“So are they gathering more evidence?” he asked.
“The case is still open, yes.”
Jackson didn’t reply. And it gave the chance for Carlton to continue to fill in the blanks.
“They’ve detained you here for the past six months based on no substantial evidence. The prosecution wanted to keep you inside due to your, well, y’know, public interest. But we’ve fought the court and they have granted your immediate release. It doesn’t mean that new evidence might not be found and you could well find yourself back in here if that does happen.”
“Are they going to follow any other lines of inquiry?”
“That would be their jurisdiction. We represent you, Mr Young. Not Miss Payne.”
Jackson shook his head.
“I thought you’d be a little more pleased.”
Jackson closed his eyes. “Why? Because the police wasted months looking at the wrong person?” He clenched his hands into fists above the table, his pulse hammering in his temple. It was anger, yes. But it was also a hell of a lot of bitterness, betrayal and disregard for the investigative procedures that should have seen him released six months ago.
If only I hadn’t exercised my right to remain silent.
Jackson shook that niggling, biting thought from his mind. Reliving the past got him nowhere except farther down the rabbit hole he was now clawing to escape from.
“No, because you are free to go. As of right now.” Carlton smiled. “I can even escort you. Give you a lift home.”
Jackson snorted his unease. That word. Home. Where was it anymore? His home had been a crime scene when he’d last been there. The memories he had of that luxurious prime real estate he’d worked so damn hard for haunted his dreams and clouded his thoughts in darkness and deceit. He couldn’t stomach going back. How would he ever set foot in there after—?
“In exchange for a little autograph.” Carlton handed over a ripped-out page from a magazine.
Jackson glanced down at his own image, taking up one half of the glossy A4.
“For the daughter.” Carlton shrugged. “Still a big fan.”
Jackson’s throat constricted as he lay eyes on a different Jackson Young beaming from the captured image. There was his startling, trained smile. His perfectly styled and highlighted blond quiff that accentuated high cheekbones and brought out the sparkle in his metallic blue eyes. There was Jax. The man he had used to be. The one who had been on top of the world and living every moment to its fullest. The celebrity, the A-lister, the star.
He glanced down at his grey prison-standard clobber and his eyes stung.
He chanced another look at the magazine cut-out. Stood next to him in that picture was his polar opposite. Dark hair, dark stubble, dark suit. Dark soul. But Kris, his once joined-at-the hip co-star, hid that behind the enigmatic smile that he’d practised as much as Jackson had his. He only brought it out for the press and photographers at the dozens of red-carpet events they’d attended together. Like the one that photo had been captured from, then planted in a weekly women’s magazine that had flown off the shelves a year ago. How times had changed.
Tapping his fingers on the cut-out, Jackson could feel the paper crumbling beneath his tips. He slid the page back across the table and stood. “I’ll walk,” he managed to throw out between grinding teeth and his racing pulse.
Carlton furrowed his brow. “You are quite some distance from London.”
“Who said I’m going back to London?”
Why would he? There was nothing for him there. Just like there wouldn’t be anything, or anyone, waiting for him outside the gates of Flaymore. None whom he would want there, anyway.
Everyone had abandoned him. He was nothing. Faded. Blank slate.
Where the hell did he go from here?
Chapter two
Rat Race
Fletcher awoke the same way he had most mornings for the past few months. Alone. If not for the voice downstairs. Scraping his head along the pillow, he opened his eyes. Sure enough, the duvet to his left was barely crumpled. Hardly slept in. The phone on the nightstand was plugged into the charger and vibrated its alarm in sync with the baritone vocals rising up the stairs. The harmonious singing soon morphed into frustrated disgruntling tones, followed by a few choice curse words.
It was the usual start to the day.
He scrubbed his face, the coarse hairs of his styled stubble tingling his palms and he wiped the sleep from his eyes. Better get this shit show on the road.
He had to drag himself out of the comfort of his king-sized bed and he shivered against the biting cold. Perhaps he should wear those pyjamas Heston had bought for him last Christmas instead of expecting the man’s own warmth to protect him from the chill. Especially if that wouldn’t be on offer for the next ten-week run. He didn’t resent it. He didn’t.
Fecking drama Queens.
After showering and changing into his work gear, he did a last check in the mirror and nodded. It would do. He’d downgraded from the suit and tie he used to wear when he thought he had to make a good impression at his first graduate job. The novelty of the commuter rat race and city working had worn off quicker than he’d expected, though. But, he had discovered he was more personable in the more comfortable slim-fit navy chinos and tucked-in chequered shirt. More approachable, he supposed. Which is what his role required him to be. So he fastened the cuffs on his sleeves while trundling down the stairs and into the kitchen. A cup of the good stuff was handed to him on arrival.
“Cheers, lad.” Accepting the tea, Fletcher leaned in to kiss his boyfriend.
Heston offered his cheek. He was far too preoccupied, scanning the hefty script in his hands. No bother. Fletcher knew the craic. He downed the tepid tea, his fault, he supposed. He should have been up a while ago. His enthusiasm for getting to the office early had been waning this past year to the point he barely bothered with the rat race anymore. The Tube was far more pleasant after nine a.m. He could get a seat for a start, and catch up on a bit of reading rather than having to eye the Metro over the shoulder of a stranger who was getting more intimate with him during rush hour than his boyfriend had of late. As he scooted past Heston, he slid a hand along the small of his back, gliding down to the bump of his behind, and clapped the empty mug into the sink.
With a look of perpetual grousing, Heston eyed him up and down. “Are you going in like that?”
Fletcher inhaled. Then, getting his game face on, he twisted from the sink and held out his arms. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing, darling.” Heston nodded once, his specs falling from the top of his head to perch on his nose, and returned his gaze back to the words on the paper. “You look divine as always.”
Fletcher waited. One, Tipperary, two Tipperary...
“The shirt is a tad farmboy-esque rather than city journalist though.”
Fletcher snorted. “To call me a city journalist is a stretch.”
“Much like those slacks.” Heston peered over his glasses, his eyebrows trailing up in suggestion. “How can you even sit comfortably at a desk writing all day in those?”
“I’m a gossip columnist, Heston. For an online celebrity rag. I hardly need sit for long and type.” He prevented himself from rolling his eyes over that one. Heston would only give him another lecture about how everyone has to start somewhere. “People only care about the one paragraph that tells them which footballer is shagging which reality TV star, or which popstar is on which fad diet this week and which presenter’s been caught with their pants down.”