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MOURNING

Savor The Days Series

Book 3

A.R. RIVERA

November Mourning

Savor the Days Series Book 3

By A.R. Rivera

Cover provided by Derek Murphy and Creative Indie

Fonts provided by 1001fonts.com

Cover design by A.R. Rivera

Copyright 2017 A.R. Rivera

All Rights reserved.

ISBN:

Although this story contains pop culture references and existing locales, all characters, places, objects and events portrayed in this book are products of the authors' imagination. Any similarities to persons living or dead, places, things, or events are coincidental and unintentional so don't get you knickers in a twist. Any music, quotes or songs specifically named herein are credited to the original artists and sources.

No one shall not print, re-print, distribute, buy, sell, or transfer any physical or digital copy of this material, whole or in part, without express permission of the author. Writing a novel takes considerable time and effort. If you enjoy this book, dear reader, please respect the authors' hard work by recommending this book for others to purchase. And feel free to leave a review on the platform where you purchased the book.

All quotes are used with attribution information offered at www.quotes.com

More Books by A.R. Rivera

Savor the Days Series:

Between Octobers

September Rain

November Mourning

January Falls (Coming Soon)

The Threestone Trilogy:

INERTIA

FORCE

REACTION

To my heavenly Father, because He gave me a pen.

### CONTENTS

Title Page

More Books By A.R. Rivera

About The Author

Chapter 1

"There is no loneliness greater than the loneliness of a failure. The failure is a stranger in his own house." —Eric Hoffer

There's a storm, brewing inside me. Hot and cold fronts clashing: the heat of my temper flaring against a cold reminder. A roaring wind climbs up my throat, trying to shoot through the veil of my lips, to shred through the quiet if this house.

A glaring reminder sitting on the mantle over the living room fire place, the way its illuminated makes me want to scream.

I literally feel mental because like the storm there is also this calm part—small though it may feel—in the center of me . This, I cling to. Cling with a white-knuckled grip on the edge of the mantle.

Commanding myself to calm down, I work on a deep breath.

What's got me so twisted is the simplest, most benign thing: a ray of sunshine. But the way it shoots through the window that overlooks the back garden is bloody dreadful. It's not so much the light itself—it's rather gloomy this time of the year; an early morning in November—more that the damned light has found a way through the patchy fog. It wouldn't bother me if this damnable ray simply shone through the window as most shafts of daylight do, but it's not.

The ray lasers through the glass, passes all the way across the Great Room to hit a glass portrait on the opposing wall. It's then bounced directly from the glass that protects the image of my late wife to land again on the object of my gaze: a golden statuette. Something I once coveted but have come to hate more than the blasted sunbeam.

I've kept the thing hidden away because I can't stand seeing it. But I've been gone for several weeks and in that time someone— _Lily_ , I'm sure—must have found it and placed it atop the mantle of the fireplace to be illuminated by this ridiculous, stubborn beam of sunlight that first strikes my wife, then the award.

Like it knows.

Peering at the plaque bolted to the front, I recall how I used to covet the recognition, but now can't fathom why.

Academy Award

To

Rhys Matthews

Best Performance by an actor in a Leading Role

"Triumph In The Sky"

Undoubtedly there is a status level that accompanies this honour; this receiving of my industry's highest prize, but I don't understand it. I mean, I thought I did.

" _I'd like to thank the Academy..."_ so says the winner. _"It's an honor just to be nominated,"_ says the loser. And it is. A great honor. But in my case, it's also a tremendous lie.

Never in my life have I felt like a bigger fraud. This _award_ was bestowed upon me shortly after losing Grace. My wife. And only because I lost her in such a plaguing, public way. The sob-story of the century.

Gracie, I called her from the very beginning. I don't know why, except that when she gave me her small smile and introduced herself, I wanted to give something back. So I added to her name. Gracie had told me once that she thought _Triumph in the Sky_ was my finest work. Then I explained to her the only reason I took the part of the crippled helicopter pilot was work as therapy. The character was a self-destructive bloke and though I didn't understand his choices, I completely identified with his rage. More so now than ever before.

The film was independent, produced on a micro-budget, which was unusual for a contender. The larger studios pump out most everything—and they're usually the ones campaigning on behalf of their actors. Smaller studios, if they choose to promote a performance, rarely do so for more than one actor.

Threestone Features was in no position to put up the kind of funding that would necessitate recognition for such an award. No, I shouldn't have even been considered, but my life was such a mess at the time—a huge source of gossip. The studio didn't need to spend a dime. The world was already talking about me.

My sudden break-up with former girlfriend and fellow actor, Gretchen Bakker, was what got the ball rolling. She wouldn't shut up about it; answering personal questions about our time together as if it were nothing, as if she and I didn't fight to keep that part of our lives out of the spotlight. That led to the rag-mags theorizing over my sudden marriage to Gracie. She and I were picked and pulled at until they got wind that we'd separated. I fell out of sobriety after that and since I never do anything half-way, I quickly made it worse in trying to deal with the walls she built.

Then there was the obligatory _celebrity sex-tape_ that was the essential nail in my marital coffin, and that was followed by my near-death experience. I'd passed out on the beach during said separation and woke in the Pacific Ocean after the tide had come in. It was all rather salacious. Then, there was my stint in rehab shortly after.

Just when I was getting my feet back under me, sober and working, fate intervened.

I was in Iceland filming _King Bobby_ at the time. We'd been estranged for months and still, I was positive she would be there waiting once I gathered the balls to face her. I wasn't sure she'd take me back, but I knew she'd at least hear me out. But ... Gracie was gone.

The media descended as they always do. It was the only time in my life that I was grateful for their reach and speculations. Instead of being the ever-present thorn in my side, they were a tool. I used them to get word out.

We found her forty hours later; far, far away in the mountainous forests of Kings Canyon. She'd been abducted in some crazy-ass scheme concocted by my former manager—someone I had long considered a friend. I still cannot fathom what that hideous bitch thought she'd accomplish by taking my pregnant wife against her will. I was not approached for ransom. The police were certain that the bitch's only intention was to kill.

Did I mention Grace was eight months pregnant at the time and bed-ridden from complications? She was. Of course, I knew nothing about the baby because she'd kept it from me.

Forensic evidence was found all over that mountain side which told us that Grace had somehow managed to evade her captor. A chase ensued. It was assumed that the death of my former manager—whose name shall never pass my lips again—fell to her death during the chase.

Though Gracie was trapped in the wilderness in late October, she was a runner and a fighter. She survived that night, which was two days before Halloween, but couldn't hold out any longer. Mid-morning the next day, her poor body couldn't take the strain any longer and she went into labour. She gave birth to Ethan and then the uterine tear; scar tissue from an old C-section split and... she bled out.

All alone.

She journeyed to a place where none of us could follow; leaving me, her two boys—Noah and Caleb—and the one we shared, Ethan, behind.

Staring at the statuette on the mantle that someone has set in place of pride, I can hardly believe it's already been two years. The longest years of my miserable life. And also my most successful.

Some days are better than others, but today the wounds are just as fresh as if it happened yesterday. Yet it feels decades have passed since I've seen her, held her face and ran my thumb down her cheek.

I stand in the empty great room of her home, now mine, though she's taken most of the comfort with her. Grace is ever present, ever gone. And I am torn with reminders every minute I have to look at this award.

Taking the weighty figure in my hand I make for the back door. The single ray of sunlight has moved on now, lost in the Santa Monica fog. Pausing beneath the covered patio, I read the inscription at the base once more and wonder why I can't manage to feel anything more than loathing.

Leaning on the bench where Grace and I used to chat, I'm consumed with odium. It swells from deep inside, filling me like a black pool.

Near the edge of the stone path that heads downhill, one of the gardeners has left a few hand tools and an empty pot of soil. Never one to waste an opportunity, I grab the spade and head back to the bench.

Grasping the yellowed head and torso, I swing the pity prize into the dirt. Using the sharp edge at the base to ply up the grass, I decide it's just as good a spade as award, and use it for digging. A little top soil on the next swing. A few more strokes and it's all dirt and surprised earthworms. I keep going, because releasing the ire in this way well helps.

This is why Grace put in a pool after Sol died, I remember. She said the labour helped the depression.

Four fury legs appear in my peripheral vision as I'm sweeping the dirt back over the hole I've made.

"Bugger off, Alvin."

The Pinscher doesn't leave. In fact he sits on his haunches and tilts his head, watching me stomp on the hole to pack the dirt. For a highly trained attack dog he's not very bright.

"Hey, ass sniffer, leave!"

Then I notice, down low on the dogs' stomach, the blatant absence of a penis. So I'm not talking to Alvin. It's his sister, Chipmunk.

Why the hell do we have two guard dogs that look exactly alike? I'm not going to peter-gaze before giving a command.

"Go away, Chipmunk." Immediately, she stands and trots 'round the side of the house.

The audacious sun is still determined to find a way through the gray mist but I want no part of it, preferring my doom with obvious gloom. I walk back inside, less one eight-pound golden nuisance.

I've been back less than an hour and I'm already sweaty and irritated. After being on-set for the past four weeks, filming, working, being a shitty long-distance dad, I shouldn't be so eager to ruin this short visit.

I try not to do more than one or two films a year since I don't like being away from the boys that long, but it's really difficult around Halloween. Hard to be home, harder to be away.

Walking down the main hall, I stop to peek into nursery. Little Ethan, my birthday boy, is still sound asleep in his crib. I check the next bedroom to find that Caleb is also sleeping. His nightlight is still on. I creep inside and shut it off. He's in his full-size bed and a giant stuffed elephant lies next to him. As I close his door, another opens; the guest bedroom down the hall. Well, it used to be Noahs' room. Now it's the one Lily sleeps in while I'm off working and she and Marcus are staying with the kids.

Her eyes meet mine and her face breaks into a pathetic excuse for a smile. Still, I know she's glad to see me.

"When did you get in?"

"Not long ago." I step in, offering the compulsory hug to the woman who was once Gracie's best friend.

She pats my back a few times, growing openly somber as if she's just remembered the point of today. "Marcus already left for the airport. Noah should be landing in an hour. I want to have a big breakfast with everybody since we're all together."

"You're not cooking, are you?" It's not meant to sound rude. I'm simply asking an honest question. The woman has had many lessons, from multiple instructors. Notable chefs with impressive resumes. Still, she can barely boil water.

"No, you ass," Lily smirks, swatting my shoulder. "I thought I could talk Noah into making his famous waffles."

"It's a nice idea," I concede, "But don't count on it." Lily's eyes pierce mine just then, as I sigh letting the quiet truth settle in.

There's something in her gaze, it's pure stubbornness, and I know she's going to make us celebrate. Even if her eyes didn't tell me the way they usually do, her next words do the job.

"Noah will do it for Ethan."

It's my first smile of the day, hearing her say his name. "Caleb should help, then. He's eight years-old, it's about time he started earning his keep."

Inside the kitchen Grace designed, on the black marble countertops that she picked out, Lily places a number of necessities; all of which should tell Noah that he's on duty when he walks in.

I wonder if he'll talk to me.

