Page 9 of Everything We Left Behind

“Yes.”

“You didn’t say a damn thing to me and you paid her to lie!” I grabbed the jar of paint on the side of the table, the Caribbean-blue color I’d worked hard to customize so that it matched the eyes of the woman in my dreams. Aimee’s eyes. I lugged the jar across the room. Thomas’s brows shot up into his hairline. He ducked. The jar shattered against the wall behind him. Paint oozed like a Jackson Pollack painting, down the wall, puddling on the floor.

Thomas lunged out of the way. Paint stained the back of his shirt, dotted his hair. Blue polka dots like the cartoon animals in one of Julian’s children’s books. His shirt was ruined.

I shoved my fingers through my hair. “Go. Just go away.”

Thomas hesitated; then he pulled out a card from his breast pocket and left it on the table. “I kept you hidden to keep you safe. Phil tried to kill you.”

“The same guy who attacked Aimee? Where’s he now?”

“In prison.”

“Then I don’t need to worry about him.”

“There’s more—” He stopped when I held up my hand. He scratched the side of his nose. “Suit yourself. Call me when you’re ready to talk. But for now, I’m thinking it’s probably best you remain in Puerto Escondido.”

“I never intended to leave.”

Thomas shot me a look before walking to the doorway. He picked his suit jacket up from the floor where he’d dropped it after I punched him. He folded the garment over his arm. “Promise me you’ll call if you change your mind.”

“About talking or leaving Puerto Escondido?”

“Both.” He gave me a sad smile. “Take care of yourself and ... watch your back.” With that, he left the room.

CHAPTER 3

JAMES

Present Day

June 21

San Jose, California

“Papáwill be angry.”

“Who cares? He’s always angry. He’s also not our realpapá.”

Julian reprimands Marcus for what James thinks is the millionth time. Marcus, or Marc, as he’s come to call him, must be sick of his brother’s attitude. James sure is.

From the conference-room entrance, he watches Julian launch a spitball at the window. He’s been busy while James was with Thomas. Spitballs dot the glass like falling snow. Julian shreds a napkin, wads the paper in his mouth, and blows through the plastic straw they found for their sodas in the lunchroom. The gooey wad splatters against the window and sticks.

Enough.

“Julian,” James snaps with authority, a tone he adopted too quickly after first “meeting” the boys last December.

Julian jolts. He tosses the straw under the conference table.

James narrows his eyes on the wadded masterpiece. What a mess.

Most of the office staff has gone home. He left the boys alone in the conference room with chip bags and sodas from the lunchroom vending machines. Probably not the brightest idea he’s had, but his lack of good ones has been on a downward slide since before he left the States years ago.

He glances down at where Marc sits. Doritos fragments litter the floor around his chair like speckled paint on a drop cloth. “Let’s clean up. Time to go.”

Julian chuffs—a short, sharp exhale that fluffs his bangs. “Go where?”

“Home.”

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