“A crime?” I repeat, my voice rising. “I don’t know. Is stupidity a crime?”

For the first time, he turns to me, his motion sharp and quick, and I see the fire of temper light his eyes.

I sit up straighter, because I know that I am right, and I am not backing down. “It’s not a crime, but driving past the house of the man you’re accused of killing just screams boneheaded to me. Especially when we already know you were here the day of the murder—and that they just might be taking you into custody tomorrow.” My voice breaks a little, telegraphing my fear.

“They’re either going to arrest me or they won’t.” His voice is flat. “Where I drive today isn’t going to change anything.”

He’s right. I know he’s right. But that doesn’t change the fact that I want to lash out at him. To pound some sense into him. Or maybe I just want to kick and scream and throw a tantrum, because nothing is going the way I want it to right now, and I hate this sensation of staring down a track at the headlight of an oncoming train. I force myself to breathe. To just breathe as I try to keep my shit together, if for no other reason than I need to be strong for Jackson.

Finally, Jackson puts the car in gear and starts to drive. He’s silent at first, but after a few blocks, he pulls over and sighs deeply, his attention entirely on the house that faces us from the lot at the end of this cul-de-sac.

“They’re on it, you know,” I say gently. “Harriet’s team is going to find out who really did this.”

Jackson’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. “I know. If her team can bring in other viable suspects, it increases reasonable doubt. It’s just that . . .” But he doesn’t finish the sentence. Instead he trails off with a shake of his head, then leans back and closes his eyes in what looks like an expression of complete exhaustion.

A knot of fear tightens in my stomach. “Jackson—” But like him, I don’t finish my thought. What am I supposed to say? Are you scared they won’t find anyone else because you’re the one who did it? Or maybe, I hope you killed him because the bastard deserved it, but at the same time I’m terrified I’m going to lose you?

“Jackson,” I begin again, but once more I lose the words.

This time, he takes my hand. “Oh, baby, it’s okay. I’m okay.” He hesitates, his eyes on me, as if he is feeling out my mood. “I just hate not being the one calling the shots. Hell,” he adds, his mouth quirking up into the slightest hint of a smile, “maybe I should be the one investigating. At least then it will feel like I’m doing something. And who knows how many suspects I could track down?”

The knot in my stomach loosens. “I get that,” I say. “Hell, I get you, and I know it’s driving you nuts not to be in control. But you have to be careful, Jackson. You may look like a movie star, but this isn’t a movie, and you can’t traipse around like you’re Sherlock Holmes or something.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “I don’t traipse,” he says, and relief flutters over me, as soft as a butterfly, because the cloud over him seems to be lifting.

“Fair enough. You don’t prance, either. I’m going to say that’s a good thing.”

“I’d do both if I thought it would help me aim the cops’ spotlight on somebody else.”

I start to tell him that he can’t control the whole world, and he needs to let his attorneys do their job. But the words just sit in my head, stale and stupid. Because this is Jackson, and if he can’t control the world, who can? And frankly, if it were my freedom on the line, I wouldn’t be able to sit still, either.

“Well, we can’t risk having you prance or traipse,” I say airily. “Do you want me to talk to Ryan?” I figure if anyone would know how to help with an investigation, it’s Stark International’s security chief.

But Jackson shakes his head. “No. I’ll handle it.”

I study his face. “Are you going to hire your own consulting detective?”

“Actually, I think I’m going to ask for a little brotherly advice.”

“Really?” I can’t help the way my voice rises in surprise.

“The guy knows how to get his hands on information.” He glances sideways at me. “And I think it’s fair to say he knows how to defend against a murder charge, too. If nothing else, he knows who to pay when he needs results.”

“So maybe he’s worth knowing, after all?”

“Well, you respect him,” he says dryly. “So how bad can he be?” But he’s grinning, and I know he means it. For the most part, anyway.