He lifts a shoulder as if this had been nothing more than a casual decision. “I’m familiar with all the relevant players. I think it’s a sound investment.”

“It is,” I say. “The resort is going to kick vacation and leisure ass and make us a huge profit. But, Jackson, that was the first building you kept an ownership interest in. You really want to get out altogether?”

“Sylvia has a point,” Damien says. “And thirty percent is steep. Especially to sacrifice on a property like Winn that has the potential for serious growth.”

Jackson’s eyes are on me. “I think Cortez has a similar potential.”

“I agree with you,” Damien says. “And that’s why I have a suggestion.”

We both turn to him.

“Sell Isaac a fifteen percent interest in Winn. I’ll cover the difference personally.”

I gape, then realize my mouth is hanging open. “But you never do that.” He’s wildly protective of his personal assets. In fact, when the investors first made noises about pulling out after we lost our original architect, Damien had specifically declined to invest personally.

“Never’s a very long time,” Damien says as he looks straight at Jackson. “And this time, I think it’s worth the risk.”

“Honestly, so much has happened my head is spinning,” Cass says. She and I are in the huge guest bedroom that Jackson and I will be sharing. We’ve snuck away from the festivities for a quick BFF catch-up session. “I’m surprised you’re still clinging to sanity.” She narrows her eyes. “You are still sane, aren’t you?”

I roll my eyes, then perch on the edge of the bed. “As sane as I was before. But that’s not saying much.”

Cass only grins, then starts counting out on her fingers. “Engaged. Small child. Non-felonious fiancé. And a father who’s confessed to committing murder. There’s more, I’m sure, but that covers the high points. Seriously,” she says more gently. “Are you doing okay?”

“I am,” I say. “Jackson being free trumps everything.”

“True that. But—” She scrunches up her face as if she’s caught a whiff of something unpleasant. “I mean, your dad. It’s kind of freaky. Have you talked with Ethan?”

I shake my head. “I left him a voice mail to call me. I think he gets back from Mexico today. And since he can’t go see Dad yet anyway, I didn’t want to worry him.”

“Are you going to go see your dad?”

“I don’t know. And, honestly, I don’t want to think about it. Or talk about it, for that matter. Not forever. Just not today. Because there’s nothing I can do anyway, and tonight is about Jackson being free and getting Ronnie. Okay?”

“You’ll call me if you need me?”

“Duh.”

She laughs. “Fair enough. You’re off the hook for now. But . . .” She trails off, making the face again.

I shake my head, and force myself not to smile. “What?”

“Ronnie’s entirely precious. And you seem really good with her.”

I frown. “I shouldn’t have said anything to you. I completely adore her, and Jackson is floating.” All of that is true. What I don’t say is that I can’t seem to shake the feeling that I’m a character in Barney or some other kids’ show, just playing the part of the grown-up. And while I want to step out of the role, I can’t. Because what’s my fallback persona? The girl who grew up with my parents? Without a script, I’ll be swinging without a net. Yet with a script, it doesn’t seem quite real.

But I tell myself this is all new. And since I really love Jackson and I really love Ronnie, I can make it all work.

I tell myself that. But I’m not certain that I believe it.

“So when’s the paternity hearing, anyway?” Cass stands up and starts for the door, and I follow, understanding that this is her way of changing the subject. And, yeah, I’m grateful.

“Next week,” I say. “We’ll have to pop out to Santa Fe, but we’ll only be gone for a day or two.”

“And the wedding?”

“That one has a longer fuse. Next summer. I want to get married at the resort.”

“Hell, yeah, you do. I’ll be best man?”

I laugh. “Definitely.”

We’ve reached the living room, and I immediately see Nikki chatting in the corner with Stella and Siobhan, but it’s not until I look toward the far side of the room that I see Jackson. He’s standing hand in hand with Ronnie in front of the window, their backs to me. Night has fallen, and they are looking out over the lights of the city spread out in front of them.

“Wow,” Ronnie says, and I hear Jackson’s soft chuckle.

“Yes,” he says. “Very wow.”

Then she lets go of his hand and hugs his leg tight. “I love you, Daddy,” she says.

And in that moment, I can actually believe that everything will be just fine.

That belief lasts approximately seven more hours.

That’s when I’m the only one left awake in the apartment.

We’d put Ronnie to bed at seven, after she’d hugged everyone good night and distributed a few sloppy kisses to “my Cassy” and “Uncle Damien.”

Stella had already retired to her room, complaining of a head cold.

Cass and Siobhan left about ten minutes after Nikki and Damien, and although I’d been looking forward to unwinding with Jackson, it quickly became clear that wasn’t going to happen tonight. Or, at least, not if I wanted him conscious.

He’d told me he was going to go lay down, and suggested that I join him with a bottle of wine.

I did, but by the time I got there, he was sound asleep on top of the covers, still in his clothes but dead to the world.

I took his shoes off, but left him dressed, opting to cover him gently with a blanket. God knew he had to be exhausted, both physically and mentally, and I didn’t want to risk waking him up when he so desperately needed sleep.

I tried to drift off, too, but couldn’t seem to manage it. And I was just about to try to induce sleep with a glass of the wine I’d poured when the high-pitched screams of a little girl had me leaping out of bed and sprinting across the apartment.

That’s where I am now, frantically trying to soothe her. I hold her in my arms, this small bundle who is half-in and half-out of sleep. Who is crying out, her body red from the effort of trying to breathe through the tears and the convulsions. Who is screaming for her Grammy, but Betty isn’t here to help her, and I’m too flustered to know what to do. Me, who has lived with nightmares my whole life and still doesn’t have the power to help this poor child.

I think that hours must have passed and my ears are splitting from her cries and Jackson hasn’t come and my body aches with the effort of holding her. But still she is crying and now I’m crying too, and I’m about to start screaming myself, I’m so lost and afraid and impotent.

And that’s when Stella rushes in, her bathrobe half-open over a long cotton nightgown, her hair that is usually pulled back into a sensible bun falling loose around her face.

“Oh, baby,” she says, and I feel a sudden stab of self-loathing when I see that her words are directed at me. At the fact that I must look so rattled and so helpless. “Here, let me have her.”

She takes Ronnie, then bounces her on her hip. “It’s okay, precious. Stella’s here. Did you have a bad dream?”

As Stella coos to her and bounces her, the little girl’s sobs slow into hiccups, and then, miraculously, fade away. Her body softens with exhaustion, and her thumb goes to her mouth.

“I’ve got her, Miss Sylvia,” Stella says, finally looking up at me. I realize I’ve been standing there, frozen, watching her work some sort of magic that I don’t possess.

“Right,” I say. “Thank you.”

And then I head out of the room and back to my bedroom, feeling a little bit lost, a little bit useless, and a whole lot scared.

twenty-seven

“So what do you think?” I ask Ronnie, who’s standing beside me as we peer into the refrigerator. Nikki stocked it for us with kid-friendly yogurt, milk, and juice boxes, and those refrigerated staples are supplemented in the pantry by blue boxes of macaroni and cheese, some cereal with cartoon animals on the box, and a huge bag of goldfish crackers.