Lily sets two mugs of coffee on the table between us. Pushing one at me she says, "Milk. Two sugars."

When I first met the woman who would become my best friend's wife, I thought she was seriously hot. I was already interested in her best friend, though. As I got to know Gracie, I had to spend more and more time with Lily. It didn't take long to learn that she has quite a large heart and an even larger mouth. She's one of those that speaks her mind. Well, she used to be. Something she and I have in common. We've both drawn inward over the past two years, dealing with the heartaches in silence when we can get away with it.

"Is Noah still being an asshole?" She asks.

Case. Point.

I shake my head.

Lily's late older brother, Solomon, was Grace's first love, first husband, and father to Noah and Caleb. Sol died in a car accident in Noah's fifteenth year and he took up the role of man of the house. He was quite serious about it, as well. Despite his cornering me and questioning my intentions with his mother, he and I always got on. He is a good guy, likeable and well-rounded. He's personable and well-spoken. He's a hit with the ladies, too. Of course this drove his mother mad to think of, but I was proud of his ability to connect with whomever he spoke. It's one of his greatest strengths. With girls, he doesn't even have to try.

Grace had that same way about her—that draw, that energy and confidence to put the people around her at ease. After losing her though, Noah changed. We all did, of course, but no one more than him. Even as much as I have been altered, as much as Caleb clings when he's missing her, as much as Ethan doesn't know what he's missing, I think it is Noah who suffers most.

He's been off at University since July. Pre-Med. He also started working a side job as a line cook, even though his schooling is paid for and I've got plenty of money, and his mother left him more than enough in her will. He doesn't come home often, saying that he has to work but we all know the real reason why he avoids coming back.

"I haven't spoken to Noah in almost two weeks." I tell Lily and it's a disgraceful confession. But I gave up keeping secrets two years ago.

Lily gasps, "Evan. Seriously?"

"I don't need a lecture."

"It is your responsibility to call him."

"Even if he doesn't answer?" _And I am swamped with work_ , I want to add but don't get the chance.

"You are the adult. It is your job to keep the lines of communication open even if he doesn't want you to. Let him act out, but you remain blameless. You hold the door open and wait for him to walk through. Especially if he doesn't—"

"What part of 'no lecture' are you not grasping? I text him every day. He doesn't text back. I email him, message him through social media, as well. Even when I know he's online, I get nothing. I can't sit around waiting on him. I've got my own—" I cut off, suddenly realizing what I was about to say; that I have my own life. But I don't. I have their lives: our boys. I guide them through their lives. I have the pretend lives of characters that I act out for the camera. I have Rhys, the persona I put on for work, but none of that is mine, really.

"I'm busy."

"When was the last time you called him?"

Shaking my head, I answer. "Four days."

Her back straightens. Her lips thin as they often do when someone tells her something she doesn't like. "Evan," she sighs, "I don't need to tell you how tough it is to lose your mother at such a young age. You have been through it. Are you so deep inside your own shit that you can't see his?"

"Lily," I begin, but my voice cracks. Instead of arguing, I simply concede. "I'll speak to him."

"I know you will."

"If he'll let me."

"He's waiting for you, Evan. He just doesn't know it."

Bright green lights flash from the baby monitor and the sound of little grunts boom into the room.

"That's my cue." Standing, I make a quick exit.

If there is a greater gift on this earth, I don't know it. These boys I've got are utterly amazing. Each carries traits that remind me so much of their mother. Grace left her strength of will with Caleb. He is just as stubborn and vivacious as she ever was. His spirit, like hers, demands you sit up and take notice. Ethan's got his mother's large, round, silver-blue eyes and ...Well, judging by his face as I enter the nursery, he's needs to shite.

He's standing up on his little bed, bouncing, bracing himself on the railing. His tiny brow is scrunched, his brown hair in adorable disarray. His eyes widen with urgency when he spots me. He smiles calling out, "Daddy! Daddy!" But then the smile leaves and _Daddy_ is replaced with, "Poo! Poo!"

"Let's get you sorted."

With my hands about his middle, we make a mad-dash across the hall. The moment I place Ethan on his bare feet, his little hands are tearing at his nighttime nappy. He's completely toilet trained but also a deep sleeper, so he wears these training pants at night to avoid accidents. The name I've given them isn't quite unique—nighttime nappy—but it's cute when Ethan tries to say it. Once he's squared on the toddler-size pot, doing his business, I flip the switch for the fan and wait.

My phone vibrates inside my pocket. A text message from Marcus.

—Leaving airport. Noah in tow. Prepare to be surprised!!

I text him back.

—Ominous much?

"Daddy!" Ethan's standing with his trousers down around his ankles, obviously waiting for me to clean him up.

Once the dirty work is done, it's my favorite time of day. "Ethan," I wait for his big blue eyes to find mine. When they do, he grows a silly grin. "Would you like a bath?"

"Gimme bath!" He shouts, collaring me with his embrace.

"Yes, let's give you a bath. Your birthday party is today, you've got be clean before your guests arrive."

Ethan excitedly stamps his feet, like he's running in place. Swimming in all his fervor, I'm quite sure I could tackle anything.

We clap together and sing made-up songs about bubbles and soap. I wash and condition his thick mop of bronze hair, towel him off, and then chuckle to myself as Ethan sits on the counter wrapped in a large towel, waiting for me to finish blow-drying his hair. In warmer weather I let it dry naturally, but its chilly out and I can't have him catching cold.

We keep his hair a bit long because it looks so damned cute. I brush his locks up and out, drying each strand as I go, and laughing to myself at the maximum volume. By the time I'm done, Ethan looks as if he's stuck his finger in a socket. I'm holding my sides, chuckling, staring at him. When Ethan catches his reflection in the large mirror across the back wall, his mouth falls open in the most comical way. I laugh more in this moment than I have in all the time I've spent away.

Caleb pops his head in, no doubt woken by our noise. When his eyes land on me I notice how they widen, gleaming with pleasure as he jumps into the bathroom.

"Caleb! My best mate!" I'm careful to keep a hand on Ethan as I lean down to wrap his older brother in a hug.

"Dad!" He grips my waist as tight as he can and another piece of me falls into place. "When did you come home?" His dark brown hair and eyes, his melanin-rich complexion, it all matches every portrait I've seen of his natural father, but this boy is undoubtedly mine.

"About an hour ago." Taking in his increased height, I add, "You've grown another foot, my lad. You'll reach Amazonian heights before Christmas at this rate."

My chest aches. He's growing too fast. I've missed so much more than this most recent growth spurt. But Caleb chuckles and hugs me tighter. "You always say that."

"It's always true. Look what I've done to your brother's hair."

When Caleb notices the mushroom cloud of Ethan's hair, he tosses his head back laughing, which makes Ethan do his little excited run-in-place-thing. We're all laughing as we exit the bathroom.

Caleb, ever the faithful big brother, helps me choose a morning outfit for Ethan: plain blue jeans and a tee-shirt that reads _Future Rock Star_. The outfit he'll wear for his party won't be donned until just before festivities begin because this boy cannot keep clean.

There's a reason they call it the 'terrible twos.' In just two short years, Ethan has become less blundering and more purposeful in his pursuit of disobedience. Every time I tell him "no" he continues right on with what he's doing only he moves faster than he used to and usually smiles. I'm sure at some point I'll have to do something about that but for now, it's all good.

Back in the great room, I find Lily standing in front of the fireplace, staring too long at the empty spot on the mantle.

"I put it away," is my explanation, while Caleb coaxes a chatty Ethan into his high chair, knowing how his baby brother prefers to climb up himself.

Ethan and I share toast and a banana. Everyone else opts to wait for waffles.

All in all, it's a decent welcome home.

Chapter 2

"Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown." —William Shakespeare

' _Surprise'_ Marcus had texted.

'Prepare to be surprised—exclamation point, exclamation point.'

Really idiotic thing to tell a person.

There are millions of things that might surprise me. Earthquakes, floods, car accidents, kidnappings, make-believe friends, psychotic ex-managers, but this unexpected issue is connected to Noah. Knowing Marcus as I do and his use of 'surprise—double-exclamation point,' that can only mean a good thing.

Right?

But me being me ... Noah being Noah ... Our relationship being strained as it has for the past six months.

It all makes me think that, yes, I am definitely in for a surprise. Not a good one either. I hope I'm wrong, but can't help picturing Noah waltz in with an extra five kilos round his middle or enormous plugs in his ears. Or his dark hair bleached white and recolored like a rainbow snow cone.

The absolute last thing I expect—actually, that's not right because I don't expect it at all. It's out of the sodding blue.

Caleb and I are sitting on the floor, engaged in a heated round of _Uno_ when my private security guard down at the main gate rings to say Marcus has just passed through. Ethan is standing behind me, hanging on my neck, shouting out the names of every color he sees. My ear is ringing, and I'm losing. Because, of course Caleb takes advantage, changing the deck color to yellow since his little brother keeps shouting "gween!"

I have to draw four cards and none come up yellow. I'm taking my sixth from the deck when the front door bursts open.

My best mate, and Lily's husband, Marcus, flies inside, drops two duffle bags and flashes a wild, almost delirious smile.

"When did you do that? And why?" I say by way of greeting.

Marcus' hand rubs across his naked chin. The beard he's kept since he was old enough to grow one is gone. "Tosser."

I welcome him with a handshake and a pat on the back. "Did you lose a bet?" It's strange to actually see his whole face. "I've forgotten how ugly you are."

He tilts his head, chuckling. "Nah, it was time for a change, Ev."

"Yeah, I get that."

Noah waltzes in. He's tall, dark, and still lean—his hair is still its' natural black. There are no holes in his ears or metal buds poking from his tanned face. His rolled shirt sleeves show no visible tattoos.

He hesitates for a second when I pull him in for a hug. He knows I'm not a hugger. Usually. Not for anyone. I've spent half my life getting mauled by embracing strangers. It's ruined the intimacy for me. With everyone, save the people in this house. I hug the boys as often as they let me.

When Noah finally returns the embrace, I cling tighter—for just a moment—before he pulls back.

"Hey, Evan." He looks me dead in the eye and I can't recall the last time he's done that. But then I remember. It's been six months.

"Hey, son—er, Noah." He stiffens at the endearment so I change it up. "How've you been?"

He drops his gaze. "Good. Busy. You?"

Three words. That's two more than I expected.

"Busy as well." I reach around him to close the door.

Noah presses a hand to my shoulder. "Hold up, there's one more coming."

"Oh yeah? You've brought a friend from school?"

It's a simple question that makes Noah's cheeks wash with color.

I feel the smile stretch my face and lean in. "Bloody good. What's her name?" His red cheeks have already told me the guest is a girl. He must really like her to bring her here.

"January. Or Jan."

_Unusual._ "Last name?"

"Smith."

"Is it serious?" I ask, and damned Marcus explodes with a raucous guffaw.

Of course, this has me scanning the room for munchkins because that is what you do when there are little people constantly on the move. Caleb is carefully stowing the card game we were playing. Ethan is climbing on top of the bags at Marcus' feet. Neither boy is doing anything cute or funny at the moment, so why the hell is Marcus laughing?

