. You’re likable.”

“Am I?” Jackson says, and across the table, Damien chuckles.

Evelyn raises a brow, and she reminds me of a mom trying to keep her kids in order. The thought makes me smile.

“You hit him—that’s fine to admit, it’s not like we can hide it—but the rest of it? Well, you toss it back to Harriet and Charles. Damn attorneys making you stay quiet, otherwise you’d spill all. Just like talking to your best friends. Got it?”

“Got it,” Jackson says.

“You have a temper, young man,” she says once again, as she firmly meets his eyes. “Keep it under control. You don’t, and you’re fucking the case and yourself. Do you understand?”

His jaw tightens, and I know he’s fighting back a retort. Because of course he understands. But all he says is, “Yes, ma’am.”

And it’s that “ma’am” that breaks the tension. Evelyn tilts back her head and guffaws. “Good lord, Jackson, that wasn’t meant to piss you off.” She lifts a shoulder in an apologetic shrug. “This, though . . . well, this may rile you up a bit.”

As she speaks, she’s pulling a photograph out of her folio and sliding it across the table.

I gasp at the same time Jackson says, very firmly and very evenly, “No fucking way.”

The picture is of Ronnie.

“We need to get ahead of it,” Harriet says gently. “She’s in your life. And, honestly, there’s not much the press likes more than a single dad fighting for his kid. You want the press to love you? Let them see you caring about that little girl.”