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.
I’m about to say something—to ask just what exactly is he doing—when he makes a left turn. I see the house that dominates the end of the block, and the answer to that question becomes blazingly, horribly, obviously clear.
“What the hell are you doing?” I demand. “Shit, Jackson, anyone could be watching.”
“I just want to see it.” He grips the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles are white. I’m looking at his profile, and his jaw is firm, but a muscle in his cheek twitches. He’s trying to hold it in—anger, fear, all of it. And dammit, this is not the place he needs to be.
“Jackson, I mean it. We should get out of here.”
“It’s a crime to drive by the house of a dead man? A dead man who fucked with my life? Who threatened my girlfriend? Who’s screwing with me even now that he’s in the grave?”
“A crime?” I repeat, my voice rising. “I don’t know. Is stupidity a crime?”
For the first time, he turns to me, his motion sharp and quick, and I see the fire of temper light his eyes.
I sit up straighter, because I know that I am right, and I am not backing down. “It’s not a crime, but driving past the house of the man you’re accused of killing just screams boneheaded to me. Especially when we already know you were here the day of the murder—and that they just might be taking you into custody tomorrow.” My voice breaks a little, telegraphing my fear.
“They’re either going to arrest me or they won’t.” His voice is flat. “Where I drive today isn’t going to change anything.”
He’s right. I know he’s right. But that doesn’t change the fact that I want to lash out at him. To pound some sense into him. Or maybe I just want to kick and scream and throw a tantrum, because nothing is going the way I want it to right now, and I hate this sensation of staring down a track at the headlight of an oncoming train. I force myself to breathe. To just breathe as I try to keep my shit together, if for no other reason than I need to be strong for Jackson.
Finally, Jackson puts the car in gear and starts to drive. He’s silent at first, but after a few blocks, he pulls over and sighs deeply, his attention entirely on the house that faces us from the lot at the end of this cul-de-sac.
“They’re on it, you know,” I say gently. “Harriet’s team is going to find out who really did this.”