Homesick | Charles Leclerc

83

"I've been watching you, you know. You're doing very well in F1, aren't you? Did you get bored of Hollywood? You know, I used to be a Mercedes fan, but recently, I think I've started to root for Red Bull."

She couldn't help but ask, "How have you been keeping up to date with my life, considering you're in prison?"

Jackson's grin widened, and he explained with unsettling nonchalance, "I get an hour of internet access a day, supervised, of course. And I read the newspapers once the guards are done with them."

Her blood ran cold at the thought of him having access to information about her. But Jackson wasn't finished. He tsked and continued in a taunting tone, "I've read all about your father and your childhood. You're no stranger to suffering, are you? Poor little Alexandra Jenkins."

Each word he uttered was a twisted dagger, reopening old wounds and dredging up memories she had fought so hard to bury. Jackson was reveling in her discomfort, and she realized that facing him was not just about seeking justice; it was about confronting the demon from her past and finding the strength to keep moving forward, no matter how dark the shadows became.

The room fell into a heavy silence as Alexandra absorbed Jackson's taunting words. In her earpiece, James's soft voice whispered, "Think of Theo, Lex."

Drawing strength from her nephew and the support of her family, she pressed on. "How did you contact the blog, Jackson?"

Jackson shrugged, a twisted grin on his face. "It wasn't me who contacted them, darling. They reached out to me through a letter, asking to visit. I was more than happy to discuss the best night of my life."

Alexandra's revulsion at his words was palpable. "You're vile, Jackson. Twisted."

He chuckled and casually remarked, "Must have been the drugs. My prison counselor taught me to always be honest."

His hand slammed onto the table, and Alexandra flinched involuntarily at the sudden movement. Jackson's laughter echoed ominously in the small room, his eyes turning cold as he suggested, "Maybe you should consider telling the truth more often."

Confused and wary, Alexandra asked, "What do you mean?"

Jackson's grin turned innocent, but his tone remained malevolent. "Oh, nothing, but from what I've read in that blog about you, you're about as false as a stripper's breasts."

The analogy made Alexandra frown in disgust, and Jackson's laughter only intensified. He continued his verbal assault, his words calculated to cut deep. "You're a liar, Alexandra. Both you and James. I suppose you get it from your parents, don't you? It must be hard to know how to tell the truth when you grew up in a lie."

Detective Blackwood's voice continued to echo in Alexandra's earpiece, urging her to stay calm and not to rise to Jackson's taunts. She fought to suppress the overwhelming urge to lash out at him, knowing that giving in to her anger would only play into his hands.

With pursed lips, Alexandra bit back her desire to reach across the table and wrap her hands around Jackson's throat. Instead, she took a deep breath and calmly stated, "You know nothing about my life, Jackson."

His mocking laughter only served to intensify her frustration, and he continued to taunt her relentlessly. "I know the truth about that night, and that's something only a handful of people on Earth can say, isn't that right? Poor, traumatized Alexandra. If only your disgrace of a brother hadn't been an addict. Maybe then you'd be living a different life. Maybe then you'd be happy."

Alexandra's frown deepened as she insisted, "I am happy."

She mentally berated herself for revealing any vulnerability, questioning why she was playing into his hands. Jackson, however, seemed determined to push her buttons and exploit her weaknesses, reveling in her discomfort. His laughter echoed in the sterile room, a constant reminder of the darkness that had defined her past.