Page 45 of Hidden & Held

“To get you there, you are going to need to get into my car. Can you stand up?”

Leaning forward, I instantly feel a twinge in my tailbone and a hammering in my ankle. I cry out before I can stop it.

“So that’s a no,” he says evenly. “Phoenix, I am going to pick you up and put you into the back of my car, understand?”

I look at him, seeing only concern from a man who wants to help. I’m in no position to refuse, so I shakily agree. After I give the go-ahead, he reaches under my knees and behind my shoulders, gently lifting me. I hiss as he stands up and jostles slightly.

“Sorry, I will be as smooth as I can,” Jackson relents.

He walks as evenly as possible to his car. His steps are measured and even as he walks me through the open door.

“Wait, how did you get in here? The door was locked,” I say, trying to focus on something other than the intense, localized thump coming from my leg.

“I used the code,” Jackson states plainly.

“I didn’t give you the code, and it is different from when we were …” I can’t come up with a label “… Before,” I get out weakly.

“Sugar, you are fairly predictable. You use exactly three different number sequences. Your birthday, the date you bought the duplex, and your grandfather’s birthday, which is what you used.”

How does he know this? “Well, I guess observing details about my life was important for your investigation.”

Jackson’s steps falter as he looks at me. “Phoenix, that’s not why⁠—”

“Save it,” I get out quickly. “Now isn’t the time. Please get me to the hospital, and I will deal with this later.”

Jackson nods, scoots to the rear door, and pulls the handle. He sets me down on the leather seat as gently as he can, and I scoot further in, putting what distance I can between us.

He shuts the door and jogs back inside. Two minutes later, he’s on my phone, presumably calling Mack. He also has my purse, a water bottle, and flip-flops. He tosses it all in the passenger seat before he’s even in the car. He backs out of the driveway, heading for the hospital.

I am staring out the window, watching the ponderosas pass, trying not to focus on my pulsating ankle when I hear it. Hm hm hm, hmm hmm hm hm—Soft, almost under his breath.

I still recognizing the tune. Not the melody exactly, but the feel of it. He has hummed this before. In the dark, when he thought I was already asleep.

“What is that?” I ask, my curiosity getting the better of me.

The humming stops. In the rearview mirror, he makes eye contact briefly before chuckling and avoiding my gaze. “What’s what?”

“The song.” I look at the back of his head. “You’ve hummed it before.”

“It’s, uh, ‘If I Loved You,’” he says. “It’s from Carousel, the musical.”

“Carousel,” I repeat, having to make sure I understand him. “You know show tunes?”

“I know some show tunes.”

I continue to stare at the back of his head, trying to peer inside it. “Did you do musical theatre?”

I hear him exhale. “Yeah,” he says. “I did. Believe it or not,” he continues, his voice almost becoming self-conscious, “I was a pretty shy kid.”

“You?” I ask flatly.

“Me.” I can hear the almost-smile in his voice. “My mom thought the best way through it was to face it head-on. So she signed me up for the spring musical and told me after the fact.”

“What did you do?” I hate that I’m curious.

“Panicked for two weeks and then learned all the words because I was more afraid of being underprepared than I was of being on stage.” He laughs. “Turns out those are related fears.”

“So your musical dalliance stayed with you through adulthood?”