James shows them the bathroom, then waits nearby as they ready for bed. Once they’re under the covers, James leans over as if to kiss Marc’s head. Marc’s fingers squeeze the sheet he’s pulled to his chin. James hesitates, hovering over his son. All of Julian’s talk about James not being their “real dad” has left Marc confused and withdrawn where James is concerned. The kid was more affectionate with his teachers and the neighbor’s dog. At least he hugged them. James can’t remember the last time someone has hugged him, let alone touched him, other than resting a hand on his shoulder, or poking an arm to get his attention.
James straightens and does his usual hair ruffling. Anything more than that and he chances Marc’s receding further than he already has.
Marc smiles and shimmies deeper under the covers. The air is cooler here compared to Puerto Escondido’s dry, salty nights.
Julian is sprawled on top of the covers on the other side of the bed, sporting a ratty T-shirt and gym shorts that reach his knees, still plugged into his music. James points to his own ears and motions for Julian to put away the headphones. “Sleep. Now.”
Julian exhales, cheeks puffing like a fish. Rolling to his side, he slips off the Beats and tosses them, along with his phone, onto the side table. He keeps his back to James, and within seconds, his breathing evens. He’s already fallen asleep.
“Good night,” James murmurs from the doorway. He flicks off the light and closes the door, leaving it cracked to allow in a ribbon of light from the bathroom down the hall.
A whispered “Good night” reaches him as he turns away. James stills, blinking away the burn. As Marc’s words sink in, James sends up a silent prayer.
He gives the door frame a couple of knocks and returns to the kitchen. When he puts the pizza in the fridge, he finds a six-pack of Newcastle on the top shelf. Thank God. Popping the top, he breathes in the ale’s roasted-nut aroma. Muscles bunched from traveling unwind. He tosses back half the beer before leaning against the countertop. He crosses his arms, letting the bottle dangle from his fingers, and inhales, long and deep. His eyes drift close.
He is finally home, but not really home.
This isn’t his home.
But he didn’t belong in Mexico either, so he left that life behind. Not just because California is familiar, but because Carlos had everything James wanted before the accident—an art gallery to display his work, a classroom to teach others, and a studio ideally situated to take advantage of a full day’s natural light. Then there was Carlos’s artwork, paintings well beyond James’s expertise.
As ashamed as he is to admit it, James is jealous of the man he was in Mexico.
He pushes away from the counter and stretches his arms overhead. His back pops and cramped legs ache. Feeling restless, he glances out the windows and considers going for a midnight run. He’d do it if he felt comfortable leaving the boys alone. They’re still too young, and it’s their first night in a foreign country and a strange house. A house that had been home to Phil during the months leading up to his arrest.
Beyond the glass, he stares into the dark woods of oak and pine, which looks peaceful during the summer months. A place of rebirth and renewal. But in the winter, it’s dark and sinister, with branches bare and bent like bones.
Skeletal like Phil’s frame.
Six days until he’s released. Six days to figure out how to avoid him, along with the rest of his family. Would Phil come here since it’s the last place he lived?
His gaze jumps to the dead bolt on the back doors. Swearing under his breath, he e-mails himself a reminder.
CHANGE THE LOCKS.
He slips his phone into his back pocket and looks around the room. Pent-up energy channels from jittery fingers to cramping calves. Maybe his old treadmill is in the garage.
James makes his way there, flicks the light switch. LEDs flood the four-car garage and his chest rises sharply. He knew his belongings were there, what he had before and what he shipped from Mexico. But knowing and seeing are two different things.
The bulk of his items take up the expanse of two car spaces, cardboard boxes stacked like fat square pillars. They hold everything he wanted to keep from a life in Mexico he wished had never happened, and a life before that he never intended to leave. Basking in the LED glow, his two lives converge atop the smooth concrete.
He moves into the garage, drawn by the thick black Sharpie lettering on a stack of boxes. ART SUPPLIES. He slowly sweeps his hand along the words, recognizing Aimee’s handwriting. When did she pack his stuff? Before or after she found him? He can’t imagine how difficult the months after Thomas announced his death had been for her. The need to hold her from just thinking about it nearly stops his heart.
The words blur and for the second time that night, James’s eyes dampen. Knowing Aimee, she would have packed his supplies neatly and orderly, even with the knowledge he would never use them again.
And he most likely won’t. The hunger inside him—that drive to create, to share his interpretation of the world—is gone.
So is Aimee.
He punches the box and returns inside.
CHAPTER 4
CARLOS
Five and a Half Years Ago
December 8
Puerto Escondido, Mexico
It was dark when I stumbled up my driveway. Fourth night this week I’d spent with Patrón, liquid gold and the only remedy that got me through the lonely evening hours. After mucking through another day teaching art classes, organizing the gallery’s next season of showings, and finalizing contracts on several commissioned works, I left my car at work and landed on a stool at La cantina de perrito, a bar down the street from my gallery. Natalya wouldn’t be happy. The boys had been asking why I hadn’t been around much.
Because your dad’s a ticking time bomb, that’s why.
Glancing up at the second floor, their bedroom windows black squares against the house’s white stucco paint, I craved a sense of normalcy. To go back to the way things were before Aimee had shown up.
Face angled toward their windows, I stepped backward and stumbled over a planter edge. My shoulder slammed hard into the adobe wall lining my property. Pain spiraled like fireworks across my deltoid, waking up the old injury. I hissed and punched the bricks. “?Mierda!”
I needed to get myself together. ?El pronto! If not for me, then for Julian and Marcus. I sucked the torn skin on my knuckles and shook my hand, trying to lessen the pain.
Thomas had left for California six days ago. Imelda texted me when he checked out of the hotel. True to his word, which said nothing of his character, Thomas didn’t contact me again. Imelda had tried to reach me daily. I sent her calls directly to voice mail where the number in the red notification circle on my phone app had crept up all week.
I fumbled with the lock. The front door flew open. Natalya stood there, hands on hips, scowling. She wore a fitted white tank and a tie-dyed skirt that dusted the floor. Damn, it was colorful, just like her long copper hair. Bright and lustrous with multiple shades. I blinked hard, trying to focus, and stumbled through the door. She caught me before I face-planted. My chin dipped to her sunscreen-slathered shoulder. Coconut and salt. She’d been at the beach with the boys. Heck, she practically lived on the beach, even after years spent competitive surfing. She’d been a rock star on the board, just like her father, world-class surfer Gale Hayes.