“No,” Harriet says. She glances down at the deck. “May I?”
I glance at Jackson, who nods stiffly. “Of course.”
She steps onto the deck, and I look around awkwardly. My nerves are raw, and I’m on edge. If someone were to sneeze, I’d probably leap all the way into orbit.
I know this must be bad. It’s well past midnight, and that is not the usual time for lawyers to make house calls. Something has happened, and while I desperately want to know what, I also don’t want to voice the question.
So instead, I say lamely, “Do you want to sit down?”
She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Jackson. They want you to surrender yourself Monday at nine.”
My chest is too tight. I can barely breathe. So I’m not sure how I even force out the question. “If he doesn’t?”
“Either way, they’re arresting him. If he doesn’t, it will be a media circus. If he does, we can get him inside without the fanfare.”
“Jackson,” I whisper, and he takes my hand, then holds it tight. And in that moment, I know that he’s wrong about me. I’m not strong. I’m weak. Because he’s comforting me, and I should be the one comforting him.
Oh, god. Oh, god, oh, god, oh, god.
Harriet is still talking and Jackson is answering. His voice sounds almost normal. Maybe tighter than usual, but it has an efficient clip. I’m not even listening to what they’re saying. I think she’s going over what will happen tomorrow. How he’ll be processed. How she’ll request bail, but with his temper he might be declined.
“And they want to interview you, Sylvia,” she says, making my head jerk up. “I can postpone that for a day or so, I think. I’ll explain to Detective Garrison that you’re in shock.”
“That’s true,” I say, and she nods with sympathy.
“You both need to understand that this isn’t over.”
She is looking at Jackson when she says that.
“Not over, but also not good,” he says. “The time I assaulted him. The witness who saw me, who heard Reed and I arguing. The movie and Ronnie. All of it,” he finishes. “All of it cuts against me.”
“Yes,” Harriet says. “But now is when we ramp up for the fight.”
He says nothing.
“I know you’re worried. I know you’re overwhelmed. That’s okay. That’s why you have me. This is what I do, Jackson. This is what you’re paying me for. So that I can take over the fight now. Trust me, okay? I’ll get you through this.”
“Getting through it might mean that we enter a plea. End up serving less time, but still years.”
“It might,” she agrees, as my stomach twists at the idea.
He meets her eyes. “I didn’t kill him.”
“I believe you,” she says.
But all three of us know that doesn’t really matter.
After Harriet leaves, I hold tight to Jackson as he practically vibrates with pent-up energy. The need for action. And, yes, the need to fight.
Right now, though, there is nothing and no one to fight.
He pulls me even closer, the motion wild and desperate, and for a moment I think that he wants me again. Wants to lose himself in sex. Wants to pummel his fear with passion.
But that isn’t what he is looking for. Not now. Instead, he holds me to him for a few seconds of blinding solidarity, then he releases me and begins to pace. His long strides eat up the length of the boat, and though he says nothing, by watching his face I can discern his purpose. He is thinking. Planning.
He is making a mental list, making sure that everything that matters to him is either already handled or that it will be by morning.
“Chester,” he says, looking hard at me. “Have him put together a list of architects I’ve worked with. You’ll want someone to monitor the work, just like you’d planned for Dean to do.”
“Jackson. Stop. I can handle it.”
He meets my eyes, his haunted.
“I can handle it,” I say again.
“Can you? Can you really? Because I’m not sure that I can.”
I step to him, then gently brush his cheek. “Yes,” I say. “You can. This is just a step. One step on the path, just like Harriet said. You’re going to get past this. You’re not going to prison.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“Yes,” I say, because I’ll be damned if I’ll tell him anything else tonight.
He rakes both of his hands through his hair. “I need to call Ronnie.”
“It’s past midnight in Santa Fe.”
“I know. But I might not—”