“So presumably there are still copies?” Harriet asks. “Unless whoever killed Reed took them?”

I shudder, but nod.

“Anyone else know about this?” she asks.

“No.” I blurt the word out before Jackson can mention my dad or Cass. I want the attorneys to know about the blackmail because that matters to Jackson, but I can’t bear the thought of wrapping my dad up with us like that. “And please—please don’t let it leave this room.”

This time, I look to Damien, who nods once, and I know that he understands what I am asking, and why it is so important to me that he keep this secret, even from Nikki.

When she speaks, Harriet’s voice is gentle. “This isn’t information we have to turn over. And with any luck, Reed buried his copies of the photos in his backyard under a rosebush and no one will ever find them. But thank you for telling us. It really does help Jackson’s defense.”

I nod. I know. Lord knows I didn’t have any other reason for sharing.

The rest of the meeting dissolves into task assignments and scheduling, and as soon as Jackson has worked out when he will meet Harriet tomorrow so they can drive together to the police department, he and I take our leave.

I can tell he’s tense as we walk toward the reception area, and when he doesn’t take my hand, I know that the tension is more about me than the meeting in general.

I sigh, and when I’m certain that we’re far enough down the corridor to avoid being overheard, I say softly, “I had to.”

“The hell you did.” There’s a tightness in his voice. Maybe anger. Maybe sadness. I’m really not sure. “I told you I would protect your secret.”

“Jackson—”

He whirls on me. “No. Goddammit, Syl. You should have waited. It might not even come out. And we could have dealt with it if the police found the originals.”

“I can’t be the reason this goes south for you, Jackson. Don’t you get that? I love that you want to protect me, but right now it’s my turn to protect you.”

“Fuck.” He turns violently, and it’s only when he smacks his fist against his own palm that I realize he’s looking for something to hit.

“Jacks—” I begin, but my word is cut short by the way he grabs me and drags me to him. His mouth closes hard over mine, and he holds me by my wrist pressed against my spine, my arm twisting uncomfortably. He pulls me up against him, our bodies pressed hard together.

I can feel him, hot and hard against me. It’s not a kiss of passion, but of claiming. Of demand. And when he backs away from me, gasping, his eyes are hard. And when he speaks, there is danger in his voice. “Do you think I don’t understand what it does to you? Even thinking about what he did to you? About how much you gave up to even tell them that it happened?”

I press my lips together and nod. Because it had been hard. But it would have been a hell of a lot harder before Jackson was in my life, and I tell him that. “You’ve made me stronger, Jackson. Don’t you get that? I could tell them because of you. Because I know that if it gets bad—if the nightmares creep up—that you’re there to help me fight them back.”

My throat is thick with unshed tears. “As for what I gave up—well, I’ll be giving up a hell of a lot more if I lose you. And I’ll do whatever it takes to not let that happen.”

“You shouldn’t have to protect me.” He is still holding me fast, but his voice has lost its edge. “I’m the one who sucked you into this.”

I only shake my head. I am breathing hard, aroused by the tension crackling between us. By his passionate need to protect me. And, yes, by the hard length of his body pressed so enticingly against mine.

Finally, I force myself to speak. “We’re in this together, Jackson. And I want to keep you out of jail as much as you do. Because I love you, dammit, and I can’t bear the thought of losing you. But also because I need you to finish my damn resort.”

I stare at him, perfectly serious. And the bastard bursts out laughing.

“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.