Part 26 (1/2)

”What can we do?” Nikki asks Jackson. ”Whatever you need, just say the word.”

”Can you go with Syl to the airport? Stella's bringing Ronnie in. Maybe help her get settled?”

”Of course,” Nikki says, and I don't argue, even though I'm more than capable of doing those things on my own. The truth is, as much as I'd like to say I can handle this by myself, I don't think I'm going to be able to.

”I need to find someplace else to stay, too,” I say. ”The boat has a spare room, but it's no place for a little girl. And my condo is only one bedroom. Even if I give that room to Ronnie, that still puts me in a bind while Stella's here.” Stella is a saint as far as I'm concerned. She's staying for at least a week to help Ronnie and me get to know each other betterand to teach me all the ins and outs of caring for a toddler.

Jackson had intended to look for a rental house, but he hadn't had much time, and the few places he'd viewed just weren't up to par.

I glance at Jackson. ”I wish” But I don't finish the thought. He knows what I'm going to say, because I've already said it at least five times this morning.

”I know,” he says. ”You wish they could have gotten here before. Believe me, so do I.”

”Harriet will get you out on bail,” Damien says firmly. ”You'll see your daughter soon enough.”

I catch Jackson's eye. We both hope he's right. We both fear that he's not.

”You should stay at Stark Tower,” Nikki says, looking to Damien for confirmation.

”She's right,” Damien says. ”Stay at the Tower apartment. Nikki and I can stay at the Malibu house. We'll be fine. And Syl will be closer to Ronnie during the day. You will be, too, once you're back at your drafting table. And I'll need you pulling a lot of hours,” he says wryly. ”I want my resort finished on time.”

”Your resort?” Jackson repeats, and Damien just grins.

For a moment, everything is light, and it feels almost as if we're just standing around talking. As opposed to standing around a police station talking while we wait for Jackson to surrender himself. To be incarcerated.

Jackson meets my eyes, and I nod in agreement. The apartment is completely tricked out. Best of all, it's right inside Stark Tower.

”All right,” he says to Damien. He turns to Nikki. ”Thank you both.”

”Well,” Damien says, ”that's what family is for, right?”

”I guess it is,” Jackson says. ”I never really knew before.”

The conversation lags, and I'm about to fill the awkward silence with a question about which guest room Nikki'd choose for a three-year-old when the conference room door opens. I clutch Jackson's hand as Harriet enters with Detective Garrison.

”Mr. Steele,” the detective says. ”Thank you for coming.”

Jackson raises a brow. ”I'm not sure I had a choice, but you're welcome.” His shoulders rise and fall as he gathers himself. ”Okay, let's do this.”

”There's nothing to do, Jackson,” Harriet says gently. Her face breaks into a wide smile. ”You're free to go.”

His hand tightens around mine, but otherwise, he doesn't move a single muscle. As for me, I'm certain that I've lost my ability to process words, because what she just said makes no sense.

Slowly, Jackson asks, ”What are you talking about?”

”We have a suspect in custody, Mr. Steele,” Detective Garrison says. ”He's made a full confession.”

Jackson's other hand reaches out for the table, and he slowly lowers himself into one of the chairs. His mouth opens, but no words form. Instead, it's me who says, ”Oh, my G.o.d, it's over? It's really over?”

I squeeze his hand as Harriet confirms what Detective Garrison has said, and Jackson looks up, his eyes searching mine, as if this is a joke and he's waiting for the punchline.

”It's over,” I repeat, and for a moment we just look at each other, basking in this moment. And I wonder if maybejust maybethe universe has decided that it's had enough fun with us. That the joke is all done and we can go on with our lives instead of playing some sort of cosmic game of dodgeball.

”Thank G.o.d,” Jackson whispers. ”Thank G.o.d.”

”Who confessed?” Damien asks the question, and it's only then that I realize that Harriet's smile is not as broad as I would expect.

”What?” I ask, suddenly wary.

”I'm sorry,” she says, and I think it's strange that she's looking right at me. ”Sylvia, it's your father. He turned himself in.”

twenty-five.

”Here,” Jackson says, handing me a gla.s.s of wine even though it's not yet noon. ”Drink this.”

We're in my apartment, ostensibly to pack a few things to take back to the Tower apartment after we pick up Ronnie. Right now, though, I'm doing little more than getting lost in my thoughts.

”I'm okay,” I say, tucking my feet under me on the couch. ”Really.” But I take the wine anyway, because the truth is that I'm not okay. Honestly, I'm not sure what I am, other than numb.

I've been numb, I think, since the detectives met our plane in Santa Fe. First numb about Jackson being a suspect. Then his arrest. Then a pleasant numbness when we found out that he'd been cleared.

That should have been the end of it.

I shouldn't have to feel thisthis deep twinge of some emotion that I really do not want to identify. Not for him. Not for my father.

But it's there, inside me, twisting me up. And all I want to do is stop feeling. And the only way to do that is to embrace being numb for a little bit longer as I hope that maybe it will all just go away.

I haven't yet spoken to my father. I'm not sure I want to. According to Harriet, it will be a while before I can anyway because he has to be processed, and it's the weekend, and things in the criminal justice system just don't move that quickly. All I know is that he did itall I know is that it's true. Apparently the police kept a few facts about the crime back. A quotation that had been carved into the ivory statue with which Reed had been bludgeoned.

My father recited it to Detective Garrison.

He told the detective that he did it to protect Jackson, the man his daughter loved.

But I don't believe him. Or, rather, I don't completely believe him.

I think my dad killed Reed after Jackson told him about the blackmail photos.

I think my dad killed Reed to protect me, so that those photos would never have to come out. I think my dad was trying to save me.

But this is my dad, the man I've hated for years. And, honestly, I'm not sure how I feel about being saved by him now. After all, he let it get down to the wire for Jackson. He sat back and watched as the paparazzi swarmed around us. He waited, standing back, letting Jackson and me both suffer when he had the key to stop it all along.

I s.h.i.+ver, not wanting to think about any of that right now. All I want to do is revel in the knowledge that Jackson is free. That he's safe.