The numbness has spread to my entire body. Because the real story is that Jackson beat the shit out of Reed because of what he’d done to me. How he’d molested me when I was a teenager. But that’s not a story I ever want to see go public.

“Everyone has a theory,” Jamie continues. “Most folks are speculating that it’s about the movie, though no one knows what the big deal is. I mean—”

She stops talking, as if suddenly realizing something. “Hey, you found him, right? Because you didn’t call back, and so I just assumed that everything was okay.”

“Yes.” My word is short. Curt. “I have to go,” I add, then hang up before she can respond.

I close my hands around the edge of the desk and sit very still, willing myself to be calm. To just be calm.

When I’m pretty sure that I won’t throw up, I stand. I need to get out of here. I need to get home. I can feel the nightmares—the memories—pressing up against me, and I want Jackson. His arms. His strength.

But he’s miles away in Marina del Rey, and I have to hold it together. Because I will not, will not, will not lose it in the office.

Slowly, carefully, I make my way toward the elevator. I pass the reception desk for Stark Real Estate Development and give Karen, the receptionist, a wave.

“Heading out?”

I only nod; I don’t trust myself to speak.

I jam my finger hard against the elevator call button, then again and again when the doors do not immediately open. Finally, it arrives, and I step inside. It’s crowded, and I clench my fists at my sides, willing it to go faster, because I can feel both panic and tears rising inside me, and I need to be clear by the time the explosion hits.

It stops three more times, and each time more people get on than get off. I am trapped behind a wall of bodies and I will not scream, I will not scream, and when the doors finally open to my floor in the parking garage, I push out past the three men who still stand in front of me, broad shoulders and tailored suits blocking me from freedom.

“Hey!” one calls, but they are not getting out here, and as the doors close on their startled faces, I bend over and press my hands to my knees and breathe and breathe and breathe.

Okay, I think. You can do this. Car. Home. Jackson.

Go.

I have an assigned spot near the elevator vestibule, and I hurry in that direction, thankful that despite my complete and total freak-out I didn’t forget my tote. I shove my hand inside, find my car keys in the small interior pocket, and pound frantically on the button to unlock the door.

As soon as I’m inside, I yank the door closed and clutch tight to the steering wheel.

Good. I’m good. I just need to get home.

But my hand is shaking when I try to put the key in the ignition. I try again, but still I can’t quite make it. I curse and toss my keys across the car, which is stupid, because now they have bounced off the window and fallen between the passenger seat and door. And I’m trapped here, and I’m panicking, because I just need to get home.

I just need Jackson.

I fumble in my tote until I find my phone, but there’s no signal down here. And that’s it. The last straw. The end of the line. The final curtain.

I can’t fight anymore. I can’t hold it in.

And just as the tears start to flow, I hear the squeal of tires and then the slam of a car door.

I don’t lift my head. I no longer care who sees me. I just have to let go. I just have to cry. I just have to survive this, even though I’m not at all sure how to do that.

But then my door is jerked open, and I feel his hand on my arm.

And he’s pulling me out, and his hands are on my face, and he’s saying to me, “Open your eyes. Dammit, Sylvia, open your eyes.”

Jackson.

His eyes are wild. His brow furrowed with concern.

“You came,” I say stupidly. “You’re here.”

“Of course I am,” he says, as he pulls me close and holds me tight. “You need me. Where else would I be?”

ten

“How did you know?” I am still in shock that he is here. Still so desperately grateful that his arms are tight around me.

“Cass,” he says. “She saw the pictures, and when she called and you didn’t answer, she called me.”

“But you were all the way at the Marina.”

“I was in Beverly Hills,” he says. “I had errands.”

I start to ask what errands, but it doesn’t matter. I’m just rambling. My head trying to adjust to this new reality. A reality where photos taken of me by Reed are back in circulation. “Have you seen them?” I ask, and Jackson, thankfully, doesn’t ask what I mean.