“Come on in,” I call out and the door to my bedroom opens.

Grace LaClaire, Bryant’s wife, steps into the room. The flowing, white kaftan she’s wearing makes her look fresh and happy, as happy as she makes Bryant.

My brother had also gone through a lot and Grace had entered his life in time to repair it. I’ve never envied what they had before, but since meeting Brooke and talking about Eric, every time I see them together, every time I watch them gaze into each other’s eyes, an ache unfurls inside my chest. For once, I want what they have. And not just with anybody.

“What have you got there?” In her hand is a sheet of paper that looks as though the pieces have been sewn together, a patchwork.

“This, my friend, is your letter. I’m done.” She closes the door behind her and gives me a bright smile.

“That was fast. I didn’t even think you’ll be able to fix it.”

She comes to sit on the bed and hands it to me. “The hardest part was keeping Bryant from seeing it.”

“Thanks for not telling them.” Grace is the only person in the family I confided in about my story with Brooke, about the baby. The only story the others know is that of the prostitute I was obsessed with for a short while. They don’t know her real name.

I will tell them eventually. They’re my family and they deserve to know that they would have been uncles to a little boy, if he hadn’t died. For now, I want to keep everything to myself, to digest it all, to heal. The last couple of days had been rough but caring for Lance helped distract me.

Yesterday, we drove Lance to a rehab facility on the edge of town because as soon as he got home, he started drinking harder than ever before. He fought us tooth and nail, but in the end we made him see that he was playing a dangerous game with his life. He still insists he had not wanted to commit suicide, but the pills he had taken—which almost killed him—had been washed down with booze to create a deadly cocktail in his system. The doctors said he was lucky to be alive.

Currently, he’s not speaking to any of us, but that’s fine, as long as he’s safe. He can be furious now, but he’ll come around.

“Just so you know, I didn’t read it.” Grace tickles Liam’s foot. Giggles erupt out of her son, who’s lying next to me on the bed.

Liam is a happy little man. The two of us have spent a lot of time together the past week. When I’m with him, I try to get hold of the feeling I would have had if I had been with Eric, how my son would have felt in my arms. Sometimes when Liam giggles, I pretend I’m listening to Eric. At times the sounds in my head are comforting, sometimes they hurt. But I can’t stop, can’t escape the pain of losing my son. Late at night or while running on the beach, I wish Brooke were here to talk to, the one person who truly understands the pain.

I’d failed at convincing her to stay. Since we parted, we had talked on the phone twice. The last had been two days ago, when she thanked me again for paying off her debts and told me it would hurt less if we both let go. She wants to escape the pain and I want to swim in it. As long as she’s not in my life, I’ll continue to drown in agony with no one to save me.

Ignoring her wishes, I called her again last night and this morning. She didn’t pick up or call back. I’d been tempted several times to return to Boston, to show up at her door again unannounced, but I realize that forcing myself into her life won’t change anything. I’ll have to live with the guilt and the regret for the rest of my life, and with the memories of her.

“I wouldn’t have minded if you read it,” I say to Grace. “You already know everything. I’m just curious to know who wrote it.” I glance down at the letter.

“We should leave you alone. You’ve been such an awesome babysitter. But you need some time to process all this. He needs changing, anyway.” Grace lifts Liam off the bed and holds him to her body. He grabs hold of a golden strand of hair and brings it to his mouth, drooling on it. “I’m so sorry again about what happened to your son. I can’t even imagine how you must be feeling.” She reaches down to touch my arm. “If you ever need to talk some more, I’m here. And I won’t say a word to anyone, unless you want me to.”

“I appreciate that, Grace. I’ll tell them when I’m ready. I can’t do it now.”

“I fully understand. By the way, Bryant said dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes. Will you join us?”

“I’ll be down in a bit. I need a minute.”

Grace leaves and I squeeze my eyes shut for a long time, holding onto the letter I supposedly sent Brooke, dreading to read it. Finally, I find the courage and step onto the terrace. Two minutes later, I’m back inside the room, feeling as though I’d been hit by a truck, experiencing Brooke’s pain. I may have been a bad boy, but those words could never have come from me. I still have a heart. I’d never have treated her so callously.

Who the fuck wrote the damn letter? I don’t recognize the handwriting.

Needing to talk to Brooke, I dial her number again. No answer. I leave a message.

“It’s me again. I know you don’t want to hear from me anymore, but I wanted you to know again that I’m sorry. I read the letter. I swear to God those words didn’t come from me. I would never have treated you that way. I apologize for what you went through because of someone else’s cold-heartedness. I’ll find out who it was. I promise you that.

“Please call back. There’s still so much we need to talk about. We can get past this and start fresh. You only need to say the word.”

I hang up and stare at the letter, trying to look past the faded black ink, to decipher the handwriting. Perhaps it would have helped if it had been written in cursive rather than print. Pissed off that I’m getting nowhere, I throw it onto the bed, where it falls next to the phone.

