He lifts his head. He wants to look at the woman who’s been so incredible to him. Her face tightens with emotion and she lightly punches him in the shoulder. “Damn you, you made me cry.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t paint, then?”
“Oh no! You’re painting my sunset. I’ve been waiting for years, and I’m not going to let you leave until you finish.”
“What if I don’t plan on leaving?”
Her surprised expression is almost comical until she bursts into tears. The emotion plows into James and his own breath hitches. “Come here, Nat.” He holds her close as her arms squeeze him tight.
Over her shoulder he sees Julian cautiously watching them. “Give me a second,” he whispers in Natalya’s ear.
Julian slowly dribbles a basketball but makes no move to come closer. James watches Julian and his internal battle. Did his father honestly mean it when he said he’d never leave him behind?
James figures he’ll make it easy on the kid. He asks Marc, who wobbles under its awkward size, to take the canvas, making Natalya giggle. James moves closer to Julian and opens his arms. “Come here, son.”
Julian takes a step, bounces the ball, then takes another step. His mouth, which is pressed into a tight seam, quivers when he finally tosses the ball aside and walks into James’s arms. “I love you, Dad.”
EPILOGUE
CLAIRE
Six Months Ago
December 17
Puerto Escondido, Mexico
Claire Donato was tired of the oppressive heat of Puerto Escondido and the endless trail of ants marching up her walls. She was tired of the sunburns and the sand that always found its way into the wrong places. And she was tired of her grandsons calling her Se?ora Carla. What a dreadful name. Why she picked that one, she has no idea. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. She never intended to interact with her son and grandchildren. She just wanted to observe, to see with her own eyes what Thomas finally confessed. Her youngest son was alive, but for his safety he had to remain hidden in plain sight. Don’t interact, do not engage, Thomas had told her as if he were some sort of government agent.
Well, she’d visited Puerto Escondido more times than she imagined, and she’d let Thomas’s charade go on long enough. She was sick and tired and disgusted from lying. Her son James—even though he didn’t know yet he was her son because he still went by that ridiculous name of Carlos—had brought painting back into her life. The least any good mother could do was return the favor. It was time to bring James home.
She’d consulted a specialist, who advised that James needed to confront the stressor that had induced the fugue state. If Thomas was right, Phil was James’s stressor. James needed to face his brother because hypnosis hadn’t worked. She told Thomas it wouldn’t, and he hadn’t believed her. And because of his idiotic ploy, there was the chance she’d never see her grandsons again. Carlos didn’t trust Claire’s family. He wanted Natalya to adopt them. She couldn’t let that happen. Ever.
Claire turned on her laptop, launched Skype, and accepted the call from the California Men’s Colony for her weekly scheduled conference with Phil. She despised these calls, prearranged and with a time limit. But a mother must do what a mother must do. All her sons mattered. She just wished they’d all get along.
Once the call connected, she said hello to her son, then excused herself momentarily from the room. She needed a glass of water. It was dreadfully hot and her throat was parched.
But she didn’t go to the kitchen. Instead, she waited unseen in the hallway for Carlos to arrive. She’d called him a few minutes ago complaining about her faulty wireless connection. She needed his assistance, she’d said.
Yes, it was a lie, but it was for the greater good of her family.
James would thank her later.
EPILOGUE
CARLOS
Six Months Ago
December 17
Puerto Escondido, Mexico
Carlos let himself in through the glass slider as he always did when he visited his neighbor.
“Se?ora Carla?” he called.
Classical music played softly. Vases of freshly cut flowers from the local market colored the room and perfumed the home’s artificially chilled air, as did the faint chemical scent of pigment. Carla had been painting earlier.
“Carla?” he called again. He heard a faint noise in the other room, like a pen tapping on a desktop.
He followed the sound through the great room and into the den. Carla wasn’t there but her laptop was powered up and on her desk. He’d quickly check into its wireless-connection issue then leave her a note. He was already late for a meeting with a new client at the gallery. The mayor had commissioned a painting for city hall.
Carlos jiggled the mouse before realizing the Skype app was already open with a connected call. A man dressed in an orange jumpsuit sat on the other side, leg propped on the table as he leaned back in his chair. He stared at the ceiling, his fingers drumming on the chair arm.
Where was Carla? She couldn’t have gone far considering she had a call still connected. Obviously, she’d gotten her wireless to work without him. Perhaps the man on the other side knew where she’d gone off to.
“?Hola?” he asked.
The caller dipped his chin and narrowed his eyes at the screen. His brows bunched in confusion; then his mouth fell open. “James?”
Carlos jerked back. His stomach bottomed out like a sinkhole.
Orange-suit man dropped his booted feet to the floor with a loud thud. He leaned forward, his face and shoulders filling the screen. He whooped. “It is you.”
Carlos’s gaze dove to the name stamped on the man’s right breast. DONATO, P.
Phil.
The name crash-landed in Carlos’s head. Dread, sour and toxic, filled the empty space in his gut.
Phil hooted, slapping a palm on the tabletop. His image bounced on the screen—his steepled palms over his nose and mouth, his eyes going baseball-size on either side of his fingers. “You’re alive. You’re fucking alive.”
Carlos worked his jaw. His hands balled into fists as the dread twisted and morphed into a level of rage he couldn’t comprehend. Pain splintered through his head, leaving him unbalanced and seeing stars.
“Thomas, you sonofabitch,” Phil said more to himself. He jabbed a finger at the screen. “He told me you were dead. Jesus, it’s a miracle you survived at all considering how offshore we were. Ah, man, I thought you were a goner when I told you to jump, with your face being so messed up. They did a number on you. Sal, that tool that was with us in the boat, he took my gun. He shot at you, man. He shot at you!”