27. Don’t Call Me Sweetheart #2
“It changes you,” he says, voice rasping. “He taught me everything I know. And then one day, he just… decided he was done. Left a note.”
Suicide.
“Oh, Jackson…” I breathe. “I’m so sorry.”
He inhales sharply. “Me too.”
I hesitate before adding. “I’ve struggled with depression most of my life.
” My tone softens, and my gaze pins him.
“If I had to guess, your brother didn’t want to leave you.
He probably thought he was the problem, that you’d be better off without him.
People don’t do that because they stop loving you—they do it because they stop believing they’re worth loving. ”
His eyes find mine. No jokes. No armor. Only understanding.
My own openness surprises me, but there’s something about him that makes it easy. He reminds me so much of Jack. The reckless energy, the cocky grin that masks a world of pain.
“You remind me of him,” I say. “My brother. Cocky. Reckless.”
He lets out a small, tired laugh. “Sounds like a compliment and an insult at the same time.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “It is.”
The words settle like stone. My hands twist in my lap.
“The night he was killed…” My voice falters, but I push through. “We were at a bar. He’d gotten into a fight with his girlfriend, said he needed to get out and clear his head. So, I met him. Figured I could keep an eye on him. He was already wasted when I got there.”
I swallow hard. “I took his keys. Told him we’d Uber. He agreed. But while I was in the bathroom, she called. Said she wanted to talk.”
I stare at the carpet, heart thudding. “When I came back, he was gone.”
Jackson doesn’t say anything. He just listens. “I called him immediately. Told him he had no business driving. We argued. I was still on the phone when it happened. He hit a telephone pole going seventy.”
The words catch in my throat. “He died on impact.”
He goes still, something hollow flickering in his gaze.
“It was my fault. If I hadn’t gotten up—if I’d just stayed at the damn table—he’d still be here.”
Before I can spiral, he moves. His arms close around me—steady, certain. Not flirtation. Not heat. Just the quiet weight of someone who’s been here before. I freeze, then fold into him, the knot in my chest loosening enough to breathe.
“Sorry,” I mutter, pulling back, embarrassed. “I haven’t talked about this in a long time.”
He doesn’t let go right away. His hand lingers on my spine, warm and steady.
“Don’t be sorry,” he says, voice low. “You don’t have to carry that alone. Not with me.”
I glance up, surprised by the honesty in his eyes. No bravado. Just him.
***
Day 8 — Without Matt
I shuffle the worn deck of cards, the smooth edges familiar in my hands. It’s been years since I’ve played, but the rhythm comes back easily, muscle memory kicking in like I never stopped.
Across from me, Jackson lounges in his chair, watching with a lazy smirk. “You gonna pick a game, sweetheart, or keep shuffling till I retire?”
I shoot him a look. “You sure you wanna start running your mouth before you even know what we’re playing?”
His smirk deepens. “Oh, I don’t need to know. I’ll still win.”
“Gin Rummy,” I say, setting the deck down. “You in?”
He scoffs. “Wannabe poker. Cute.”
“You know it?”
He leans back like he owns the place, “Darling, I could play this game in my sleep.”
“Mm-hmm. I’ll believe it when I see it,” I state, dealing. “Winner gets bragging rights. Loser has to say something humiliating. Like… ‘Melina is smarter, cooler, and undeniably better at cards.’”
“Bold of you to assume I’ll lose,” he says, flicking through his hand as if it’s the final table in Vegas. “But sure. You’re on.”
We play in a comfortable rhythm, the flick of cards filling the room. He plays fast and loose, relying on instinct. Me? I wait and watch.
“So,” he remarks, discarding, “you play a lot growing up?”
“All the time,” I reply. “Jack and I were ruthless with each other. We used to bet on everything—chores, food, TV time. He made it a sport to let me think I was winning, then wipe the floor with me.”
He chuckles. “And you kept coming back for more?”
“That’s what little sisters do.”
His smirk falters—barely. “My brother was the same. Except he taught me poker. Then got all pissy when I started winning.”
There’s a thread of something in his voice, something unspoken. But instead of pushing, I grin. “So that’s why you suck at this?”
His eyes narrow. “Careful.”
I drop my last card with a flourish. “Gin.”
He stares at the table as if I just slapped him. Then exhales, running a hand through his hair. “You’ve got to be shitting me.”
“You underestimated your opponent,” I tease, smug. “Fatal flaw.”
“Rematch.”
“Sure. But first…” I gesture toward the fridge. “I’m thirsty from all this winning.”