Looking back to Noah, I see he's still red-faced. And suspect ... "It is serious, then?"

"I'd say so," Marcus interjects, nudging Noah, pushing him at the open door. "Go help the girl do whatever's taking her so long."

Noah nods and steps onto the porch.

"Marcus, what the _hell_ are you on about?" I'm careful to whisper the swear-word because Ethan repeats everything. Well, Lily says _hell_ is a swear. I disagree, but also know that Gracie agreed with her and I'm trying to do right by her and our boys.

This whole thing—the vibe I'm getting, the text message, the lack of information, Noahs chagrin, Marcus' loud guffaw—it's got me on edge. "What are keeping from me?"

"Ev, keep calm. She seems like a sweet girl."

"Why is he embarrassed, then? Is she ugly?" Dumb question. It shouldn't even matter. It's what's inside the heart that counts, right? Except that Noah's a damn good-looking kid and there's no reason he should be batting below his average.

Marcus smirks, "On the contrary, she's quite lovely."

"Is she plump, then?"

Marcus laughs. "Well, that might be a matter of opinion."

"So, she's got some extra cushion. Who cares if he's a chubby chaser?"

Don't get me wrong; I love people. But I'm not PC in my private life. Never have been. If anyone, no matter the gender, is fat, ugly, or stupid, I'm going to call it as I see it. Marcus knows this. He appreciates it. So does Lily, though she's always telling me to watch what I say.

Marcus shushes, "Little pitchers."

Noah comes through the doorway followed closely by a raven-haired, blue-eyed girl. And she is _not_ ugly. Quite the opposite. Her face is all ivory skin, porcelain smooth. Her thick, wavy hair is styled after the fashion of Betty Paige. It's unusual, but perfectly suits the shape her slender face. She's notably stacked, as well. Not that I'm trying to look, but females with curves like that, you don't need to search for. They're there, as plain as the pert nose on her lovely face.

I look to Noah, shooting him a 'way to go' with my eyes. He ascends with a small nod as the petite girl steps inside. My eyes search across his girls' exposed skin: chin, neck, collar bone, shoulders, arms. She takes care of herself. Not a trace of fluff, unless the sleeveless cashmere sweater she's draped in is hiding a thick waistline. But her solid, yet slender, curves make me think not. One of her arms is blanketed from shoulder to elbow in a bright collage of colorful tattoos that remind me of water color paintings. She wears no jewelry and nary a trace of makeup, save her lips which are painted bright red.

"January Smith, I presume?" She pauses before taking the hand I offer. Her grip is lax and clammy. "You're a pile of gorgeous, aren't you? Good on you, Noah." I turn my attention to wink at him as he shuts the front door.

The girl is blushing, which was my exact intention. "Don't be shy, come along inside. Welcome, welcome."

"Jan—this, as you know, is Academy Award-winning actor Rhys Matthews, but around here, he's just Evan." I don't miss the way Noah places his hand at the small of her back as he makes the introduction.

"You shall call me Evan, as well."

Caleb finally moves in to hug his big brother and shakes January's hand when she introduces herself. She stutters a little, telling Caleb to please call her Jan because, "January's a mouthful."

Ethan picks this moment to toddle in between us and bends his back to look up at the first party guest. I feel his little hand clenching the denim on my leg. "Daddy." He states, as if making introductions.

I don't know that I care for the name Jan. It feels too _Brady Bunch_. I'll be thinking _"Marsha, Marsha, Marsha,"_ with every address to her person.

January bends down, wide-eyed and grinning. I watch her converse with Ethan. Her energy seems warm but also timid. Glancing at Noah, I find that he's watching her. The look on his face confirms what Marcus must have meant with his irritating chortle.

It is quite serious. In fact, Noah may be in love.

"He's only two? He's so big." January looks up at Noah.

"Yeah. Two years and two days." Noah's eyes darken and I know that he's getting stuck on the fact that my Gracie—Mother to three fifths of the testosterone in this room—died two years and two days ago.

Grace wouldn't want us mourning her on a day that's been set apart to celebrate our boys' life. Even though it hurts and feels wrong and our families collective mind cannot separate the two events—Ethan's birth and Grace's death—we have to try. The tragedy and miracle are so unbearably entwined that we don't acknowledge Ethan's birthday on the actual day. We observe a few weeks after.

I decide, in this moment, that if this abstention ever bothers Ethan, we'll change it.

Finally remembering my manners, I bring the conversation back to January, inviting her to sit in the family room, asking if she'd like a drink, or food—all the customary pleasantries.

On our way through the formal living area, I hear Marcus ask, "So, Jan, do you go to school with Noah?"

"No. We work together." Her voice is soft. Unsure.

As our group breaks into the family room, the kitchen door swings open. Lily stops mid-stride. Her eyes land on January and widen before her gaze slides to Noah. Her mouth pulls into a wide smile. A nurturing, rather endearing, look colors her features as she wraps both arms around him.

"Mi sobrino favorito," She whispers.

I've learned this means, _my favorite nephew._ It doesn't bother Caleb because she says it to him as well.

Noah nearly trips forward to return the embrace. He's so sensitive to female attention. "Mi tía favorita."

Those two have always been close. I've always thought it quite good. But I'm on the outs with Noah and pride forces me to interject.

"Lily, this is January, Noah's _friend_." Waggling my eyebrows, I add, "He's brought her home. To meet the family. So it must be _very_ serious."

January's eyes pop wide. Lily releases Noah to swat my shoulder. "Marcus, control your _friend_."

Marcus puts on a terrible show of displeasure. "Sorry love, my arms are full." He bears Ethan up as evidence.

Caleb chuckles, "Noah's got a girlfriend," and covers his mouth.

Noah draws a nervous-looking January under his arm. "They're teasing. They do it with everybody."

"It's true. You'd better get used to it," I wink and she flushes. She's fun to tease.

"She shouldn't have to, Evan." Lily admonishes and then apologizes to the girl. "Sorry about him. But we tease because we love. We'll take it easy on you since you just got here."

Noah picks this moment to inquire. "How long are you in town?"

There's only one person, aside from him, that's leading a nomadic existence so I don't have to look to know he's addressing me. "Tomorrow night. What about you?"

Noah raises one shoulder in a half shrug. "Tomorrow morning. Jan's my go-to when I need someone to sit for Nigel."

Chewing on that tidbit, I'm wondering why he didn't put the dog in a kennel for a few days.

As if Noah can hear my thoughts, he answers. "I couldn't get him into the kennel on such short notice."

And that tells me that January was not originally coming because we've had this party planned for months. I wonder what happened that changed her plans.

At the exchange, Calebs' weight shifts and his energy evaporates. We've just arrived this morning and are already talking of leaving. It's the new pattern for Noah since he moved away: he never stays long. I, however, was fortunate to get any time off at all. The film schedule has been rigorous and there's a lot of makeup involved at this stage. My characters story takes place over a span of fifty years. Day after tomorrow, I've got to be back in New Orleans, ready to shoot the scenes where my character is at his oldest. It involves very early mornings and several hours of makeup to place the prosthetic ears, nose, and painting the wrinkles.

None of this means anything to Caleb, though. He turns his face down and walks into the kitchen as the conversation changes to breakfast. A moment later, I excuse myself and follow.

He's hunching into the refrigerator and when I call his name.

He pulls out a juice box and fiddles with the straw. "Yeah, Dad?"

With the refrigerator door between us, I start, "Have I—" and stop. I was going to ask if I'd upset him, but I already know the answer. He came in here to hide his reaction. "I'm sorry."

He closes the refrigerator to look at me. Those wide brown eyes are puzzled. "Why?"

"Because I have to leave so soon, and I know you miss me when I'm gone. I miss you, too, Caleb."

He stays quiet, looking at his feet.

"I'm almost done shooting. Just a few more weeks, then I'll be back in time for Noah's birthday."

Caleb nods. "Okay."

The kitchen door swings open and the whole family piles in, single file. Lily's got Ethan on her hip. Noah's laughing, his hands raised up like a surgeon, scrubbed and ready for gloves. January is rolling her eyes, giggling, "Paging Doctor Zuniga."

Marcus goes straight for the stove and begins frying way too many sausages while Noah's girl assists him in preparing the batter for his famous waffles.

# Chapter 3

"Everything is fine today, that is our illusion." —Voltaire

The conversation around the table is mostly jovial.

I think it's because of Noah, who seems very happy, though he's barely talking to anyone apart from January. We are watching him and he is watching her.

January has relaxed, but hasn't eaten much of anything. We've learned she doesn't drink caffeine and isn't 'a breakfast person.' She and Noah met through work. She's a waitress at the diner where he's a line cook (a shitty job he took as a form of rebellion against the money he's inherited). January also attends a vocational school in the San Francisco area, where she's studying cosmetology.

"I'm interested in the art of makeup and have been told I have a knack."

"What portion of the art is your favourite?" Marcus asks before I can.

January bites her lip. "Well, I like making people feel good." She looks to Lily who's been uncharacteristically quiet. "When a person feels like they look good, it gives them confidence."

I've got Caleb on one side and Ethan on my knee. Lily is perched on my other side, helping to ensure that Ethan doesn't inhale too much of anything.

My mind drifts back to other meals; ones that Grace prepared and served. I remember her in the kitchen, hunching over the sink, obsessively cleaning up after everyone. I used to get behind her, cage her against the sink, and whisper naughty promises in her ear. She'd either laugh and blush or take me up on them, depending on who was around.

"Ow!" A pain in my side—Lily's elbow.

"Didn't you see that?" She whispers.

I look around, discovering the table's half-empty. Caleb, Noah, and January have gone.

"See what?"

At the same time Marcus answers, "No, he didn't."

"See what?"

"Her sweater is very bulky." Marcus grabs Ethans' sippy cup before he tosses it on the floor.

"I noticed." Lily's eyes widen as her voice drops. "And still, her abdomen looks a little..."

"Robust?" Marcus looks at his wife, raising his eyebrows.

"I was going to say _round_." Lily whispers the last word.

The two are steadily ignoring me but the look that passes between my best friend sitting across from me and his wife at my left, pisses me right off.

"Did Noah say something?"

Lily doesn't answer so I turn to back to Marcus. He shakes his head. "He don't need to, Ev. I noticed it first thing when I collected them."

Ethan is fussing. I set my palm in front of him and say, "High-five." He's immediately distracted with slapping my hands, repeating "High-five! High-five!" We've got about thirty seconds.

Marcus keeps talking. "I pulled up to his terminal. The wind was gusting. I am telling you both that belly of hers is not simply a too-much-sugar-in-your-tea type of paunch. It's beach ball smooth."

I'm on my feet, passing off Ethan to his aunt.

"Evan, don't." She pleads, but it's too late.

In the Great Room, Noah and January are sitting together on the Barcalounger, their heads set close together as they whisper a conversation. Noah's got one arm around January's shoulders. Her face is down, looking at Noah's hand which is splayed across her stomach.

Surprise—exclamation point.

Exclamation point.

Exclamation.

Point.

Chapter 4

"It's been said that "pain makes you stronger, fear makes you braver, and heartbreak makes you wiser." Why must learning be so damned painful?" —Evan Matthews

The doorbell is ringing as I form my own exclamations. Expletives, really.

