“Slow down.”
Julian hunched low over the handlebars and leaned into the turn. I coasted behind, picking up speed. The loop through the foothills was mostly paved and we’d ridden it many times. For an eight-year-old, Julian was fearless on his bike.
I moved up alongside him. “Ease up. Stay in control.”
He tackled another turn, putting slight pressure on the brake.
“Looking good.”
Air howled through our helmets. Sunlight glared overhead and heat steamed our backs. Sweat dripped off my chin. We’d started early, and though it was still morning, the day was already hot, dry, and dusty. Good thing we only had another couple of kilometers, all downhill. We’d ridden hard. This father-son time with Julian was great, and I wouldn’t change it, but damn. For the life of me, I couldn’t pedal out of last night’s nightmare. It was as though I’d been there. The throbbing, mind-numbing pain in my skull left me reeling with nausea, and that gun in my face scared the shit out of me.
I motioned for a water break and we slowed to a stop on the side of the road.
Julian gulped down his water and let out a long, well-earned sigh. “Can we take the trail?” he asked, referring to the dirt path that paralleled the road in some spots. It was narrow and littered with divots and overgrown vegetation.
“Think you can handle it?” We’d already ridden more than five kilometers, some of that uphill on dirt and cobblestone roads.
He pointed at himself with both hands. “Hello . . . I’m the fastest halfback on my team.”
“That you are.” His athleticism and competitive drive always amazed me. I washed back a couple of aspirin and a sudden wave of dizziness overcame me. I stumbled to the side, almost dropping the bike.
“Ten out of ten.” Julian rated my lack of finesse.
“Ha-ha.” I shook my head to clear the fog and checked my watch. We’d make it back to the car in less than twenty minutes.
He bounced his bike’s front tire. “Ready?”
“Yep. Take it slow, though.” The fog wouldn’t lift in my head and the last thing I wanted to do was crash and burn in the bushes. Julian wouldn’t let me hear the end of it should that happen.
After glancing both ways, Julian crossed the road and about twenty or so meters downhill, he disappeared over the embankment onto the trailhead.
I returned the water bottle to the holder, got on my bike, and crossed the road. Then I was sitting on a boulder with my head between my knees.
What. The. Fuck?
Pain sliced through me when I lifted my head. I moaned. My skull felt like a watermelon split open on hot pavement.
I looked around. The bike lay in the road beside me and Julian was nowhere in sight.
“Julian?” I hollered, standing. “Julian!”
Where was he?
I turned a 360 in the middle of the road while drowning in mounting panic. “Julian!” I yelled again. Then I remembered the car. Julian and I had an agreement that we’d meet at the car should we get separated.
I jumped on the bike and raced down the hill, eating up the kilometers. The Jeep was parked in a dirt lot at the base of the road and Julian was crouched against the rear passenger tire. Thank God. I hopped off the bike before stopping and ran toward him. The bike crashed into the car’s bumper and I skidded the last few yards.
“Julian!” I knelt before him. “Are you hurt?”
He lifted his head. Tears streaked his dirty face like tire tracks in mud. “You know my name?”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Of course I know your name.”
“But you didn’t back there. You took off right after you yelled at me.”
Every nerve ending inside me went ice-cold. I stopped breathing and stared hard at him for what seemed like an eternity. Then I sucked in a big gulp of air and gripped his shoulders as terror gripped me. “What did I say?” He hiccuped a sob. “What did I say?” I yelled.
“You asked who I was and when I said I’m Julian and that I was your son, you said . . . you said . . .” He was full-on bawling, unable to get out the words.
My fingers dug into his triceps. “I said what?”
“You said you didn’t have a son.”
CHAPTER 25
JAMES
Present Day
June 28
Hanalei, Kauai, Hawaii
James stands outside Natalya’s office debating whether he should interrupt her. She obviously returned. He can hear her on the phone. He can’t stand the thought he’s the reason she was upset earlier. He doesn’t know how he’ll make her feel better, but he wants to see that quirky half smile on her face again. But her voice rises with determination. She’s in the middle of negotiating the price on something so now is not the time to disturb her.
He returns to Marc’s room and selects an assortment of paints, brushes, blank canvases, and the portable easels. He heads for the lanai, passing Julian in the main room, who’s sprawled on the couch. Headphones clamped over his ears and feet propped on the couch arm, his fingers fly across his phone’s screen. A multicolored beach ball sits waiting on his stomach.
Julian slips off the headphones when he sees him and holds out his phone. “This guy keeps texting me. Says he’s Uncle Thomas. He wants you to call him.”
James unloads the art supplies on the coffee table and takes the phone. He immediately recognizes Thomas’s number. It shouldn’t surprise him his brother would stoop low enough to reach him through his son’s phone number. It was exactly the contrived tactic Carlos did not want his sons put in the middle of.
But James is partially to blame. He’s been ignoring him. He reminds himself to call Thomas later, else he’ll show up at Natalya’s door.
“Have you called or texted him back?” he asks his son.
“I’ve only texted Antonio since we’ve been here.”
James checks the phone log. He skims through their exchange, then taps the information icon beside Thomas’s phone number and selects the “Block This Caller” link. He gives Julian back his phone.
“He won’t bother you anymore,” James says with the wry thought he should do the same on his phone.
Julian tucks the phone into his pocket and bounces the beach ball against his raised knees. “What’s up with you and your brother, anyway? He seems nice. I mean, he was nice to me and Marcus.”
“When was that?”
Julian dramatically rolls his eyes. “Last December, when Uncle Thomas visited. All you guys did was yell at each other. I thought Señor Martinez swore a lot.”
Señor Martinez was the father of one of Julian’s soccer teammates. His mouth flew as freely as the ball was passed around the field.
But those first weeks last December had been the worst weeks of his life. He hadn’t felt such rage toward his family since Phil assaulted Aimee. Had Phil hit James’s head any harder so that he didn’t wake, he would have . . . Ugh! He doesn’t want to imagine what would have happened.
He sighs, releasing the anger the memories bring back, and sinks onto the couch beside Julian. He presses his back into the cushions and stares at the ceiling. Julian sits upright and hugs the ball. James rolls his head to look at him. “It wasn’t easy between us last winter.”
Julian shakes his head.
“You know a little about my memory loss. Someday, when you’re older, I’ll tell you why I think I lost my memory.”
“Why not now? I’m almost twelve.”
James leans forward, elbows on his thighs. “You’ve watched the news. There are some scary people out there, and some scary things happened to me.”
Fear darkens Julian’s expression, a passing cloud of emotion. “Like what things?”
James debates how much to tell him. “My brother knew I lost my memories but he didn’t tell me who I really was.”
Julian’s brows knit. He bounces the ball once, then again. “Maybe he was trying to keep you safe from the scary people. Maybe he wanted to keep an eye on you, like you’re always telling me to watch Marcus so he doesn’t do anything stupid or get himself hurt. Uncle Thomas is your big brother. Big brothers are supposed to look after little brothers.”