“Jackson—”

“What were you doing at my screening?” The question, seemingly out of left field, cut off the protest and had his father taking a single step backward.

“You know damn well I’m on the board of the National Historic and Architectural Conservation Project with Michael,” he said, referring to Michael Prado, who directed Stone and Steele, the documentary about Jackson and his design of an Amsterdam museum. It had screened not long ago at the Chinese theater. That night was burned into Jackson’s mind not because of the film or because his father had shown his face, but because that night was the first step to getting Sylvia back. And for that, Jackson would happily declare the date a national holiday.

“But even if I weren’t, I still would have attended,” Jeremiah added in the face of Jackson’s continued silence. “I wanted to celebrate my son’s achievements.”

After a moment, his father shifted his weight from one foot to another as if trying to decide what to say next. When he didn’t come up with anything, Jackson casually asked, “Did you know Reed?”

Jeremiah’s mouth pulled into a frown. “What the hell kind of question is that?”

“One I’d like an answer to.”

“No. Not really. I’ve met him a time or two.”

“About what?”

“What the hell, boy? Is this the third degree?”

“Maybe it is. You’re awfully interested in that movie.”

“I’m interested in saving your ass,” Jeremiah spat back.

“I can take care of my own ass, thanks.” He pulled Sylvia closer. “And now it really is time for you to go. Trust me when I say you’ve worn out your welcome.”

“Jackson, please. I’m your father.”

“I suggest you don’t say that again.”

For a moment, it seemed as if Jeremiah was going to argue, and Jackson felt the tension build in him. Hell, he almost hoped the bastard tried to stay, put up a fight. Any excuse. Any excuse at all.

So Jackson was disappointed—but reluctantly had to admit it was probably for the best—when Jeremiah turned and headed off the boat. He paused after a few steps though, then looked back to where Jackson stood with Sylvia at his side. “You shouldn’t have told Damien you’re his brother, but I guess it’s good you did before it came out. Less pain for both of you.”

“Do you really think I believe that you give a fuck about what’s best for either of us? Your focus has always been on Jeremiah Stark, and no one else.”

“That’s not true.”

“I don’t know what your angle is, old man, but I know you came here with one. And whatever game you expect me to play, I’m not biting.”

“No games. I’m your father. I’m concerned.” He drew a breath, then shoved his hands in his coat pockets, and for a moment he just looked tired, and a lot older than his sixty-plus years. “We’ve had a rocky relationship. But I care about you. I’m your father, after all.”

“That’s just a word,” Jackson said. “And right now it feels pretty damn hollow.”

eight

I watch Jackson as he watches his father disappear into the night.

My whole body aches, and I realize that I haven’t relaxed since we arrived and found the paparazzi camped out.

For that matter, I haven’t really relaxed since we left Charles’s office. Since we left Santa Fe. Since the detectives arrived with the news of Reed’s murder.

Now we’re just hours away from Jackson walking through the doors of the Beverly Hills Police Department. And I’m so damned afraid that he’s not going to walk back out again.

Hell, maybe I should thank Jeremiah and the damn story vultures. Because for a few minutes at least, I wasn’t afraid. Instead, I was just angry. At the paparazzi. At Jeremiah. At my own father.

I take a deep breath. I don’t want either of those men in my head right now. I just want Jackson, but his back is still to me, his eyes on the now-empty dock.

“Jackson?” I say his name tentatively.

He turns and although the anger on his face fades when he looks at me, I can see that it still lingers behind his eyes. “I knew we’d have to deal with the press at some point, but he had no right coming here. He had no business interrupting us, coming unannounced, bothering us at all.”

“No, he didn’t. But he’s gone now.” My voice is soft. Right now, I want only to soothe.

He runs his fingers through his hair and sighs. He looks so tired, and I just want to pull him close and hold him. I reach for him and gently take his hand.