Derek Castleberry was in his late thirties, though life — and his line of work — made him look a few years older. His blond hair, neat but slightly receding, framed a face that carried both confidence and fatigue. He was tall, just shy of six-three, with the fit build of someone who worked out regularly to keep the soft edges of stress and whiskey from showing.
Every detail about him spoke of control. His suit was
immaculate, charcoal with a crisp white shirt, tie perfectly knotted — the
armor of a man who believed presentation was half the battle. Up close, you
could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the kind that came from
long nights in courtrooms and longer ones trying to sleep afterward.
When the door clicked shut, Jaxson looked up, smiling
faintly. “You didn’t have to come so soon. I was enjoying the hospitality.”
Derek set his briefcase down. “You’re welcome.”
“I didn’t say thank you.”
“You didn’t have to,” Derek said. “It’s in your tone.”
They studied each other for a long moment. To anyone else,
they might’ve looked like old friends. To those who knew better — it was two
men bound by a favor neither would ever name.
Three Years Earlier
It had been close to midnight when Derek Castleberry
climbed to the roof of the Brownhardt Apartments, barefoot and drunk, a
bottle of bourbon in one hand and a pistol in the other.
The July air was hot enough to shimmer. Below him, the city
looked peaceful — the kind of peace that only made despair feel louder.
He stood near the edge, staring down fourteen stories, his head full of
betrayal.
His wife, Melissa, had been sleeping with his best friend, Ethan
Reeves, for six months. Derek had caught them that morning. In his own bed.
By midnight, logic had stopped working.
He didn’t even hear the door open behind him — just the
sound of a calm voice.
“You might want to take a step back,” the voice said.
“Unless you’re trying to make a very poetic exit.”
Derek turned, startled. A man in a dark robe and bare feet
stood by the stairwell door, holding a mug of tea like this were an ordinary
conversation.
“Who the hell are you?” Derek snapped.
“Neighbor,” the man said. “You’re on my meditation
schedule.”
Derek blinked. “You're what?”
The man took a sip. “I come up here every night around this
time. Helps clear my head. You’re interrupting my breathing routine.”
Derek laughed once — bitter and hoarse. “You’re joking.”
“Only when it’s appropriate.”
The man — Jaxson Lee, though he never said his name
that night — walked closer, hands in his pockets, utterly unafraid. “You
planning to jump, or are you just sightseeing?”
“I’m done,” Derek said quietly. “There’s nothing left to
fix.”
Jaxson tilted his head. “Then don’t fix it. Replace it.”
“What?”
“Whatever you think you lost. Replace it with something
else. Anger, work, a goldfish. Doesn’t matter. Emptiness doesn’t stay empty —
it fills itself. The trick is choosing what with.”
Derek stared at him. “You don’t even know me.”
“I don’t need to,” Jaxson said. “Pain’s a pattern, not a
biography.”
Derek’s hand trembled around the pistol. “You think
talking’s going to stop me?”
“I think talking’s already slowing you down.”
For a long moment, only the wind spoke between them — a dry,
whispering sound against the concrete ledge.
Finally, Derek lowered the gun.
“Good,” Jaxson said softly. “Now pour that bourbon out
before you get sentimental.”
Present Day
Derek sat across from Jaxson now, his fingers resting on the
same kind of table that had probably seen more confessions than truth.
“You’ve been busy,” Derek said. “The news mentioned a fire.”
“An unfortunate accident,” Jaxson replied evenly.
“And an incinerated body,” Derek said. “The police think
it’s Joseph DeCarlo.”
Jaxson leaned back. “They think a lot of things. Thinking’s
cheaper than proof.”
“You were seen near the scene,” Derek said. “Witnesses,
partial descriptions — not airtight, but close enough to make my week hell.”
“I trust you’ll make the most of it,” Jaxson said.
Derek sighed. “Don’t play games. This isn’t the rooftop. I
can’t talk you off a ledge if you built the building yourself.”
Jaxson smiled faintly. “That’s poetic, counselor. You should
write that down.”
“I’m not kidding,” Derek said, his voice dropping. “You’ve
got Haldoran’s property, a dead man connected to the Giannettis, and witnesses
who say they saw you. If you’ve got even a shred of truth to hold onto,
now’s the time to share it.”
Jaxson’s expression softened — not defensive, not afraid.
“You think I’d lie to you?”
“I think you’d rearrange the truth until it fits your suit,”
Derek said. “You always do.”
Silence stretched again, the kind that wasn’t empty — it was
calculated.
Finally, Jaxson said, “You ever wonder why I was on that
roof three years ago?”
Derek blinked. “You said it helped you think.”
“Half right,” Jaxson said. “It helped me see people who’d
already stopped.”
Derek frowned. “You’re talking in riddles again.”
“Maybe,” Jaxson said. “Or maybe I’m telling you that this —
all of this — isn’t what it looks like.”
Derek studied him carefully. “And what is it, then?”
“A test,” Jaxson said. “Of who believes what — and how much
that belief costs.”
Derek exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You really
are a philosopher for hire.”
“I prefer survivor with an invoice,” Jaxson said.
Whitaker’s knock interrupted them. “One more question,
Jaxson, and you may be free to go. Where were you last night?”
Derek quickly answers, “Jaxson was attending a function last
night at the Taj Mahal.”
Ray Mendez questions, “You mean the ritzy club owned by Frank
Haldoran?”
“The same”, Jaxson replies with a sly grin. “You can check
their security cameras. I was there well past 4 AM, which is three hours before
you picked me up at my residence." Jaxson pauses and then asks with a touch of insinuation, "Which begs the question, how did you know
where I lived?”
Whitaker sighs, “We’re done here, counselor. For now, but
don’t go anywhere.”
“Where would I go?” Jaxson stated matter-of-factly.
Derek closed his briefcase, his tone professional again. “If
you’re charging him, you’ll contact me through the usual channels.”
Whitaker nodded, expression unreadable.
Jaxson stood, fixing his monogrammed cuffs. “Always a
pleasure, gentlemen.” Whitaker closed the door.
Derek stood across from him, in a lowered voice. “Whatever
you’re mixed up in, Jaxson, it’s not just business this time. You can feel it.”
Jaxson’s smile was small, tired. “I don’t feel things,
Derek. I calculate them.”
And somewhere between them, the favor from that rooftop
still hung in the air — unpaid, unacknowledged, and far from over.
© 2025 James William Jackson III. All rights reserved. “Jaxson Lee” and all related content are original fictional works created by James William Jackson III. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, or locations is purely coincidental.
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