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—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, but he doesn’t have to. “Go on,” I say. “She’ll think talking to you in the middle of the night is a grand adventure.”

He flashes a grateful smile, then disappears below deck. I hesitate, not sure what I want to do. I feel that same need for action. The need to move. To do.

But do what? There’s not a goddamn thing I can do.

I know, because if there was, I would have done it a long time ago.

Finally, after standing there too long feeling impotent, I take one of the blankets out of the waterproof chest and curl up on the lounge chair. I pull out my phone and dial Cass, but I only get her voice mail. I don’t bother leaving a message. She’ll call me back simply from seeing that I called. But considering the hour, I don’t expect to hear from her before morning.

I close my eyes, thinking that perhaps sleep will be a good refuge, but I don’t want that, either. Not now. Not with Jackson being arrested. That’s a surefire trigger for a nightmare, and I cannot afford a nightmare tonight.

Not because I couldn’t survive it, but because I don’t want Jackson to feel compelled to soothe it.

I pick my phone up again, and this time I dial Ethan. He answers on the first ring with a drunken, “It’s my big sister! Dudes, it’s Syl!”

I hear more drunken male voices behind him shouting things like, “Hey!” and “Yo, baby!” and despite the day I’ve had I can’t help but smile.

“Where are you?” I ask, when the commotion dies down.

“Mexico,” he says. “Gracias, por favor. Arriba!”

I laugh. “Your Spanish stinks. Are you really in Mexico?”

“Just for the weekend. I’m with Larry and Jim,” he adds, mentioning two friends from college. “I figured if I’m going to go, I might as well do it while I have leave. No diving. Just snorkeling and drinking. And enjoying the buffet of female companionship.”

I roll my eyes. “God. My brother the hound dog.”

“And proud of it. What’s up?”

“I just wanted to hear your voice,” I say, to which my brother, who knows me well, says, “Bullshit.”

“Fine. It’s Jackson. He’s being charged Monday. He’s supposed to surrender himself at nine.”

“Holy shit.” His voice has lost the drunken happy tone. “Syl, I’m—that’s just fucked up.”

“I know.”

“Are you okay?”

“No.” My voice cracks a little, but I’m determined not to cry. “No, but I guess I’ll have to be.”

“Do you want me to come back?”

I hug the blanket close, completely in love with my brother. “Thanks, but no. I’ll be okay.” I’m not sure how, but I have to believe it is true. “But I love you for offering.”

“Anything, Syl. You know that, right?”

“Yeah. I do.”

“How’s Jackson holding up?”

“Stoic. Scared. Pissed.” I close my eyes and sigh. “Pretty much everything you’d expect.”

“What about his little girl? Is she—I mean, are you going to take care of her?”

I lick my lips, because my mouth has gone suddenly dry. That possibility hadn’t occurred to me. “I don’t know,” I admit. “She’s in Santa Fe right now. I don’t know what Jackson wants to do. He’s talking to her right now. He wanted—” My voice breaks, and I have to try again. “He wanted to talk to her before he’s taken into custody.”

“Yeah.” I hear him draw in a long breath. “Listen, I should let you go. It’s late.”

“Sure. I’m glad I caught you. Have fun. I’ll talk—”

“Samantha was pregnant.” He blurts out the words.

I replay that in my head, not entirely certain I heard right. “Say again?”

“That’s why we broke up,” he says. “Why I left London. She was pregnant. I didn’t want a kid—didn’t figure I could handle a kid. We fought. I left.”

“Oh.” I lick my lips. “I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m the one who’s sorry.”

“Because you left?”

“No.” He sounds suddenly tired. “No, I mean it when I say I’m not cut out to be a dad. But I’m sorry for ragging on you about the kid thing. I was talking at you through a curtain of my own shit.”

“So you do think I can handle it?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” I can picture him tilting his head back with exasperation the way he does. “I really don’t know. Look at our role models, you know? But then again, we turned out okay.”

At that, I really do have to laugh. “I’m not entirely sure that’s the best argument.”

“I guess I’m saying that if you think you can, then you should trust that. Okay?”

“Okay,” I say.

“Does that help?”

“Yes,” I lie. Because the truth is, I don’t know if I can at all.

And if that’s the feeling I should trust, where does that leave me?

More important, where does that leave me and Jackson?

twenty-two

I wake to sunshine and the wonderful sight of Jackson’s blue eyes looking down at me.

“Hey,” I say, blinking a bit as I try to wake up. I’m still on the deck, but I’m under a blanket, and I realize with surprise that I’ve slept here all night, and apparently alone. “Did you stay up all night?”

He doesn’t answer my question. Instead he sits on the edge of the chaise, his expression so serious that it scares me. “We need to talk.”

I shake my head, because whatever he has to say, I don’t want to hear it.

“I have been up all night,” he admits. He leans forward, then presses his head into his hands.

I sit up, too, my fear now taking on the color of panic. I force it down. With everything else that has been going on, the last thing Jackson needs is to see me losing it, too.

With some effort, I pull myself together, then press my hand to his thigh. “Hey,” I say. “I know you’re scared, but Harriet’s right. This is why you hired her. It’s not over, Jackson, and we both have to believe that.”

His nod is perfunctory, as if I’m talking about some irrelevant topic at a cocktail party. “I’ve done a lot of thinking,” he finally says. “I think it makes more sense if I ask Damien and Nikki to take guardianship of Ronnie.”

“I—oh.” This is not what I was expecting, and I’m scrambling a bit to mentally shift gears. “Okay.” I swallow. I should be turning cartwheels. After all, the thought of being the parent figure in Ronnie’s life has had me terrified. But instead of joy, I feel an overwhelming disappointment. “I guess that makes more sense,” I add. “After all, Damien’s her uncle.”

“That’s part of it,” Jackson says. “It’s not all of it.”

A strange sort of prickling builds at the back of my neck, then starts to trickle down my spine. “You’re scaring me, Jackson.”

“I know,” he says, and there is pain in his eyes. “I’m sorry. But there’s something I need you to do for me. No arguments, Syl. No questions.”

I don’t answer. These words are too much like the words I said to him in Atlanta. And those words just about destroyed us both.

He takes my hand. His is cold. Even a little sweaty. And I feel suddenly ill.