Is he a bleedin' idiot? He's just begun college. His mother would have a proper fit. This was Graces' worst nightmare. Her greatest fear—that he'd follow in her footsteps and have a child before he was ready. She's probably looking down on me right now, shaking her head with that terrible disappointed look—the one I could never stomach, the look that made me say and do whatever I could to make it go away.

Noah's head snaps up and the hand set across his girls' belly drops, but he isn't meeting my furious gaze. He's staring past me, in the direction of the entry way. I'm invisible to him.

"We come bearing gifts! Where's the birthday boy?" It's Ronnie, Graces' older brother.

Talk about crap-timing.

I take a deep breath, knowing this conversation must wait, and preparing for the gut-punch of looking at the man who was once my brother-in-law. Mercifully, Ronnie moves to greet Ethan before I catch his eye. So my gaze lands on Eric; the manager I hired shortly after firing the psycho bitch from hell. He doesn't complain when I ask him to pick-up relatives from airports, which makes him my most valued employee today.

"Rhys." Eric nods, offering his hand to shake. He works for me so he calls me Rhys. Only friends and family address me as Evan. Eric, who's got dark brown hair and small intelligent eyes, gives his regards on the days' festivities before launching into the list of tasks I'm to tackle before flying out tomorrow.

Interviews. Bloody promotions that never seem to end.

Forget the filming being difficult—if you prepare well, you're good. The real work on any project truly begins with promotion. Research is fun. Acting is cake if you come prepared (if your Director isn't an asshole). Promotion is an endless muddle of sleepless travels, talking to strangers, having the same conversation over and over and over again. Selling the image of Hollywood glamour. It's shit, really.

Premieres and film festivals are like every other sales convention on the planet. The only difference is the products are movies, rather than life insurance or cleaning solutions. The people standing all around you are talking about their jobs. Selling the product. Making it look good.

_King Bobby_ , the project I was on when Gracie... you know. Well, the film has been accepted at a few festivals and the studio that produced the movie had very graciously accommodated me during the most trying time of my life. They loaned me their private jet to get back home, granted me time to grieve. They shut down production as long as they could, extended my time-off by filming every other part of the movie, saving my remaining scenes for last. Now, they're counting on me to return the favours. I can't back away from anything they ask if I'm to keep my relationship with them on solid footing. And I want to, because even though I hate many parts of this industry, I do love the work.

Every member of the press—writer, reporter, journalist, and know-it-all blogger—will do no less than mention the _interruption_ , if not explicitly ask about it. So far, I've been parsing out commentary, trying and failing to avoid it.

Because answering any question with regards my personal life has always felt like a betrayal, as if I'm selling-off part of myself. And once I puts those private pieces out there for media, it's as good as asking them to judge it. And who needs that? Life is difficult enough without the bylines.

That's why I go to such lengths to separate who I am from what I do. Rhys is the persona, the worker bee to Queen Industry. For the media, I am ten pounds of shit in a five pound bag. In private, I am Evan. I am Dad and Friend.

I am going to kill Noah.

Eric's got his iPad out, scrolling down his list, remarking a little on every appointment. "... That meeting's been confirmed for dinner tomorrow. Your radio interview is right before the junket. The station is nearby, so you'll arrive for the carpet—"

"I'm not walking. Press line for pictures only. Not addressing anything personal—I mean it. The first person to ask gets tossed. I'll consider panel questions but only—"

"They're pre-screened."

"Okay. Yeah, that should be alright. If there's time I'll do panel, but I'm entering and exiting privately." There won't be time. I'll make sure the radio interview runs long.

He taps on his screen, making notes.

Eric stays just long enough to catch up with me and then turns his attention on Marcus, whom he's become friendly with. I like Eric, I do. He seems like an alright fella, but I can't bring myself to cross that threshold into friendship. At any rate, Eric seems content to maintain our professional relationship—acquaintanceship—with me.

When Lily asks about the wife and kids, Ronnie explains the struggle of getting Aunt Rose—the woman who raised both he and his sister—to travel. She's afraid to fly and gets carsick. She's too old to leave at home alone, so his saint of a wife and children stayed back with her. Every few minutes Ronnie looks down at his hands and rubs them together. It's easier to watch his hands than his face.

Nursing a cup of Earl Grey, I'm holding up the wall beside the fireplace with an elbow resting on the bare mantel.

Marcus sidles up. "When do you think he'll announce it?"

"Announce what?" My jaw is tight with bitter denial. I don't like this feeling that there are secrets going on in the family. "We don't know anything so we shouldn't be drafting suppositions."

Marcus shakes his head. "No supposing involved when you're certain."

My posture goes arrow straight. "He would have told us immediately if that were the case." _Right?_ "Noah has never been one to hide things from me."

Marcus is looking at the floor, hands stuffed into his pockets as if this is a leisurely talk. "Right," he says, only it sounds like he's saying I'm wrong. "Because you and he are best mates. You'd know since you speak to him more often than anyone."

"Bugger off."

"Denying a truth don't make it false."

So easy for him to reason his way through my problems—issues which I am not even entirely sure exist at this point. I must have faith that if Noah were in trouble, he'd come to me. Maybe we've been distant, but when all is said and done, we are family and family sticks together.

Staring at Marcus, scraping my razor gaze over his mug, all I can think to say is, "You should grow the beard back."

Marcus palms his naked chin, smoothing over his idiot smile. "I dunno. The wife likes it. If she says grow it out, I will.

"Oh, she'll tell you. If I have to pay her a years' wages, she will."

While we've been talking, half the household has taken leave to the back garden. I think Noah and that girl went first, then Lily and Ronnie followed suit.

There's a kerfuffle of some sort, screeching and groans echoing from outside. It has me wondering why Security hasn't called to warn of any problems. I'm out the back door in time to see Noah standing amid a crowd of relatives. He's bending down. Alvin, the guard dog is cowering at his feet.

Ronnie has a hand mounted over his mouth. Lily has one of hers across her chest. Ethan is glued upon her hip, so I know he's okay.

"Bad Alvin," Noah scolds.

"What is it?" January asks.

I see that she's not in the group but a few feet off, standing on the bench. Near her and below the bench, I see that the hole I buried that stupid statue in has been uncovered. Looking back at the group of family members, I find them all staring at me.

"How did this get out here?" Lily asks.

"I brought it," I shrug.

"Why?" Noah asks.

When he meets my eyes for the second time in the last six months he gives me the exact look I saw all those months ago—the look that started all of this detachment.

It's painful. It's full-throttle disappointment.

I walk over to him, take the filthy statue and pass it off to Ronnie. Our eyes meet—there's the gut-punch—and he's giving me a similar look. Only Ronnie's eyes (that look exactly like my Gracie's) hold more curiosity than distress.

I answer his unspoken question. "I can't stand looking at it. It reminds me ... of too much."

His eyes glisten and he looks away.

"Would you take it home with you?"

"I'm not sure that's a good idea." Ronnie rubs a hand over his jeans.

"It is, actually, a wonderful idea. Take it back to Kansas City. Keep it for me. Show your Aunt. She may get a kick out of it."

"It is a good idea." Lily passes Ethan to me while looking at Ronnie.

I take my boy. He smiles, tugging at my shirt collar and repeating, "Bad Alvin! It's a bad Alvin!" Only it sounds like _Alan_. Still the Pinschers ears go down in shame.

_Bloody right_ , I think, looking down at the damned dog that's been digging up my secrets.

Listening to Lily explain why Ronnie should take the Award is awkward. She's not giving the real reasons. She's not saying why I won, how it was only because of Gracie and everybody feeling sorry for me.

Lily tells Ronnie he have a token. He's grieved as much as the rest of us, she says; only he's done it outside the spot light. The media doesn't acknowledge him and his family. They only talk about us—me, mostly. Her boys. Her best friend who's married my best friend. The whole lot of them have had to deal with the unrelenting pressure of her absence and the invasive culture that makes them all the side-dish to the main course of my commodity.

The media doesn't speak of Ronnie and his burden. Lily says all this as if it's a bad thing, as if Ronnie's been excluded from accredited grief.

Turning back to Noah, I see he's already walking inside. He's holding Januarys hand and I swear—over the incessant noise of a talkative toddler, an eight year-old card shark, and Lily's excessive banter whenever Grace is part of the conversation—I catch this exchange:

"...Can't wait to go back home."

January presses a hand behind Noahs back. "That's not fair. He's—"

"Don't defend him." Noah stops near the back door, turning to look sharply at January. Her back is to me so I can't see her reaction.

"Noah." I call, setting Ethan down and tapping Lily on the shoulder to let her know she's got to watch him. "We need a talk."

"No, we don't."

Ethan is tugging at my leg crying. "Up! Daddy! Pick me up!"

And since I love the way he clings, the way these smaller boys look to me for support and care, I take my boy back up. "Right. Don't talk, then. But you will give me the time and attention I'm entitled to."

I walk between him and January. She steps back and looks away.

"You haven't seen the property yet." I make sure to sound accommodating, gesturing to Lily with my free hand. "Lily will give you the grand tour."

Lily comes over and takes Ethan, managing to quiet him with promises of petting the dog, and invites January to join her.

Towards Graces' brother I say, "Ronnie, if you'd be so kind as to excuse me. I've got something to take care of. There are cleaning supplies in the garage, if you're so inclined." That statuette is filthy. "In the cupboard over the sink." Back at Noah I inform him, "Conference room. Now."

Chapter 5

"Death unites as well as separates; it silences all paltry feelings" —Honore De Balzac

Pacing the length of her bedroom, the knot in my stomach churns.

It's barely midday. The party doesn't officially begin for hours. The caterers aren't even here, yet. How much stress am I to deal with before then?

"What do you need to say to me?"

I can tell by tone that Noah's irritated. He takes great care in choosing his words when he's annoyed. A compulsive editor when expressing himself, he'll neither confirm nor deny until he's comfortable with vocalizing a straight opinion. Makes for irrational anxiety for anyone in opposition, which I'm sure he's taking great pleasure in right now.

When I look though, Noah's casually leaning against the thick wooden post of her bed frame and I can't help but remember the day I gave it to Grace. She'd sparkled when she saw it.

Noah was very relaxed and pleased that day, as well. We weren't at odds. He'd actually been keen on helping me win his mothers' heart. Now, as I look at him I can tell he's pretending.

"What the hell, Noah? You knocked her up?" Not the most courteous way to approach this, but I'm beyond niceties.

Noah's eyes widen. "I—I..."

"You what? Are too young for this? I couldn't agree more. You've got no idea what you're getting yourself into. None at all."

Noah's shoulders drop along with his gaze.

I keep building my case. "I can tell you have feelings for this girl, but you barely know her. Your mother would have a proper fit. You know how she worried about things like this. And you're honoring her memory by having a baby in your first year of college?"

It's the wrong tack. I know it the moment the words hit the air.

Noah's head snaps up. He doesn't speak straight away but effectively glares from across the room. Then, quick as a wit, his casual posture shifts forward. He steps at me, pointing with hell-fire in his eyes.

