“Can I trust you?”
“What kind of question is that? Yes, you can. I’m your—” She stopped and motioned at herself. “I’m your friend.”
I looked at her for a long moment, considering, then nodded. “You are my friend, and I’m grateful for your companionship,” I said, then admitted, “I have lived elsewhere before. California, to be exact.”
A small gasp reached me. Carla’s fingers fluttered to the neckline of her blouse, fussing with the pearl-size button.
“I had an accident and can’t remember anything about living there or the people I knew. I can’t recall anything about myself. My real name is James.” I gave her the highlights of my condition.
The flush discoloring her neck and chest faded into a chalky white. She weaved slightly on her feet. I grabbed a stool and reached her in three paces. She settled on the seat and clutched my forearms. “Why wouldn’t you return to California? You don’t belong here.”
“James doesn’t, but I do. So do my sons.” I gently removed her hands, feeling overheated myself. Sweat dripped down my spine, plastering my shirt to damp skin. I strode to the far wall and adjusted the thermostat. “This is our home,” I said, arms out to encompass the room and the greater town around us as I walked back over to her.
“What about your family in California? Don’t you miss them? Surely you must miss your mother.” She whispered the last word.
“It’s hard to miss someone I don’t remember.”
Her mouth slightly parted before she averted her face. She stared out the window.
“As for my brothers,” I continued, pulling up a stool beside her, “I don’t trust them. I’m not sure I trust James.”
She turned back to me. “How can you trust anyone at all if you can’t trust yourself?”
“Because I don’t know the man I’m supposed to be.”
“I’m sure your mother misses you desperately and would want you to come home.”
“I’m not sure she knows I’m still alive. If she does, where is she?”
“You don’t want to go find out?”
“No,” I said too sharply. Every new thing I learned about my past moved me one step closer to reverting to my original identity. That was something I would never be ready to do.
I returned to my canvas and dropped dirty brushes into turpentine and tightened caps on paint tubes. White-hot pain shot across my forehead. I groaned. Squeezing my eyes shut, I dug my thumb and forefinger into the corners of my eyes.
I heard the scrape of a chair and the rustle of clothing.
“Your headaches are because of your fugue,” Carla said beside me.
I dropped my hand and looked at her. “I think so,” I said, even though I didn’t have a doctor’s confirmation. Perhaps the headaches were residual from Thomas’s hypnosis session.
She frowned. “They’re getting worse.”
“They were manageable for a while, but lately, yes. They’ve been worse, more frequent, and . . .” My voice trailed off. I grabbed a brush and drummed the handle on the table.
“And what?” she encouraged.
“I have to tell Julian about me.”
“Why would you ever do that?”
“He needs to know what to do when I forget he’s my son, and what will happen if I don’t want to be his father.”
Carla turned two shades paler. Her mouth worked, trying to form words.
“Natalya will adopt Julian and Marcus,” I said, anticipating her question. “They’ll go live with her.”
“In Hawaii?”
I nodded.
A veneer slid over her face, making it impossible to read her reaction. Her gaze jumped around the studio and landed on her purse. She went to pick it up. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to the house to rest.”
I watched her walk toward the exit. “Carla?”
Her long, bony fingers gripped the doorknob and she angled her chin in my direction.
“Is something wrong? Have I somehow upset you?”
She looked down her nose at me. Gone was the woman my family befriended and my sons looked up to like a grandmother. In her place was the woman we’d first met on the beach five years ago.
“I’m perfectly fine. It’s just entirely too hot and uncomfortable in this studio.” She left, the door softly closing behind her.
CHAPTER 29
JAMES
Present Day
June 29
Hanalei, Kauai, Hawaii and San Jose, California
Short on time, James packs frantically. Natalya comes into the room with two steaming mugs of coffee as he comes out of the bathroom. He tosses his toiletries case into the packed suitcase on the bed.
“What time’s your flight?”
“Eight forty-five.” He has two hours.
“Oh! We’ve got to hurry.” She sets down the mugs. “It’ll take at least forty-five minutes to get to the airport.”
“I’ve called a cab.”
“Are you sure?”
The hesitation in her tone has James glancing up from where he’s zipping closed the roller. Natalya rubs her hands. Her gaze flutters from him to the suitcase. She chews her lower lip and he slowly straightens.
“I’m coming back,” he says quietly.
“I know, it’s just . . .” She looks away and traces one of the mug’s rims where the coffee sits on the desk.
“It’s just what?”
“Is it shameful for me to admit I’m scared?”
He could write the book on shame. “No.” Because he was scared himself. “Trust me, I am coming back. My sons mean too much to me. You . . . I want to see you again. A lot.”
“I want to see you, too, but that’s not what has me worried. How much did Carlos put in the journal about my conversation with Dr. Feinstein?”
“Enough, I assume. The passage was fairly extensive. I’ve also talked and met with a few medical experts myself.”
“Then you know your fugue can recur.”
Their eyes meet across the room. “Yes.”
Although rare, there have been documented cases where a person can have not just one repeat episode, but multiple. Once again, he’ll be left with a blank slate in his head while those around him are left with nothing but heartache and memories of the man he used to be. It’s why one of the psychologists who evaluated James recommended therapy. There’s likely more at war in his head than solely the fear Carlos felt in his nightmares when Phil threatened to go after Aimee. That imagery could be symbolic of a greater issue from his past, possibly from his childhood, his mind had buried.
And here he is, running straight to the man both he and Thomas believe was the trigger that tossed James into the fugue state. They also believe Phil tried to murder James. Phil has yet to admit that, and fortunately for him, James can’t remember most of it.
In less than twenty-four hours of his release, Phil showed up at Donato Enterprises this morning. He was there when Thomas arrived at the office. Thomas first thought Phil was looking for employment. Instead, he was looking for James, and seemed very determined to find him. He wouldn’t tell Thomas why, and when Thomas proposed the three of them meet for dinner this evening, Phil wasn’t keen on the idea. His business is with James and James alone. Which is why James needs to get to California before Phil comes to them.
Natalya blinks rapidly. She averts her face. He feels her despair as though it’s his own, right smack-dab in the middle of his chest. An imaginary fist that squeezes his pulsing heart. He crosses the room and embraces her.
“I will come back,” he whispers into her hair.
“I’m not afraid you won’t come back. I’m afraid you won’t remember to come back.”
That fist drops his heart into his stomach. “Should something happen to me when I see my brothers—”
Natalya shakes her head. “Don’t say that. I have to believe nothing’s going to happen to you.”
He leans back to look down at her. She blinks away her tears. “Nat, honey, the last time I thought that about Phil, I lost six and a half years. The last time I thought that about Thomas, he hypnotized me without my consent.” He needs to be realistic about his situation. He needs to prepare, mentally and emotionally. So does Natalya. “My sons, Nat . . . I need you to keep them safe for me. And if I don’t come back . . .”