Hard to believe Thomas will be forty in less than two years. He looks years older.
“I don’t plan to see Aimee,” James says on a resigned sigh. Not yet, anyway. He isn’t sure he can handle seeing her, knowing she’s no longer his.
He moves away from the window and stops at Thomas’s desk. A large envelope rests on top, addressed to him. “Is this it?”
“Yes, it came in this morning.”
James opens the envelope, flips through the items. Deed and keys to his parents’ house. His mother moved out several years ago to an upscale retirement community after his father’s passing. Now the house is his, a place to raise the boys. He intends to sell it as soon as possible.
He scans the rest of the paperwork. A list of bank-and investment-account numbers, school registration forms for the boys. Car keys. A new life.
If only it were that simple.
James thinks of his sons. Thanks to him, everything familiar about their lives is gone: their home, their school, and their friends. They’ve lost their mother and, more recently, the father they knew. And according to Julian, James is a poor excuse for a replacement.
“As of this week, I’ve sold off your remaining interest in Donato Enterprises. Mom and Dad’s place is yours to do with as you want,” Thomas explains. “Everything you shipped from Mexico is there. I kept your canvases boxed.”
James pulls out a document. Thomas joins him at the desk and taps the form with his pen. “The boys are enrolled at Saint Andrew’s.” The private academy down the road from where he and Thomas grew up. The same school they attended.
“They have an excellent English-as-a-second-language program.”
“They speak fluent English. Apparently I made sure of that,” James scoffs.
He stuffs the paperwork back in the envelope and slaps it against his thigh. He wants to leave. He’s tired and hungry, and knows the boys are, too. They came straight here after their flight from Mexico landed. “Anything you need from me?”
Thomas shakes his head.
“We’re done, then. I’ll call if I need something. Otherwise, don’t expect to hear from me.” Ever, James would like to say. But it seems almost every life play he runs downfield to catch, Thomas is there to intercept the ball. Pass interference, he wants to cry. He just needs Thomas to leave him the hell alone.
James turns to leave.
“Phil’s prison term ends next Tuesday,” Thomas remarks when James reaches for the door. “He’s out. A free man.” He extends his arms, palms out.
“You’re just telling me now?” James stares pointedly at his brother. He thought Phil had another few months to serve. His eyes narrow. “How long have you known?”
Thomas takes an interest in the pen he holds.
“Damn you.” He’s known about it long enough for James to move anywhere that isn’t here. Thomas has been determined to set right everything he can about James’s life, which includes getting him moved back to Los Gatos.
“I already told you Fernando Ruiz, the Hidalgo cartel leader, has been captured, tried, and convicted. I doubt Phil has any further association with the Hidalgo cartel. Still”—Thomas taps the pen against his thumb knuckle—“keep your eyes open. We have nothing but my gut telling me he tried to kill you and I have no idea what he’ll do when he gets out. He still doesn’t know you’re alive.”
James fist-bumps the door. “Jesus, Thomas, really? You were supposed to tell him.” James thought he would have time to visit Phil before he got out of prison. “Do you really think he’ll come after me again? What’s the point? Everything’s resolved. The Feds got their man and you got Phil in prison.”
“Phil will seek you out if you have something that implicates him in your attempted murder.”
“We don’t know if he, or anyone, for that matter, tried to kill me,” James points out. “I can’t remember a goddamn thing.”
“Nothing at all?”
“No.”
Thomas swears under his breath. “You’d tell me if you remembered something, right? Make sure you get in touch with me the second you do.”
James gives him a clipped nod. It might be important to Thomas, but to James, what happened, happened. He messed up, chasing after Phil without any sort of plan. He’d been furious Phil assaulted Aimee, disgusted Thomas showed no interest in stopping Phil’s laundering, and he was angry at how Phil planned to ruin the family. In the end, James failed everyone, especially Aimee.
He yanks open the door, a solid mahogany slab.
“James.”
He angles his head toward Thomas but doesn’t look at him.
“It’s good to have you home.”
James walks out of the office and quietly shuts the door behind him. He glances across the lobby, relieved to see his sons are still in the conference room. Boys Carlos didn’t trust James to raise.
CHAPTER 2
CARLOS
Five and a Half Years Ago
December 1
Puerto Escondido, Mexico
He lurked outside Casa del sol’s beach bar, that guy who came with Aimee. Ian, that was his name. Camera slung over his shoulder, he looked at me every so often. Why was he still here? He should have left with her.
Imelda Rodriguez, the hotel’s owner and the woman who posed as my sister, told me Aimee had flown home the day before, a few hours after I’d dropped her off at the hotel. The only reason I knew that was because I’d come by the hotel again this afternoon to deliver Imelda a clear message: Stay away from me and my sons. She was not my sister or their aunt. I didn’t want her in our lives. She’d schemed, she’d manipulated, she’d lied. All so she wouldn’t lose her hotel, of which she was behind on payments. Thomas Donato had paid her to keep up the fabricated life he created for me.
I still didn’t know why he felt the need to involve Imelda. And at the moment I didn’t give a flying crap about him. Sitting at the bar, I tossed back a shot of Patrón and swiped my mouth with the back of my hand.
Two days before, Imelda had confessed I was not Jaime Carlos Dominguez. My name was James Charles Donato and I’d been living in a dissociative fugue state for nineteen months and counting. Anytime, any day, anywhere, I could snap out of it. Boom! I’d be James again. The real me. When that happened, I’d lose every memory I’d had since that day I woke in the hospital to the whir of machines, tubes snaking from my arms, and the gagging stench of dried blood, antiseptic, and my own unwashed body. I didn’t have any idea who I was or where I was from. I didn’t have a single memory in my head but for that first one. That of a doctor looming over me and asking for my name.
When I would emerge from the fugue, I’d forget how much I had loved my deceased wife, Raquel, and my sons. I wouldn’t remember Julian’s hug when he learned I’d adopted him as my son, or recall the first time Marcus squeezed my finger and gave me a toothless smile.
I would forget who I was now. Jaime Carlos Dominguez.