" _Now_ you're concerned about what my mom thinks? Because you didn't give a crap when you were inside that coffee house bathroom. Or did you forget about her all together until right now when it's convenient to whip out her name to try and control me?"

Like a rabid dog, he's going for the throat.

"I've said I was sorry—"

"Because you got caught!" He's right in front of me now, poking his finger at my chest.

Most of the time I walk around in a slump: a by-product of being noticeably taller than my peers and trying desperately to fade into the background. Faced with Noah's blatant disregard for my authority, I straighten. He's a big kid, but I'm still bigger.

"Who the hell are you?" He's very close and literally looks like he's ready to take a swing. "Back up."

Noah retracts his accusing finger, but leans in. "Make me."

I widen my stance, wondering when we got to a place that we'd actually consider coming to blows.

The fiery stare suddenly evaporates and he steps back.

I take a breath. "Noah, you don't understand anything about that time in my life. You've never lost a wife. I—I was all fucked-up and wrong and that's the bloody truth."

_Bloody truth is right_. Nothing else can make a person bleed as fast, as deep, and as painful as the razor edge of truth. Whoever said the truth was like a two-edged sword was merciful with their comparison.

Noah shakes his head, like he's shaking away the anger. "I shouldn't disrespect you like that."

"Damn right."

He sets a palm on the side of his head. "You're Ethan's dad. You take care of Caleb like he's your own. I'm sorry, Evan."

That gets me. The apology. He's angry with me, yet he's apologizing.

"I'd take care of you, too, Noah. If you'd let me."

He meets my gaze with a sharp stare. "I don't want you to."

Examining the turn of conversation, I have to admit, "I didn't bring you in here to discuss my poor judgment. God knows that would take a lifetime." Noah looks down at his shoes, but I catch the way he fights a grin. "I brought you in here to discuss yours."

"Should be a short conversation," Noah muses.

"Self-effacing as ever," I say, trying to keep the lighter feeling as we delve into a difficult matter. "It depends on whether or not you listen."

"I'm listening." He looks out the glass of the French doors at the pool.

"Let's start with the basics: your girlfriend is pregnant."

"Yes, she is."

"And you're planning on..." I let the sentence hang, prompting him to jump in. When he doesn't, I'm forced to continue: "... doing the right thing?" It's not meant to sound like that—like a question, because I certainly don't want an answer.

I can tell by the look in Noah's eyes and the slight tilt of his head that he's measuring his response and it drives me mad. I want to scream at him.

I should scream. Having a kid is a slap of reality. It forces a choice, to change or stay the same, and the rest of your life is shaped by that choice. How I wish he hadn't brought this upon himself.

Noah knows nothing of what he's in for. I can tell by the way he simply shrugs. "Well, yeah. I mean, I'm not an asshole." He casts a sideways glance. "Not to her, anyway."

"Does the 'right thing' include marriage?" _Please say no._

"No."

"Good," I let out a breath.

"Only because she'd turn me down."

I can actually feel the blood draining from my face. It's not pooling in my feet, though. It's just gone. Evaporating in my veins, making my heart hurt. It keeps pounding while there's nothing in it.

"Noah. She's already showing. Were you thinking of mentioning this at any time before your kid is born?" I swear I'm going to need my eyebrows penciled in by the time I get back to set. The incessant stress has me constantly yanking at them.

Noah simply digs his hands into his jean pockets. "I wasn't—"

"Do you understand the ramifications? You're barely an adult yourself. Having a child, Noah? Every minute of your life becomes about someone else."

My mind is on rampage now, moving from one objection to the next. "You've barely begun school. It'll be years before you've got your PhD, then there's the time you need to devote to work. Not to mention the fact that you barely know this girl—"

"Evan, it's not like that."

"What's it like then, Noah? Hm? Enlighten me." Silence stretches and I want to rage on— _"Speak!"_

Noah's hands, still tucked into his pockets, seem to ball into fists. His breathing has picked up, too. Finally, his eyes meet mine, head-on. He's showing the anger again. Not like before, there's something else there, now. Some sentiment I can't grasp.

"I thought you, of all people, wouldn't need an explanation."

I scoff, tearing my hands through my hair.

"You married my mom after _one_ month. I've known Jan twice that long."

"And look how bloody-well that turned out for your mum." I can't stop the wet forming behind my eyes.

Parenting is a fucking impossible job. I love the shit out of these little buggers, but hate how I feel all the damned time trying to steer them in a safe direction.

If I've learned anything in the past two years, it's that subjection is the largest part of the job. No one ever told me that powerlessness would be the defining characteristic. No one ever said I'd have to relinquish all control the moment my heart went walking 'round in someone else's body.

Collapsing into the chaise at the end of her bed, I hold my head in my hands.

The cushion beside me dips as Noah sits down. "You're worried about me."

Inhaling deep, I force myself to calm down. "Very."

"You think I'm making a huge mistake."

Raising my head, I meet Noah's sideways glance with my own. "More or less."

"Tell me something." He turns to look at me directly. "How am I supposed to walk away?"

The air leaves the room. Or maybe just my lungs. Is that what he thinks I'm asking?

"You can't." I am not happy about any of this, but I would never ask Noah to desert his child. "But you don't have to get married to be a father. You don't have to settle. I know your mum believed differently and she raised you with that same belief, but no one is going to judge you. Least of all your family."

"What if I _want_ to marry her?"

"Why?" I ask, honestly curious.

He folds his hands over his knees. After a long moment he asks, "Why did you want to marry my mom?"

"I didn't want to, Noah." My mind wanders to the image of my Gracie with her easy smile and bright blue eyes. "I needed to."

Noah's quiet, contemplative, as he listens.

"Your mother was the piece of me I didn't know was missing until I found her—which sounds unbelievably cheesy, I know, but that makes it no less true."

I pause, searching for the words to describe the feelings I only ever voiced to Gracie. If he knew the desperation, the sheer force of what I was up against, maybe he'd understand that what he thinks he feels for January pales by comparison.

"It was a visceral need to make her a permanent part of my life from the minute I saw her."

My minds' eye holds the memory of Grace that first night in the pub. Her black dress and the way she moved in it. She caught my eye through no fault of her own. When she stood up, I snuck behind her and stole her barstool. Her mortification, when she sat without looking, landing her admirable backyard on my lap, still makes me want to laugh. She sloshed her wine all over my shoes and was so embarrassed. I felt a fool, cursed myself for being so stupid and walked off, regretting every step. But then I ran into her the next day—a second-chance meeting in an elevator.

"It was kismet, though I'm not sure what kind."

It was unnerving how quickly my world began revolving around her. To this day, she remains the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

"When we talked, she was so honest and receptive; incredibly forgiving, as well." I have to smile a little at that. "A requirement for everyone in my life, as you well know. She loved freely. She never asked me for anything and I wanted to give her the world. She made me want to be a better man."

"Do you regret marrying her?" Noah asks.

"I regret the way things turned out. I'd give all I have in a heartbeat if she could come back. I regret not having enough time with her. Hurting everyone by forcing my way into her life." So many regrets.

Noah peers into the air ahead of him, looking at nothing.

"As much as I hate what's happened, I can't say that I wouldn't marry her again, if I could."

Now he's looking at me. Tears welling in his eyes.

"Your mum was quite conservative. I had to marry her. She'd never have slept with me, otherwise."

Noah's face puckers. "You can stop now."

I continue stone-faced but liking the way he holds back a smile. "And we wouldn't have Ethan if I hadn't married her. I wouldn't have you or Caleb. I can't regret having you lot. Ever."

I'm leaving out the obvious bonus to taking it back: that if I hadn't pursued her, Graces' boys would still have their mother.

Noah sighs. "She never regretted it, either."

That piques my interest, even though he's wrong. "Didn't she? I read her diaries. I know how much I hurt her."

"No." Noah confirms, staring at the floor. "She just missed you. She always planned to take you back."

My heart stops again. "Did she say that?"

"No."

"How can you possibly know, then? Lily never told me that."

"My aunt would never admit this, but Mom, she was different with you." He shrugs. "More sad sometimes, but more happy, too. Happier than I remember her being with my dad."

I can't believe what I'm hearing. "She loved your father, Noah, don't you doubt it."

"I'm not diminishing what they were to each other." He shakes his head sagely. "I know she loved my dad with her whole heart, but she also loved you more. Everything between you and her, it was just ... more."

It's a beautiful and painful truth in his eyes when they flash to me. The look of a beautifully dull sword, fit for the make-believe king of a land of smoke and mirrors. It rips through my chest and I can barely breathe.

I don't know why he's saying this, but I'll take it. "Thank you."

"No problem."

Noah slaps his hands on his knees to stand, obviously assuming our talk is over. Well, it may be over but it's nowhere near finished.

"I need to poke your brain a moment longer."

He stops on his way to the door and turns back 'round. "Yeah? Shoot."

My eyes shrink, considering how best to approach the next topic. Screw it. Be direct. "Now that we've had this little heart-to-heart, are you going to stop avoiding me? Start looking me in the eye on a regular basis?"

Noah hesitates for a moment seeming like he's not sure what I'm talking about.

"You are the one that mentioned the proverbial elephant—the bathroom incident—so, I'm wondering if we should cut the tusks off that beast now. Because avoiding me means avoiding your home as well as your family. We've all lost enough already, don't you think?"

Noah's weight shifts as he stares past me, out the glass doors. "How many times did you meet her there?"

_Bloody great_. He wants details. Shame and embarrassment battle for poll position as I try not to think of the girl. "Does it really matter?"

"I'm not an idiot, okay. You're a single guy. I understand. My concerns are separate."

Single. I sure as hell didn't feel single when I walked in there. I only accepted the lady's invitation out of weakness.

I take a deep breath and begin describing my mindset at the time; how I'd been walking around in a haze. Grace was gone, the boys were missing her, and I was working like a mad-man trying to finish one film while preparing for another. I was under tremendous pressure; no appetite, barely sleeping. But whenever I did manage a few hours, I dreamt of Grace. I was physically aching for her, for the connection we shared.

Celibacy was never a consideration. Before I met Grace, I was a bit of a whore. Sex with strangers had often helped ease the loneliness my lifestyle had sentenced me to, but I'd been faithful to my wife from the moment I met her. It was never a problem. I wanted her so badly I couldn't consider anyone else. Not even when we separated; nearly seven months before she died.

"After she ... well, I fell into this dickless oblivion. There was nothing."

I choose to leave out the part about that morning, how I woke from a dream of her. We were together in the shower. She was falling to her knees before me when the alarm went off.

It felt so real. But I woke alone.

"For weeks, that girl in the coffee shop was hitting on me." Most women do. Notoriety is like a damned dog whistle for yo-yo knickers. I'd grown immune to it. Or so I thought.

"I was following my daily ritual. After my workout I went in for a green tea. The girl was there behind the counter. When I handed her the cash, she ... she made the same offer as the day before. She didn't do anything different. There was no change-up, nothing surprising, or even flattering, really." It was the standard offer to get me off at my earliest convenience. "For some reason I gave-in, followed her into the mens' room."

Noah shakes a hand at me, a plea to stop.

"You asked. I'm telling."

