CHAPTER 1
JAMES
Present Day
June 21
San Jose, California
Dying is a whole lot easier than coming back to life. The amount of paperwork required to reinstate his identity is enough to suck the life back out of him.
Maybe he should have stayed dead. Because there sure as hell isn’t anything worthwhile left for him here.
The thought skips through James’s mind like a grounder across a baseball field, slamming hard into the outfield wall. It leaves a dull ache in his temple and a hollowness in his chest.
He stares at the San Jose skyline outside the window of his brother Thomas’s office at Donato Enterprises. Glass buildings reflect the setting sun in radiant displays of gold and orange. Six and a half years lost, and there isn’t a damn thing he can do, medically speaking, to recapture that time.
But he remembers the day he left Aimee as though it were yesterday.
He paces in front of the window, plagued by the conversation they had the night before he left. “I’ll be away for less than a week, barely enough time for you to miss me.” He then kissed her and made love with her. His fingers had caressed the moonlight in her hair as he reassured her their future would be the one they wanted, with him free of his obligation to Donato Enterprises. He wanted to pursue art. His mouth had traced the supple lines of her thighs, the curve of her calves, as he promised to care for her for the rest of his life.
But he failed to keep that promise. He failed her.
So much time has been lost. So much of his life lost. His home. His art. His identity.
The love of his life.
Aimee.
Her name whispers through him.
Does she know he’s back in the States? Does she know he is back, her James?
She hasn’t seen him since she found him in Mexico more than five years ago. She’d discovered he was still alive, not dead like his brother Thomas had everyone believing. The jackass even organized James’s funeral and bought a headstone at the family plot.
For his protection, Thomas has told him, else Phil would have tried to kill him again in order to save his own ass.
Thomas took advantage of his amnesia, which, in James’s case, had been a total whiteout of his autobiographical information. His brother went so far as to create a new identity for him, a new life.
Jaime Carlos Dominguez. Artist. Widower. Father.
He doesn’t have any memories of Aimee’s trip to Mexico. He doesn’t have any memories of falling in love with his physical therapist, Raquel; marrying her; adopting her son, Julian; fathering their son, Marcus; and her death from birthing Marcus. He doesn’t have any memories of anything Thomas told him about what he, as Carlos, did in Mexico. He can hardly recall how he ended up in Mexico.
He doesn’t remember anything about the hours leading up to his wandering into Playa Zicatela, bloodied, dazed, and confused, with no idea who he was or where he was from.
What he does have, though, is more than six years of Carlos’s journals, all tidily filed on a thumb drive. Daily entries that stopped two days before James surfaced.
The damn man kept a diary.
James makes an odd noise in the back of his throat. It’s ironic. Anytime he curses Carlos, he’s only cussing at himself. But thinking of himself as separate from Carlos has made it easier to accept the loss of time.
There is much about the man Carlos was that James doesn’t understand. The one thing he can relate to, though, is Carlos’s paranoia of losing his identity. For when James surfaced from the fugue state to magazine and newspaper stacks, framed picture mosaics crowding the walls, and a lockbox bursting with the details of the man’s short life, Carlos was lost to this world forever.
James thinks of the items in that lockbox. Photos, birth and death certificates. Aimee’s engagement ring.
His blunt fingers rub the edges of the diamond solitaire ring tucked deep in his trouser pocket. The thin gabardine wool dress pants scratch thighs long used to board shorts. And the ring is a solid, cold reminder that for the rest of his life he’ll pay for his mistakes with more than the physical scars marring his thirty-six-year-old body. The angry ridge from right temple to jawbone, the not-set-just-right nose bridge, the slash of rigid tissue across his hipbone—a bullet trail, he surmises. Those scars he can handle. What he can’t get past, what he has yet to come to grips with, is that he’ll never share his life with Aimee because he fucked up.
James thinks of his sons waiting in the conference room. Eleven-year-old Julian hates him. He’s convinced James doesn’t want to be their father, that he’ll ship them off to Hawaii to live with their aunt, Raquel’s half sister Natalya Hayes. Six-year-old Marcus has been wary of him since that first day when his dad started speaking English. James is not the same papá as before.