Anger raging through me, I drive my fist into the wall, gritting my teeth as pain explodes through my knuckles.

Maybe I should tell my brothers sooner than later. They might be able to help me figure out who destroyed my life. What if Brooke hadn’t been sent the letter? What if the baby died because of the pain she had been carrying? If someone hadn’t been so determined to keep us apart, maybe Eric would be alive.

The door is pushed open and I swivel around to find Bryant watching me, concern written all over his face. He closes the door. “You okay?” He crosses the distance between us and comes to stand an arm’s-length from me. “Something’s going on with you. Don’t deny it.”

“Yes.” No point in hiding the truth. If Bryant noticed, I’m sure everyone else did as well.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I’ll tell all of you at dinner.”

Bryant folds his arms. “It must be huge. Does it have something to do with Lance? He’ll make it through this, you know. We have to hold on to that. Rehab is a step in the right direction.”

His gaze moves to my bed. He picks up the letter with a frown. “What’s this?”

I consider taking it from him, but I change my mind. Maybe I should go ahead and tell him before everyone else. “This is mom’s handwriting. Why is the letter addressed to someone named Brooke?”

My stomach drops. “Mom? That’s Mom’s? Jesus!”

“Yeah, her fancy handwriting, used only for official correspondence, since she hated typing.” He turns the letter over in his hand. “I’m surprised you don’t remember. Who the hell is Brooke? And why does this letter look like it survived a storm?”

I’m unable to speak from the shock raging through my system. My own mother ruined my life? Why would she do something like that? The year I slept with Brooke, was also the year our parents died. In fact, they died about six months after. Mom carried a devastating secret to her grave. If she had lived longer, would she have told me?

“Derrick, are you with me?” Bryant waves the letter in front of my face. “Who is Brooke?”

“The woman I told you about a while ago . . . from The Mirage.”

“The prostitute?” His brow crinkles with humor. “Why would mom write a letter to a prostitute?”

“Do not call her that.” I jam my hands into my pockets and pace the room. “Mom went to great lengths to keep us apart.”

“I don’t understand. Mom knew—”

“The woman from The Mirage is Brooke Rayner.”

“You’re not serious. You mean your old flame from school?”

“Yeah.” Before talking to Brooke, I wouldn’t have admitted to her being an old flame, just some girl I once fucked. But I guess she’s an old flame. She’d left a little fire burning inside my chest, one that got revealed at the same time the truth came to light. The flame I had been hiding from the world and myself for years.

“I’m sorry, man. It must have been awkward to see her at The Mirage.” He sits on the bed. “But I still don’t get why Mom wrote to her. What did they have to talk about?” Bryant drops into the chair at my desk and flattens the letter on the glass table. “Holy shit.” He looks up with wild eyes. “Derrick, you’re a father?”

I shake my head. “No, I’m not.”

“You mean she lied and Mom knew about it? Was that why she wrote this?”

“She didn’t fucking lie.” The words explode out of my mouth like sharp stones. “She was pregnant with my child.”

Bryant dips his head to the side. “And where’s the child?”

“He’s dead, okay? He is dead and I didn’t get a chance to be there for her because Mom decided to mess with my destiny.” I blink away the heat in my eyes but it refuses to be banished.

“Bro, I’m so sorry.” Bryant comes to put an arm around my shoulders. “What Mom did was wrong. I can’t believe she did something like that. But you shouldn’t keep this to yourself. We’re your family. Don’t carry this burden alone. Come down and tell the others.”

I nod and a few minutes later, we’re all sitting at the dining table, and my brothers are staring at me, stunned by my revelation.

“Mom once said that she was worried some girl may show up at our doorstep claiming to be pregnant with your child.” Caleb reveals. “Maybe she really thought Brooke was lying. And she wanted to protect you.”

“She should’ve let me deal with my own business.” I retort. “She should have insisted on conducting a paternity test to find out the truth. We don’t live in the Stone Age, for God’s sake. What she did destroyed not only one life but three.” I blow out a breath. “She didn’t give a damn.”

My brothers nod, lost for words. Grace wipes her cheek with a napkin.

“Now you all know. I’m out of here.” I toss my napkin onto my plate, on top of the untouched honey-glazedBryant had prepared, and rise from the table. “I’ll be back next week to see Lance.”

“Where are you going?” Bryant asks, gazing up from feeding Liam his baby food.

“Don’t go and do anything stupid,” Caleb says. “I’m sorry about what happened, but you will make it through. You’re a LaClaire, don’t forget that.”

I shoot him a glance. “It’s easy for you to say. You’re not in my shoes.” My temples throb with rage. “If any of you needs me, I’ll be in Boston.”

“Why don’t you—”

“Let him go, Caleb,” Neal cuts him off. “Time alone helps sometimes.”

Having lost a child himself, Neal is the only one in the position to understand my pain. “Call us when you’re ready,” he continues. “We’re here for you.”