He doesn't need to know how I thought of Grace the whole time. How I'd imagined my hands were hers on so many occasions that it wasn't even difficult to pretend Grace was the one in the stall with me—until it was over and I opened my eyes.

"I felt sick after. The girl wanted my number. I refused as nicely as I could manage—which wasn't nice at all—and told her to leave me be."

I was standing at the sink washing away the girls' scent as she stood back, watching me with a puzzled expression. I'd seen that look before—the one that said she'd expected more, that she had thought the encounter would lead to something and being wrong hurt. I felt her eyes on me and ignored her. Eventually, she turned to leave.

There is something to be said for timing, I suppose, as she walked squarely into Noah on her way out.

It was the sound of her mumbled apology that caught my attention. When I turned, I saw his brown eyes. For a split-second they seemed confused. He double-checked the symbol on the bathroom door, looked at the girl, and then past her. When his eyes landed on me, standing there with my trousers open, there was this half-second of shock, followed by utter disappointment. He turned and walked out. I let him.

"Essentially, I felt like I'd cheated—over no one in particular, either, which makes it so much worse than if it had happened with a person of any significance."

Noah nods, pinching his lip in deep thought.

Actually, I think Grace might've understood. But I sure as hell didn't. A random encounter just like the old days, only this one took place with a girl of questionable age. She had the face of a twenty-five year-old and body of a full-grown woman, but that was all I noticed about her.

I never looked at her name tag or asked how old she was. I was assuming long enough to use her. But legally, anyone over sixteen could work there. It was a damnable risk on my part; at the very least for having no knowledge of her health history.

I don't like to think about it.

Noah's cringing, but I'm suddenly confused, remembering his initial comment. "What did you mean when you said you _'understand'_?"

"I could never be legitimately pissed at you for moving forward with your life. My issue has always been where and how you did it. In a public bathroom, Evan? Where anybody," he points to his own chest, "could walk in and take a picture? Or worse, a video? How long would that take to go viral?"

I can't look at him.

"I'm older; I can wade through the BS. How is Caleb supposed to react?" He pauses, waiting for my response, but I haven't got one. "It would destroy the super-hero image he holds of you and you know it."

"I've given myself this lecture a hundred times already."

"Before or after I caught you?"

I shut my eyes and hear him scoff. "That's why I can barely look at you. I can't believe you'd take that kind of risk. So, yes, I want to know how many times you met her or some other girl for quickie in a public place."

Right. "I've admitted my mistake. It won't happen again. So would get off your high-horse?"

Noah steps to me and I see the same anger that greeted me when we first started talking. This time, though, it's met with my own.

"Why can't you let it go? You've said it yourself, I'm a single guy." I'm egging him on, but I need to get to the bottom of this. I've had enough of haughty Noah to last a lifetime.

"It's ridiculous that you'd hold this grudge, avoid me for _six_ months, get a useless job to avoid coming home—yet still claim to _'understand.'_ That's a load."

He's shaking with anger now and I don't care. I'll knock this punk on his ass. "Say it, Noah. Just once, give me the unedited, unfiltered truth."

He points his finger at me. "You wanna know why I'm so pissed? Fine: it's your fault she's dead. My mom is gone—you're here and you don't even want to be!"

Chapter 6

"Guilt is perhaps the most painful companion of death." —Coco Chanel

Hearing him say it knocks me sideways.

My stomach lurches. The walls of the room jump closer, zooming-in around me.

I told him before.

I looked for the signs.

Now, look what I've done.

Without consciously moving, I find myself flinging the French doors wide open. Leaning against the doorframe, I take several breaths of cool air. Now is not the time for a panic attack.

This moment has been building since that black day in hospital ...

The doctor had just broken the news about Gracie. I hadn't even seen the baby yet, hadn't even known she was pregnant, and suddenly she was no more. I looked around the room we were seated in, seeing her family broken and shaking. It was too much.

I was furious and shooting off at the mouth.

Lily took me aside and warned me about Noah. She said that he was just like his mother, that he would take in all the grief and blame himself. I couldn't fathom the possibility; how he could draw a line from himself to his mother's demise and find himself culpable. That blame was solely mine. But I decided to watch because Lily knows these kids and Grace always said she had stellar instincts.

About two months later, as I was watching Ethan sleep, Noah approached me inquiring on what-if's and how-did-you's, basically asking if I would have kept pursuing Grace if he hadn't supported me so soundly in the process.

Because of Lily's warning, I saw straight away what he was doing.

I remember how he pulled at a button on his shirt, asking. "If I said that I didn't want you around—"

"It wouldn't have made a difference, Noah."

"But you asked me—you wanted my permission."

"It was formality. I'd already decided." I explained, hoping to ease his mind. "If you'd told me _no_ when I asked for your mothers' hand, I would have asked her anyway. Even if she had refused me, I would have kept on until she changed her mind."

He looked at me and I had to look away as I said, "If you need someone to blame... this is my fault. Mine alone."

Now, as I stand here in the aftermath, looking to Noah who's pointed his accusing finger at me, I can see what those words have done. I imagine how they must have become like a lifeline to a lost little boy who was barely staying afloat. He clung to the guidance I gave. Followed the path I set before him without my ever thinking of where it would lead.

Grace has once told me that death comes in increments. And I couldn't agree more. Noah's words are like broken glass being shoved down my throat. I'm choking on my own blood. It's painful.

I'm digging-in for self-preservation, trying out responses in my head. But there's nothing that isn't coated with loathing. Just because we agree that this is all my fault doesn't mean it's okay for him to hate me.

Noah is frozen, his eyes watch me, his chest is sunken. I walk back over. There's a drained look in his eyes that speaks volumes. How long has he been holding this in? By the relief in his posture, I should guess it's a very long while.

It's not his fault. He doesn't realize that even on my very best days, I'm still half-full of shite; winging it.

Of all the direction I've offered that he's gleefully ignored, of all the advice I've thanklessly handed out over the years, _this_ bit is the one morsel he's chewed over.

Looking him square in the eyes, I say my peace. "Yeah, well, queue forms to the right."

Just then, Lily bursts through the bedroom door, her eyebrows raised in question. But before she can say anything, Noah is asking after January. Lily points him toward the living room. Once he departs, she walks in, shutting the bedroom door behind her.

Leaning against the knob, she inquires, "How'd it go?"

"What do'ya need?" I shut my eyes, rubbing the sting away.

"That good, huh?" Her frown acknowledges my purposeful avoidance. "I thought you'd like to know that the caterers and equipment are here. They're setting up the bouncy houses and tables. But mostly, Jan looked too uncomfortable without Noah. She's really shy. I couldn't stand watching anymore."

I look to the far wall at the set of monitors with the security feeds. The back driveway is crowded with trucks and people.

"I'll be right out."

Lily nods and makes her way back to the living area while I amble into my restroom, turning the faucet on all cold to splash some water on my face.

For some reason, I think of Harry, a friend I made a while back when I was staying at the beach house when Grace and I were separated. He would come by to check-up on me. I've invited him to meet the family a few times but something always comes up on his end. On the way to speak with the caterers, I take my phone from my pocket and make the call.

It rings twice before I hear his sandpaper voice, wrapped in a fading hint of Cockney. "Hey Ev, how is it going today?"

"Meh. Got me a bit of a circus to run today as—"

"Ringmaster Matthews,"

"Ringleader, more like."

"Hectic day?"

"Essentially. It is my youngest boy's birthday if you do recall. I did phone you last week and extend my invitation."

"I vaguely recall something like that occurring, now that I've been reminded."

"So I've called to find out if you will be gracing us with your presence? Not to be a bother but I've got to inform security or you'll never make it past the gate."

"Oh, well," Harry says, "I appreciate you thinking of me but," he clears his throat, "I've got me own sort of party to get to today."

"Ah, a hot date? Is she fit?"

"Quite fit."

"Well then, I'll leave you to it. Maybe next time."

Hanging up, I make my way out the side of the garage to find the party coordinator and talk to the caterers.

Chapter 7

"There is no pain so great as the memory of joy in present grief." —Aeschulus.

Ethan's party was planned as a low-key-slash-high-energy family affair. There are twenty invited guests, but each tiny guest is allowed to bring siblings and an adult escort—au pair, nanny, and the like. We'll have bounce houses and a trampoline, pony rides—no clowns. And there's a time limit. The party begins mid-afternoon, runs for three hours and promptly ends. Begins with a bell and ends with a bang.

Maria, Lilys' mother, has already arrived. When I walk into the living room she is cooing over Ethan, brushing her arthritic fingers over his head and fawning over a stack of family photos, pointing out Grace in each one.

She's singing my deceased wife's praises and I simply can't stand it.

Those two never could get on as far as I'm aware. My understanding of the relationship between Grace and Maria was that it was rife with stress. Maria never liked, barely tolerated, regularly berated, and constantly challenged Grace throughout the years she was married to her son, Solomon. Maria had even gone so far as to tell Grace that she had wished that she were the one who died, instead of her own son.

Maria's older sister, whom I've never met until today, seems nice. Lucia's much younger looking than I expected her to be from Maria's descriptions. She's also sporting a mustache that could literally rival Tom Selleck.

I'm having a time keeping eye contact with her. Keep finding my gaze drawn to her crumb catcher. It reminds me of that Austen Powers movie, the scene with Fred Savage and the giant mole that Austin couldn't stop staring at. I'd like a stick to poke that caterpillar on her lip. See if it moves. Quite a hairy situation—pun intended.

Jokes aside, out of respect for my wife I feel it my duty to put an end to Maria's charade. I waltz over, smiling of course, and take Ethan from her lap, then excuse us both, leaving Maria and her mustachioed sister alone to fawn over her lies.

I don't really care if I offend anyone, but then spot Lily glaring. As I pass, her eyes burn into my skull and I mutter, "He needs changing." But I don't even bother to head for the bedroom where Ethan's clothes are. Instead, we head outside.

We find Ronnie in the back garden. I set Ethan down and watch him toddle over towards the bouncy house. His hands are set far out, swatting through the air as he shifts his weight in step.

"He's a cutie," Ronnie says.

The rough timbre of his voice catches my attention. He's all glassy-eyed and my stomach turns. _His eyes are exactly like hers_ , I think in the same moment that Ronnie mirrors the sentiment.

"He's got his moms' eyes."

I clear my throat, "Yeah," and look away as quick as I can.

"I'd like to come back for Noahs' birthday. Will that be alright?"

I have to look at him, check if he is serious. "You don't have to ask. Anytime you want to visit is fine. Let me know when and I'll arrange everything."

"You don't have to do that."

"I want to. It's no trouble. They should know you. And her." Ronnie knows parts of Grace that no one else does. He's got all her stories. "As far as Noahs' birthday," I shrug, "I don't know what he's planning, but I'll talk to him."

Ethan has made it to the kiddy bounce house. The other toddlers from his playgroup are all crawling around on the inside. None are jumping. Not even the ones who are sincerely trying. The windows are covered with waffled nylon string and blocked with the faces of parents or nannies. Some of them try to talk to me but I simply nod and pass by. Ethan plops onto his arse, tugging his shoes from his feet. I know he wants to join his mates from playgroup, but I've got a better idea.