God knows how he’ll manage getting his sons settled in a new home, let alone a new-for-them country, and trusting him as their father, all the while trying to start a new life together.
A life Aimee will not be a part of.
James breathes through the ache deep inside his chest.
“She won’t see you.”
He fists the engagement ring and slowly turns from the window to glare at his brother. Thomas sits behind his desk, erratically bouncing a Montblanc pen against the glass surface. James’s ears flex, capturing the noise. The sound grates. He tightens his grip and the diamond bites into his palm. The desire to punch Thomas, feel the sickening crunch of cartilage vibrate up his arm—that feeling consumes him. Almost.
Get a grip, James.
Thomas meets his glare, a brow arched as though challenging James to object.
“How would you know?” James asks, turning back to the window. “You haven’t seen her in five years.”
The tapping stops. “I haven’t spoken with her.”
Last December, when James bombarded Thomas with questions about Aimee, he couldn’t answer them. Aimee had filed, and the court had awarded, a temporary restraining order against his brother upon her return to the States. She didn’t want anything to do with Thomas or the Donato family, so other than a few e-mail exchanges after the order expired, Thomas has left her alone.
James doesn’t blame Aimee. If he wasn’t so reliant on Thomas’s help to get reestablished, he’d write his brother off, too. He’d even contemplated suing Thomas for violating his human rights. But his own shame, as well as his respect for his mother, had stopped him. Claire Donato’s three sons has already done enough to screw up the family. Besides, James deserves what happened to him. It is because of his own mistakes that he ended up where he did, abandoned and practically forgotten.
“I have seen Aimee,” Thomas murmurs.
James flips the ring onto his pinkie. He leans his forearm against the window, taps the glass with a finger, and wonders if Thomas is right. Would Aimee want to see him?
Chair wheels roll across tightly woven carpet, and the distinct rustle of rich, tailored fabric disturbs the air. Thomas comes to stand beside him at the window.
“Los Gatos is a small town. I walk past her café almost every day. Hard not to see her or Ian. Or their daughter.”
James leans his forehead against the bent arm supporting his weight.
“She had to move on,” Thomas says. “Kid. Husband. She loves Ian. She’s happy.”
James knows this, has known since the day he tried calling her last December only to reach a disconnected number. He’d never been so scared in his life.
He reached Thomas, though. His brother had answered on the first ring. Then he was there in Mexico, twenty-four hours later, and told him everything.
Thomas claps James’s shoulder. “Don’t fuck up her marriage.”
“Like you fucked up my life?”
Thomas flinches. “I told you, I tried to fix it. You, when you were Carlos, wanted nothing to do with me.” He angles his face toward the evening traffic below. Hands in pockets, he fidgets with the pen. “I couldn’t force you to leave Mexico no matter how hard I tried to convince you.”
The sun disappears below the horizon, and the sky darkens. Their reflections against the glass grow more distinct with each passing moment. James notices for the first time in their lives he is larger than Thomas. He also looks much younger than the two years separating him from his older brother.
That was what surprised James the most when he first saw his own reflection last December: how much he’d aged. The surfer-length hair and scarred skin on his face had been a shock. Six and a half years had deepened the creases around his eyes and mouth, tightened the skin around his ribs as though it had baked frequently under the Mexican sun. But Carlos kept his body in top form. Between running and mountain biking, he maintained an active, outdoor lifestyle.
Thomas hasn’t fared so well. He wears his stress in the dull-gray hair cropped close to his head, blanched skin deficient of vitamin D, and a leaner frame James surmises survives on caffeine, cigars, and a liquid diet. The wet bar in Thomas’s office is well stocked, and the burned, musty smell of cigars is unavoidable when Thomas stands near him. The sharp smoke scent in Thomas’s suit hits the olfactory, almost making James’s eyes water.
Hard to believe Thomas will be forty in less than two years. He looks years older.
