Page 24 of Everything We Left Behind

“Not since December. I stopped cashing them over a year ago.”

“Why did he keep sending them?”

She sipped her cappuccino. “Guilt would be my guess. He hates himself for what he did to you.”

I wouldn’t know. I hadn’t spoken with him since he left Puerto Escondido last December.

“He’s under investigation for faking your death. I guess your friend Aimee mentioned something about your being alive when she filed a restraining order against him.”

“He told you this?”

She returned the cup to its saucer and picked up the pen. “Sí. We still talk.”

“After everything he’s done?” I bit out the words. She clicked the ballpoint and I swore. “He’s keeping tabs on me.”

“He cares about you, Carlos.”

“I don’t give a shit about him. He can rot in prison for all I care.” Good riddance.

“He won’t go to jail for faking your death. There’s no law in your country—”

“My country?”

“I didn’t mean ...” She cleared her throat. “You’re right. I apologize. The United States. Apparently designing a fictitious death isn’t illegal, and that’s what Thomas did. Your funeral and burial were for show. The authorities are looking into the consequences of your death. They want to know if Thomas gained financially.”

I pinched off the sweat from the bridge of my nose and pushed the Maui Jims back into place. “The Donatos are wealthy. I’m sure he has.”

“Quite the opposite. Donato Enterprises hasn’t fared well since Phil’s arrest. Your portfolio is still intact. Thomas has it all in a trust and has been managing it. He never collected insurance upon your death.”

“How kind of him.”

Imelda lifted her eyes toward the ceiling with an air of big-sister impatience. “Your investments, your accounts, everything. It’s all there when you want it.”

Which I didn’t. She clicked the pen. I wanted to snatch it from her hand and fling it over the balcony. “Thanks, but no thanks. When you get word of Thomas’s arrest, feel free to text the good news.” I pushed up from the chair, wood legs scraping on the tile floor.

“Sit down, Carlos.” There was the big-sister tone. I bristled, stopping midrise. She pointed her pen at my chair. “Por favor.This affects you. Hate me and Thomas all you want, but believe it or not, we both care about you. And I love your sons.”

I eased back into the chair, my head cocked as a chill swept over me. “What does this have to do with them?”

Imelda looked left, then right. She set down the pen and leaned forward. “The authorities are asking Thomas questions about your death. I’m concerned they might come looking for you to verify everything Thomas has told them. You and I are the only ones here”—she gave the tabletop two distinct taps—“who know about you. Thomas gave me your identification papers. I have no idea where or how he got them. They can be legitimate, for all I know, but if they’re not ...”

I didn’t breathe. Couldn’t breathe. My back slammed into the chair. “I can be imprisoned or deported.” Because I might be here illegally. Fake ID and no visa.

“No one can find out I helped you. I’ll lose my hotel. And you, Carlos,” she said, panicked, “you could lose Julian.”

CHAPTER 7

JAMES

Present Day

June 22

Los Gatos, California

“You’re Señora Carla?”

“Well ... yes,” she says as though this revelation shouldn’t be a surprise to him.

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