Swinging him from the grass onto my shoulder, I take him to the unoccupied trampoline that was meant for the older children. Just in case any older siblings showed up. Ethan's eyes widen with delight. I set him in the centre of the black circle and he goes into his excited running-in-place-thing while I take off my shoes. As I do, Caleb pops on, wearing a wicked grin that promises fun. Ethan immediately giggles. He knows the look already.

The trampoline is jiggling as we crawl. Ethan flops on his bottom and can't seem to get up. Caleb scoots to the center of the trampoline meeting Ethan and the two join hands. I come on the other side and grab Ethans' other hand, keeping tucked onto my knees. Caleb is on his feet. We both keep still, letting Ethan get up on his own feet, as well.

My eyes lock with Calebs'. He nods and says, "Baby jumps."

I nod back, "I know." It takes tremendous restraint not to remind Caleb that I am aware that Ethan is small. I am, after all, his father but all I say is, "I'll be careful."

We start in unison, shifting our weight up and down.

Ethan's eyes go wide. His mouth drops open on a gasp.

"Jump," I tell him, "Do like Caleb."

Ethan watches his big brother, admiring his coordination. After a moment, his own legs get steadier as we sway.

"Bigger," I tell Caleb and then his feet actually leave the trampoline. Only an inch or two; just enough for Ethan to take his efforts up a notch.

It's hilarious actually, the way he's grinning, his mouth stretching wider and wider until he's laughing nonstop. His little head is bobbing on his neck. Caleb is laughing as well, getting his kicks off his little brother.

We jump and hoot, dare and cackle, until Caleb complains that his legs hurt and my face is numb.

Ethan starts complaining as we climb down, begging me to let him jump some more. And I would keep going until my legs fall off to see him smile like that, except he's distracted by the music that's suddenly blasting. We both look to find his three-tier cake being wheeled out into the garden. I can only be grateful as he runs over to his aunt.

We all sing for him, and then Ethan is blowing out his candles. Half of his candles. Which is pretty good considering there are dozens and he's only two. Noah and Caleb stand on either side of him helping. Noah keeps his eyes on January and his brothers, talking intermittently with his uncle, while I remind the videographers I hired for the occasion to get lots of shots of the three boys together.

Lily is busy making sure that everyone is enjoying themselves, refilling drinks and picking up used plates even though there is a staff being paid to do just that, and reminding the children of all the games yet to be played. She gets Ethan and Caleb to play hide-and-seek.

Ethan doesn't understand what hiding means though, so each time he's told to find a hiding place, he just covers his eyes. Caleb's favorite spot is the back of the coat closet and the bottom of the linen cabinet.

Before I know it, the caterers are passing out the Goody Bags and the guests are leaving. The party is over. Though I had thought at the beginning that Lily was being too rigid with the party time line I am grateful for it. She was right. Toddler parties are exhausting.

Later, long after Ronnie is back at his hotel, and everyone in the house is asleep, I walk inside Graces' closet and pull out one of her shirts, trying to find any lingering scent. There is nothing.

Alone, baby monitor in-hand, I make my way out to the couch and lie down. It's been a long ass day and I'm knackered. Of course, I can't sail immediately into dreamland. My mind just won't stop spinning on the revelations of the day:

Noah's problems. Noah's problems with me.

His girlfriend. His baby ... impending fatherhood.

I'll have an earnest apology for Gracie if I find her in my dreams tonight.

* * *

It never lasts long; sleep. Damned dreams are always waking me.

It's been years since I slept more than four hours straight. Tonight's stint barely stretched over two. The bedside clock says it's just after three in the morning.

Inside the kitchen, I'm standing near the stove, draining a cool glass of water when the door swings open. The nightlight mounted under the cupboard is on, and though it's dim, I can tell that the person strolling into the kitchen is January. Her dark hair is pinned up in old-fashioned curls and tucked into a bandana. She's swimming in a long fluffy robe that I recognize as belonging to Noah.

She jumps when she sees me, slamming a hand over her heart and swearing, "Jamie Lee Curtis! You scared me!"

Grinning into my water glass, I say, "It's Evan, actually."

She calms herself for a moment. "Sorry, I didn't know anyone was in here." She points to the refrigerator. "Do you mind?"

"Be my guest."

She curtsies and then crosses the kitchen to open the ice box. "I'm so thirsty ... ooh, apple juice. Is it all right—"

"Take whatever you like." I set a clean glass on the counter near her.

"Don't mind if I do." January pours a tall glass of amber juice, emptying the container. She looks nervous for a moment.

I open the pantry and take out another bottle, replacing it in the refrigerator. "Are you hungry? There are leftovers."

She shakes her head and looks down. Holding her glass with both hands, she takes a long sip and I note that she's taken a step away while my head was turned. Once I'm back where I started near the stove, we stand there, drinking from our respective glasses like that—quiet, save the sound of her slurping.

Slurping? Really?

January slowly walks to the opposite side of the kitchen, taking a seat at the breakfast nook. She looks back to me and pats the table on the opposing side. I take the cue and join her. And we are both sitting, facing each other not talking.

Staring down at my water glass, I note the way the girl is biting her lip. From this, I deduce that either she's got nothing to say, or she's got tons and doesn't know where to begin.

I hope she doesn't ask for an autograph.

"How've you been?" Such an idiotic question. Even the phrasing is bad. It's nothing like what I want to say. I actually want to talk about the baby, about her and Noah's plans, but I'm also quite sure that Noah wouldn't want me to. After watching him play protector to her all day, redirect conversations with party guests, answer on her behalf when his grandmother wanted to know more about the girl he'd brought home. Yeah, I'm certain he'd want me to wait until he's present to start my inquisition.

"I'm ... good, I guess." The fluffy robe she's wearing shifts up and down as she shrugs.

"You don't sound so sure." I respond, figuring that I'm not asking. If she offers any information, it's technically just conversation not probing.

"Can I be honest with you?"

I nod. "They say it is the best policy."

Her eyes hold an edge of worry. "This whole thing is really weird for me. Being here. Meeting his family?" She raises a hand, gesturing as she talks. "I've never met anyone's family before, and you guys are like . . ." Her eyes go wide. "Well, you know, you're _you_. Then there's this huge house with security everywhere. Cameras all over."

She shrugs again, her neck momentarily disappearing inside the robe. "It was a fun party. Kind of hard, too, but you guys are great. Really nice people. Noah has a really nice family. But it was tough, too, you know? I don't know how to act around strangers. I've been through some... _stuff_ and I don't know how to answer certain questions."

She sighs, giving a resigned shake of her head. "So I babble."

I've got to take the opening. "So to summarize, it was hard, and tough, and weird, but we're nice?" What I really want to know about is this "stuff" she referred to, but hold off.

"That's not what I wanted to say."

"What did you want to say?"

She's lifted a thumb to her mouth and is biting at the nail. Her eyes tighten as she answers. "I wanted to tell you that he's—well, Noah, he's helping me."

"May I ask how?" I have to lean forward as her voice has dropped.

"I promised him I wouldn't say anything, but I can tell you that things are not what they look like. It's just a really hard situation, you know?"

I shake my head to indicate that, no, I do not know. I have no idea what she's talking about or referring to because she's being purposely vague.

"It's like, I have been just floating around for the longest time. Some stuff happened a few years back and I kind of gave up after that."

"Gave up, how? As in quit school?"

She smiles but it doesn't touch her eyes. "As in, stopped trying, with everything. And then some more stuff, worse stuff, happened ... but I started trying again lately. Trying to get my life together—"

"Since the things you've been through?"

"Yeah, and it's like, since I just gave up before—and now that I'm starting to put in the effort again—everything feels really big and hard. Even the simple stuff, like introductions and toddler birthdays. But once I get used to trying again and get my feet back under me, the dust will settle and the effort I'm making will start feeling easier. And then I'll be able to do more. But it's just gonna take time. Do you get it?"

I sit back in my chair. "Oddly enough ...I think I do."

The kitchen door swings open and Noah appears. "Jan? Are you okay?"

She makes her way to him. "I was thirsty and Mr. Matthews gave me all the apple juice."

"We've got an early flight," He reminds her.

She turns back to me, "Good night."

"Good night."

Noah gives me long look before following her out.

Chapter 8

"Fear defeats more people than any other one thing in the world." —Ralph Waldo Emerson

Not an hour after returning to the couch, my phone rings.

_Bleedin' mid-night phone calls._ I'm beginning to wonder if I'll have to change my number again when I check the call ID. It's Security.

"What's wrong?" I'm off the davenport, heading into the master bedroom to check security monitors.

"Perimeter alarm was triggered."

If it were nothing, something simple like an animal, they wouldn't be calling. "Do you have them?"

"No, sir."

My hand squeezes the phone. "Well, what do you have?"

"There was no breach. Camera five caught a figure by the south gate. Subject appeared to be male. He climbed a tree, attempting to get over the wall. He appeared to stop when he noticed the camera. Looked right into it, then climbed back down and took off South-East."

"You've got him, then." He looked into a camera. Idiot.

"No, sir. We're going over all the feeds right now. Subject was wearing a large hood that kept his face in shadow."

I'm pacing the room, looking over the empty security screens. "You've notified authorities?"

"Yes, sir. We've got two units out searching for him and the police are on their way. Should we send them up when they get here?"

"There was no breach, right?"

"Correct. The subject left."

"Then there's no need to wake the house. And why did you say, _searching_? Don't you mean _pursuing_?"

The pause before he answers tells me every frustrating thing I need to know.

"Um ... no, sir. We weren't on him fast enough to pursue."

I pay premium fees to provide top-notch security for my home and everyone in it. Every inch of this property is covered by CCTV, including the main gate that opens up onto our road, the houses, and grounds along the outer perimeter. It was specifically laid out to prevent this type of mistake. There should never be any less than two men on the monitors at any given time. Nothing comes in or goes out without my knowledge. No cat coming and going, no bird building a nest, no squirrel storing up food for the winter; nothing moves with less than two sets of eyes watching.

And they didn't catch him. This is unacceptable.

"Who was on the monitors?" It's really tough not to yell. But I sound much more together and menacing speaking in monotone like this.

"It was Jameson, sir."

"I want him gone." I have no idea who that guy is, but he is not doing his job. "No one should get close enough to touch the outer wall."

"Yes, sir, I'm aware, sir."

"With whom am I speaking?"

"Rutledge, sir."

"Well, then, Mr. Rutledge, I expect that you understand how very important it is to me that this incident not be repeated."

"I understand."

"Good. Now, notify John, please. Then, send me the links to the feed you're reviewing. I want to see it myself."

With that, I hang up.

While waiting for the footage, I begin searching the feeds of each security camera that covers every section of the grounds with outside access. The street, gates, fences, driveways, gardens—all are still. Even the guard dogs, Alvin and Chipmunk, are sound asleep. I've got the highest resolution cameras. They pick up every detail. It's only a matter of examination to find out who was trying to get in.