“I don’t plan to see Aimee,” James says on a resigned sigh. Not yet, anyway. He isn’t sure he can handle seeing her, knowing she’s no longer his.
He moves away from the window and stops at Thomas’s desk. A large envelope rests on top, addressed to him. “Is this it?”
“Yes, it came in this morning.”
James opens the envelope, flips through the items. Deed and keys to his parents’ house. His mother moved out several years ago to an upscale retirement community after his father’s passing. Now the house is his, a place to raise the boys. He intends to sell it as soon as possible.
He scans the rest of the paperwork. A list of bank- and investment-account numbers, school registration forms for the boys. Car keys. A new life.
If only it were that simple.
James thinks of his sons. Thanks to him, everything familiar about their lives is gone: their home, their school, and their friends. They’ve lost their mother and, more recently, the father they knew. And according to Julian, James is a poor excuse for a replacement.
“As of this week, I’ve sold off your remaining interest in Donato Enterprises. Mom and Dad’s place is yours to do with as you want,” Thomas explains. “Everything you shipped from Mexico is there. I kept your canvases boxed.”
James pulls out a document. Thomas joins him at the desk and taps the form with his pen. “The boys are enrolled at Saint Andrew’s.” The private academy down the road from where he and Thomas grew up. The same school they attended.
“They have an excellent English-as-a-second-language program.”
“They speak fluent English. Apparently I made sure of that,” James scoffs.
He stuffs the paperwork back in the envelope and slaps it against his thigh. He wants to leave. He’s tired and hungry, and knows the boys are, too. They came straight here after their flight from Mexico landed. “Anything you need from me?”
Thomas shakes his head.
“We’re done, then. I’ll call if I need something. Otherwise, don’t expect to hear from me.” Ever, James would like to say. But it seems almost every life play he runs downfield to catch, Thomas is there to intercept the ball. Pass interference, he wants to cry. He just needs Thomas to leave him the hell alone.
James turns to leave.
“Phil’s prison term ends next Tuesday,” Thomas remarks when James reaches for the door. “He’s out. A free man.” He extends his arms, palms out.
“You’re just telling me now?” James stares pointedly at his brother. He thought Phil had another few months to serve. His eyes narrow. “How long have you known?”
Thomas takes an interest in the pen he holds.
“Damn you.” He’s known about it long enough for James to move anywhere that isn’t here. Thomas has been determined to set right everything he can about James’s life, which includes getting him moved back to Los Gatos.
“I already told you Fernando Ruiz, the Hidalgo cartel leader, has been captured, tried, and convicted. I doubt Phil has any further association with the Hidalgo cartel. Still”—Thomas taps the pen against his thumb knuckle—“keep your eyes open. We have nothing but my gut telling me he tried to kill you and I have no idea what he’ll do when he gets out. He still doesn’t know you’re alive.”
James fist-bumps the door. “Jesus, Thomas, really? You were supposed to tell him.” James thought he would have time to visit Phil before he got out of prison. “Do you really think he’ll come after me again? What’s the point? Everything’s resolved. The Feds got their man and you got Phil in prison.”
“Phil will seek you out if you have something that implicates him in your attempted murder.”
“We don’t know if he, or anyone, for that matter, tried to kill me,” James points out. “I can’t remember a goddamn thing.”
“Nothing at all?”
“No.”
Thomas swears under his breath. “You’d tell me if you remembered something, right? Make sure you get in touch with me the second you do.”
James gives him a clipped nod. It might be important to Thomas, but to James, what happened, happened. He messed up, chasing after Phil without any sort of plan. He’d been furious Phil assaulted Aimee, disgusted Thomas showed no interest in stopping Phil’s laundering, and he was angry at how Phil planned to ruin the family. In the end, James failed everyone, especially Aimee.
He yanks open the door, a solid mahogany slab.
“James.”
He angles his head toward Thomas but doesn’t look at him.
“It’s good to have you home.”
James walks out of the office and quietly shuts the door behind him. He glances across the lobby, relieved to see his sons are still in the conference room. Boys Carlos didn’t trust James to raise.