He sighs dramatically. “Remind me never to bet money with you.”
As I grab two bottles of water, the doorbell rings. Jackson’s out of his chair instantly—smirk gone, posture sharp. His hand drops protectively to his sidearm.
“Get behind me,” he orders.
My pulse kicks. I follow, staying close but out of the way. He checks the window, and his stance relaxes.
“It’s a package,” he says.
Still wary, he cracks the door. A kid barely out of high school stands there holding a box wrapped in plain brown paper.
“Delivery for Ms. Roderick,” he states, handing it over.
Jackson takes the parcel, scanning the surface. “No return address. Who sent it?”
The kid shrugs. “No idea. We just drop ’em where they’re supposed to go. You can call the main office if you want details. Lone Star Courier.”
Jackson holds his stare a fraction longer than necessary, then gives a curt nod and heads inside, me following after.
My heart’s still racing, but it isn’t fear. It’s him. One second, he’s cocky and lounging at my kitchen table; the next, he’s steel. Controlled. Tactical. Lethal.
Back in the house, his movements shift—slower, precise.
He sets the box on the counter and circles it once, hand dragging lightly over the seams. He tilts it, listening for any shift within, then runs his thumb along the tape.
No wires. No powder. Nothing but an ordinary brown box that shouldn’t feel this heavy.
“Stay back,” he says low.
“It’s probably nothing, Jackson.”
His gaze flicks to mine, steady. “And if it’s not?”
I hover in the doorway as he slides his knife under the tape. The cardboard splits, and he peels it open. He reaches inside and pulls out a small, folded blanket. He frowns, turning it in his hands.
“What the hell…?” His looks at me, confused.
All the color drains from my face. My knees go weak. “Oh my God.”
I cross the room without thinking and snatch it from him. The fabric is soft, worn, achingly familiar. My throat closes as I press it to my cheek.
“You recognize this?” he asks, his tone cautious.
I nod, tears burning. “It’s Harper’s baby blanket. I haven’t seen this in seventeen years.” My voice fractures. “He took it that night. From my apartment.”
Jackson’s gaze hardens, eyes flashing with fury. His grip tightens on the edge of the counter, knuckles whitening like he’s holding himself back.
His eyes find mine. My shock and devastation cut straight through his anger. He moves before I can blink, pulling me into a hard, protective hold, the blanket crushed between us. Tears soak his shirt. He exhales, forcing the rage down. “I’ve got you.”
His palm settles at the nape of my neck, fingers threading into my hair as he rocks me gently, a low hush I cling to while everything else splinters.
“What does this even mean?” I whisper, pulling away to search his face. “Is he coming after Harper now?”
Jackson shakes his head, his jaw tight. “I don’t think so. This isn’t about her. It was meant to scare you, to taunt you… to drag you back to that night.”
His gaze lingers on me a moment longer before dropping to the blanket in my grasp. The hardness returns to his expression, resolve settling in. “We need to bag this. Callahan will want eyes on it.”
The thought of letting it out of my hands twists my stomach. I’m hollow, shaky, like the ground beneath me has shifted.
He steps away long enough to grab a large evidence bag from his gear, holding it open. “We’ll get it tested. Prints, DNA, whatever’s on it. But for now—I need you to breathe.”
He moves through the house in a steady sweep, securing every point of entry—back doors, windows, even the garage.
This isn’t the arrogant smartass who’s been needling me since the day he arrived. This Jackson is methodical, dangerous, but he makes me feel safer than I’d care to admit.
He slips into my office, the door clicking shut behind him. I only catch fragments—clipped questions for the courier service, calls to Callahan and Brooks. He runs it all down piece by piece.
I sink into the couch, arms wrapped around myself, the silence pressing heavy.
When he returns, his expression is all business. He drops into the chair across from me, forearms braced on his knees. “The company confirmed he scheduled a pickup from an abandoned office building. Fake name, stolen card. Brooks is trying to pull surveillance.”
He tips his chin toward the bagged blanket on the counter. “I’ll run it by headquarters after my shift. Callahan’s people will handle the rest.”
“Thank you,” I murmur, my voice rough.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod, but he isn’t convinced.
“Try again,” he urges. “You’ve been hugging yourself since the package got here.”
My arms drop as if I’ve been caught. “I’m fine,” I lie.
He leans closer, sincerity on his face. “You don’t have to fake it with me, Mel.”
I glance down, swallowing hard. “I hate this. The not knowing. Obsessing over what his endgame might be.”
“I won’t let anything happen to you. He wants to get to you—he goes through me first.”