Page 16 of Baby, It's Cod Outside
“But I think this will make it better. The, uh, documents, I mean. Looking at them. With you. I mean, because of your perspective.”
“Right.” Jackson’s mouth twitches, but there’s something soft behind it. He holds open the door, light from inside spilling across the hallway. “You ready?”
Ready? Not even close. Ben’s one intrusive thought from a full-blown panic attack and two feet from the most distracting jawline in the continental United States.
But every other door is closed.
And this one, Jackson’s, feels warm. Open.
Ben swallows, nods once, and steps through.
Chapter 13
Jackson
Jackson expects the old thrill: a rush of triumph as the case begins to unveil its nature, as dominos begin to fall into place. But when he’s confronted with the reality of Ben, eyes hollowed out with panic, clutching that binder in a death grip, the usual rush doesn’t come. For once, the story doesn’t feel like the point.
“There’s a cat around here somewhere,” Jackson says lightly, toeing off his boots as the apartment door clicks shut. “Name’s Smokey. She’s deeply unfriendly. I respect that about her.”
Ben doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even smile. He just stands in the middle of the room like he blundered into quicksand while traversing it.
“Make yourself at home,” Jackson adds, gentler this time.
Ben still doesn’t move.
Jackson nods toward the couch. “Sit. Do you want something? Coffee? Red wine? I’ve got whiskey and rum too, if we’re going that route.”
“The wine,” Ben says, pulling the words from far away. “Please.”
Jackson grabs a half-decent Pinot Noir from the kitchen rack, pours a glass, and hands it off just in time to watch Ben down it like a frat boy with something to prove.
Okay then.He refills the glass, sliding it back into Ben’s hand without comment. Ben finally takes a seat on the couch.
Smokey turns Jackson into a liar in thirty seconds flat, slinking out from under the coffee table to hop daintily into Ben’s lap. Ben starts stroking her fur in slow, mechanical motions. His fingers remain mysteriously unbitten. His gaze drifts from the binder to his watch. His watch to the bookshelf. The bookshelf to the binder. A steady, unconscious loop.
“Before I say anything,” Ben asks, voice threadbare, “this is off the record, right?”
“Yeah. Off the record,” Jackson says quietly. “Just you and me. But I want you to understand, just because something is off the record doesn’t mean I don’t know it. That I won’t seek to corroborate it. I can’t promise you that you can control everything that happens. I can only promise that I will do my best with the trust you place in me.”
Ben finally meets his eye. It’s not confidence there. It’s not even hope. It’s something closer to surrender. Like he doesn’t have anywhere else to put what he’s carrying, so here, please, you take it.
Once, that would’ve been an unadulterated thrill for Jackson. Now, he feels the nagging burden of responsibility.
“I don’t even know where to start.”
Jackson fills his own glass with wine and eases down into the armchair, quiet as punctuation. “Well the good news is you already did; you’re here, talking to me. Which is very brave.”
Ben gives a huff that might be a laugh. “I’m pretty sure brave people don’t feel this nauseous.”
“Oh, buddy,” Jackson says, lifting his glass. “Do I have some disappointing news for you about literally every brave person I’ve ever interviewed.”
“Is this an interview?”
“It’s just a conversation, Ben.”
“Right.” Ben nods, fast, tight. He’s less man and more a collection of nervous ticks: tapping the pads of his fingers against the glass, bouncing his knee, chewing his lower lip. “Okay. I found something today. A contract. I didn’t approve it, but it has my signature on it, authorizing a waste management vendor we’ve never vetted.
“I drove to their address. It’s not a facility. It’s barely even an office. There’s no yard, no equipment. I don’t even know where they’re sending our waste.”
