Under My Skin (Stark International Trilogy 3)

“What?” I ask, suddenly wary.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and I think it’s strange that she’s looking right at me. “Sylvia, it’s your father. He turned himself in.”

twenty-five

“Here,” Jackson says, handing me a glass of wine even though it’s not yet noon. “Drink this.”

We’re in my apartment, ostensibly to pack a few things to take back to the Tower apartment after we pick up Ronnie. Right now, though, I’m doing little more than getting lost in my thoughts.

“I’m okay,” I say, tucking my feet under me on the couch. “Really.” But I take the wine anyway, because the truth is that I’m not okay. Honestly, I’m not sure what I am, other than numb.

I’ve been numb, I think, since the detectives met our plane in Santa Fe. First numb about Jackson being a suspect. Then his arrest. Then a pleasant numbness when we found out that he’d been cleared.

That should have been the end of it.

I shouldn’t have to feel this—this deep twinge of some emotion that I really do not want to identify. Not for him. Not for my father.

But it’s there, inside me, twisting me up. And all I want to do is stop feeling. And the only way to do that is to embrace being numb for a little bit longer as I hope that maybe it will all just go away.

I haven’t yet spoken to my father. I’m not sure I want to. According to Harriet, it will be a while before I can anyway because he has to be processed, and it’s the weekend, and things in the criminal justice system just don’t move that quickly. All I know is that he did it—all I know is that it’s true. Apparently the police kept a few facts about the crime back. A quotation that had been carved into the ivory statue with which Reed had been bludgeoned.

My father recited it to Detective Garrison.

He told the detective that he did it to protect Jackson, the man his daughter loved.

But I don’t believe him. Or, rather, I don’t completely believe him.

I think my dad killed Reed after Jackson told him about the blackmail photos.

I think my dad killed Reed to protect me, so that those photos would never have to come out. I think my dad was trying to save me.

But this is my dad, the man I’ve hated for years. And, honestly, I’m not sure how I feel about being saved by him now. After all, he let it get down to the wire for Jackson. He sat back and watched as the paparazzi swarmed around us. He waited, standing back, letting Jackson and me both suffer when he had the key to stop it all along.

I shiver, not wanting to think about any of that right now. All I want to do is revel in the knowledge that Jackson is free. That he’s safe.

That he’s mine.

Jackson sits beside me, then pulls my feet into his lap. I’ve kicked off my shoes, but am still wearing the skirt I’d put on this morning, and I close my eyes, enjoying the feel of his fingers trailing gently over my calf.

“I’m so sorry,” I say.

“About what?”

I open my eyes to find him smiling softly at me, his expression so gentle it just about breaks my heart. “About being melancholy. We should be out buying confetti and throwing it from rooftops.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s against some city ordinance. I’d hate to get arrested,” he says, raising a brow mischievously.

I laugh.

“Seriously,” he says. “You can be happy for me and sad for your dad. Or confused or whatever,” he rushes to say, obviously seeing on my face that I’m conflicted about how I feel about my father.

“I’m so happy that you’re clear now,” I say. “And I’m grateful to my dad, because he’s the reason. But at the same time . . .” I lift my shoulders, unsure and unsteady. “What he did—and then what he did to you by not coming forward sooner.”

“I know, baby. But you don’t have to think about it right now,” Jackson says. “Just let it settle.”

“I don’t even know if I want to see him.” The word is a whisper, shameful because he killed the man who tormented me. And even though it came late, his confession has saved the man I love.

And yet I don’t want to be in debt to this man. Not when he owes me so much more than he can ever repay.

“You don’t have to decide that right now, either.” His fingers are still stroking me, easing gently along my skin. It is just a light touch, and I close my eyes and let myself go, surrendering to this need to be tended and soothed.

His fingers ease higher, teasing me. The touch is so soft that at times I’m not even certain I feel him. And yet how can I not? This is Jackson touching me. Jackson taking care of me.