“Christ, Syl.” I hear the temper in his voice. “I’m not paying them to then ignore them.”
“No, but you fly off the handle sometimes.” I know that I should just shut up now, but I can’t seem to close my mouth. “You can’t do that anymore. You’re already on trial in the media, and you need to be careful. You need to be smart.”
He slows to make a right turn, and as he does the streetlights illuminate his face in the same moment that I am looking right at him. I see the hard lines. The harsh angles. “I know,” he says simply. No argument, no reproach. And just that simple acknowledgment makes me sag with relief.
“It’s just that—” I draw in a breath, then spit it out. “I don’t know if you killed him or not, Jackson. I don’t know because you haven’t told me, and that’s fine because I get that Charles doesn’t want you to say. But whether you did or not, I know you could have. Hell, I know you probably wanted to. And if I can see that—”
My voice breaks and I draw in a breath before trying again. “If I can see that, then what is a jury going to see?”
There is fear underscoring my voice, and I know that he hears it. But he doesn’t reach for my hand. He doesn’t try to console me. I’m grateful; right now, I need harsh, cold reality. Not platitudes.
“You see me,” he says simply. “You know that I’d do whatever is necessary to protect you. To protect Ronnie.” He draws a slow breath. “But a jury won’t see that. That’s my heart, baby. And my heart is only for you.” He reaches over and strokes my cheek. “It will be okay.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“I have to.”
The underground parking garage is huge, but he manages to snag a guest slot near the elevator bank. As we walk that way, I check my phone one more time. Not that I’m loving being inundated with the social media bullshit, but I can’t ignore it. If we’re going to talk about the entire picture of Jackson’s defense, handling the media is going to come up. And not only do I need to know for Jackson’s sake, but also for the sake of the resort. Dallas Sykes may be completely on board, but I’m still not confident about the rest of the investors, and too much bad press just might tip them over the edge.
For the most part, what I find as I surf is more of the same—speculation about the assault and the movie and just general tabloid style gossip.
But as we step onto the elevator, I’m knocked sideways—literally—by the tweet that flashes across my screen, and I grab on to Jackson’s arm to steady myself.
“Are you okay—oh, shit,” he says when he sees my face. “What is it now?”
I don’t want to show him, I really don’t, but it’s not like I can avoid it. I pass him my phone, trying very hard not to cringe in anticipation of his reaction.
“Motherfucker.”
I wince despite myself, then glance over to see the screen even though what it says there is already burned into my mind: Damien Stark Half-Brother Jackson Steele Wanted for Questioning in Murder of Robert Cabot Reed #Scandal #Stark #Sordid #Steele
“Yeah,” I say grimly. “That just about sums it up.”
There’s a link, too, and Jackson tries to follow it, but of course we’ve lost the signal. Doesn’t matter. If there’s one tweet, there are a thousand, and we both know that the press is now all over the fact that Jackson Steele and Damien Stark are brothers. And that both of these men have been on the wrong end of murder investigations.
“How the hell did they find out?” He turns his attention from the phone to me. “It’s not like there’s any connection to Damien on my website. If that son of a bitch leaked it—”
“No,” I say firmly. “He wouldn’t do that. Not without telling you. Not at all.” But even as I say these words, I wonder. I truly don’t think that Damien would reveal this secret maliciously, but what if Evelyn said he needed to get ahead of it? What if she insisted he leak the story even while Jackson was still on the plane?
I don’t know, so I don’t suggest it, especially since Jackson is so clearly on edge. As we rise, I stand beside him, feeling a strange mix of relief and sympathy. Sympathy that yet another piece of his personal life has been hijacked by the media. And relief that this time I am not the cause of the tension in his posture or the tight set of his jaw.
When the elevator doors slide open on the twenty-fifth floor, we’re greeted by a willowy blonde who introduces herself as a legal assistant and offers to lead the way. Although it’s almost eight on a Sunday evening, over half the offices that we pass are populated by young associate attorneys, their faces glowing in the reflected light of their computers. A few assistants and secretaries man desks in the interior cubicles, and the clickety-clack of fingers on keyboards gives the office a busy, vibrant feel.