Switching to the feeds inside the house, I check over the main rooms and hall, even the restrooms. Nothing. Unless someone is hiding in the shower or water closet. But all the doors and windows are intact and the alarm is on. Has been for hours. If anyone touched an outer door or window, I would know.

There are also cameras monitoring the bedrooms. Caleb is sound asleep in his bed, hugging his stuffed elephant to his chest. Ethan is also knocked out, half-covered, lying on his side. His eyelids are fluttering, lost in a dream.

Against all reason, I give a quick peek at the feed from Noah's room. Just to be safe. He and January are lying side by side. Noah's on his back while his girl lies on her side, facing away from him. Each has their hands up near their faces. That's when she moves. Her hand brushes the hair falling over her face and I see that January is wide awake.

Chapter 9

"Pain is real, but so is hope." —Unknown

There's a full length, three-paneled mirror in the far corner of her bedroom. It wasn't hers. She wasn't so vain. I've placed it here so I can stare into it and do what I'm doing right now: staring at myself.

My posture is slightly hunched, my bottom lip curving out as if a little too relaxed. With the lightest effort, my hand (my right hand; he's right-handed) begins to shake, ever so slightly. Next, I shuffle my feet back and forth, turning this way and that, examining every move. Slowly.

Am I moving like a septuagenarian?

Repeating each movement, I make mental notes to help retain the motions in my conscious mind—every little nuance: the hitch of a bad hip, the twist of an arthritic back and stiff knees—so that the feelings stay fresh.

"Why are you doing that?"

It's Caleb's voice tugging at the edge of my concentration. I have to blink a few times and focus to come out of my head.

"I'm pretending to be old." The sound of my quavering voice is pleasing.

Caleb's reflection nods. "You gotta grunt."

Suddenly, that haze that blankets me like a fog when I'm working recedes. I turn around to face him directly. Calebs' hands are resting on the wide wooden bedpost. "What was that?"

"Old people make noises. Like, they chew real loud and groan when they sit down and get up."

"That's a keen observation, my lad."

The simple praise draws out a grin. "My Gramma does it all the time."

"Show me."

This is kind of our thing. He and I, we watch people and talk about how they move and the way they perform simple tasks. An example might be the short man that owns a bakery we frequent. He grabs the giant croissants in pairs. Every other person who's served us takes one at time.

"Like this." Caleb moves to sit on the chaise and scoots all the way back until the edge of the cushion is flush against the backs of his knees. "Gramma does this..." Caleb sets a hand on each side of his hips and pushes himself toward the edge. Just as he leans forward to get upon his feet, he stalls. "Here, she always says, 'Ay, Dios mio.' Then she grabs her cane." Caleb holds out one hand as if he's got a cane and wiggles as if he's holding a piss. "Then she grunts," he unleashes a low dragging, rumble and awkwardly unfolds from the long chair.

"That's a perfect imitation, Caleb. I've seen your grandmother get up and down a hundred times and never paid such close attention. Really brilliant—that was spot on."

My eyes tighten, making a show of my examination. "Have you been bitten, then?" His eyebrows shoot up in confusion. "By that acting bug that's going 'round?"

My compliments are genuine, but the question is off-hand. The answer isn't something I should seek. Not something Caleb should want for himself, either. I've met my share of kid actors and most are bonkers. But then, so were their parents. Caleb has always been so affected by my praises. The praise of others is not something he should seek out. Not at this age.

I'm reminded of his pliant state as his head shakes. Then, that adorable little brown face of his breaks into a proud grin. "Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Will you make me breakfast?"

* * *

After our morning meal of scrambled eggs and toast, it's bath time. Caleb helps bathe Ethan as he often does in my downtime, and then goes off for his own. Only after I promise a half dozen times not to leave until he's ready. He aims to work out with me, but likes to clean-up before getting dirty.

Lily has been sitting in the family room for a full fifteen minutes before I realize she's trying not to cry. When she rips her constant gaze from her cell phone, I notice the wet in them.

Taking my seat on the chair beside her, I acknowledge, "It's pointless to ask what's wrong."

Lily frowns. "Everyone is leaving."

"It's only me and Noah. We'll both be back in a few weeks for his birthday."

She blinks rapidly and twists her long dark curls into a nest on top of her head. "Only you, Evan. Their Dad. They don't need you. Is that what you're trying to say?"

I'm about to disagree, to tell Lily that she is totally exaggerating—because she is, isn't she?—but she goes on, "And their big brother is going. Noah, whom they love and look up to just as much as they do you."

I shake my head, puzzled. "What am I supposed to do? Cancel the film? Break my contract, or stop working altogether? Will that make this easier?"

It won't. Nothing will, because no matter what I do, _she_ will still be gone. She's left us all behind and we are fucking breaking.

"Evan, calm down." She lifts a hand at me just as Marcus enters through the back door holding Ethan, whose got a half-eaten orange smeared down his little arm and front of his shirt.

_My boy_. He says my name just as Marcus repeats his wife reiterating, "Yeah Ev, calm down.

"I'm not asking you to do anything, Evan. Just let me whine a little. I'm allowed."

"That's your mistake. You can't do that with him, love. Ev is a doer. You give him the problems and he solves them. If you need an ear you come to me." Marcus muses.

They smile at each other just then, and the feeling that is transmitted between them makes me want to vomit and rip my eyes out. Lily breaks away from the trance she's in before I have to warn them to keep that mushy-love shit to themselves.

Ethan has his eyes on me, slithering down Marcus's lap and climbing up into mine. His little hands leave sticky orange-scented prints all over my basketball shorts and tank top. When he shoves his smashed half-eaten orange at my face, I lock my mouth shut in the nick of time, but then pretend this road-kill-of-a-piece of fruit is the most delicious thing on earth. At that, my boy smiles and shoves the abused wedge back at his own mouth and chomps at it.

"Why such a messy snack? He's just had a bath."

Marcus points to a wooden box on the coffee table and flips the lid open. I remember the antique cigar box. He used it to store rubbers and weed.

"Ta-dah! A wonder of the modern age," Marcus teases. Apparently now his treasure chest is used to store baby wipes.

"Toss me some of those."

Lily takes Ethan to his high chair while I clean myself off.

Round about the time all traces of stickiness are gone, Caleb emerges from his shower: fully dressed in his trainers, grey basketball shorts that match my black ones, and a burgundy wife beater tank top that matches my black one.

"Are we all ready to go now?"

"Yeah." Marcus gives a stiff nod.

"Yeah." Caleb adds.

"Off we go." I scoot to the end of the cushion, place my hands on my knees and grunt whilst rising with exaggerated slowness. Like my boned hurt. Once on my feet, I turn to ask Caleb, "Did I get it right?"

Caleb tilts his head to one side. "A little slower next time. And you have to make more noises. Grunt and wobble a little."

I like that Caleb gives criticism without reservation. His approval is hard-won and appreciated.

Marcus sweeps a hand over Caleb's shoulder. "It will be better after he's in full makeup and wardrobe. His characters really come to life in the moment."

Caleb turns, beginning to tell Marcus about how he showed me what noises to make. The two chat about me on the way to the back door.

"I'll be back in an hour or so." I tell Lily and kiss Ethan on the head when he begins to cry. It's tough to leave him even for a little while after spending so much time away. I take out my cell phone and snap a picture of us right quick. The jingle of the back gate tells me that Marcus and Caleb are not waiting. They'll hop on the best machines.

Quickly, I pull up the photo I've just taken and show Ethan, telling him that he can play with my phone and look at our picture until I come back. It takes three more kisses and many more promises before I leave. Lily swears, if Ethan really needs me she'll bring him over and then reminds me, "You can't get in a decent workout with a two year-old on your hip. I should know."

When I make it to the gym that Marcus has built inside his three car garage, I feel oddly at home and relaxed. Ready to get to work. The speed bag I wanted is waiting for me when I hop off the treadmill.

Caleb has a determined look as he hops from the jogging trampoline and onto the seat of a new stationary bike.

"Keep that on the low setting." I remind Caleb, and begin stretching while Marcus works on his own treadmill.

I really love kickboxing. Not watching it, participating. Marcus is my sparring partner but today, I'm frustrated and stick to the heavy bag. Kicking, punching and swinging as hard and fast as I can.

Two hours pass in a blink.

Caleb is lying on the jogging trampoline watching a movie or something on his iPad. Marcus's nude chin is dripping with sweat. His wavy hair plastered to his head as he wipes the sweat from his brow.

"Had enough yet?"

"Yeah," My arms and legs feel like rubber, but my heart rate is too high. I hop back on the treadmill to warm down. Marcus takes up the one beside me.

Three minutes into my jog, he drops a bomb: "She wants to try for a baby."

I almost trip over my feet. "What?"

"We are going to try for a baby."

"That's fantastic. Congratulations!" Marcus is a natural with kids. Always has been. So is Lily.

"Wait." I say, "I thought she couldn't—"

"She might not be able to." He interrupts me, explaining the facts of his case before I can phrase the question. "It's her lady parts. Short cervix." He's breathing hard slowing his jogging to a quick walk. "It's not that she can't get pregnant. It's more that, staying pregnant is an issue."

"Oh," What is the appropriate response? Good luck seems like a shit thing to say.

"It's asking for grief innit? High risk of miscarriage."

"High rewards too, mate." I assure him. If he's going forward with this, he'll need all the support he can get. "You and your girl, you'll be great parents."

Marcus is thoughtful before answering. "I know she'll be."

"So long as the kids look like her and not at all like your ugly ass."

Marcus shoves me off the treadmill.

Chapter 10

"Work hard in silence. Let your success be your noise." —Frank Ocean

I've got a hell of a busy day ahead.

Appointments—the rest of my day will be eaten up by bloody-irritating appointments. One of which includes fifteen short press interviews, but Eric counts them as one because the press is coming to me instead of me going to them. It sounds easier, so I get it. How depressing is it to say that I have twenty appointments scheduled today?

After a quick shower, I take a walk through the house and check each room, make sure all is shut up tight and that my boys are appropriately dressed and occupied. It's chilly out. Don't want anyone catching cold.

Lily went next door for a while. I text Marcus to let him know I'm off. He sends another back to assure me he's on his way over. The back door opens as I'm reading it.

I nod and head for the front door where the car is waiting to take me across town.

On my way out Marcus yells, "Have a wonderful day at work, dear," in a high-pitched voice.

"Careful Marcus, your vagina's showing." I sing back, closing the door on his cackle.

Eric is standing by the back of the car on the driveway. He's got his iPad out and begins rolling through the list of appointments the moment I'm within earshot.

The first stop is a local radio station.

* * *

Eric stands off to one side near the sitting area by the doorway, texting while talking on the phone: last minute confirmation for one of today's meetings and my flight back to New Orleans.

I am standing over the sink, taking my time washing my hands. I don't much care for him following me into the lavatory. It's not something I ever had to consider before. Management never shared my gender before. I'd seen it happen often—now that I think of it—but never really took into consideration that my ritual nervous bathroom break before an interview would ever be something I would have to say I wanted to keep private.

For some reason, as I dry my hands on the thick paper towels beside the ceramic sink, I can't figure a way to broach the subject. It just seems silly to actually have to say aloud. 'I'd like to keep pissin' on me own, thank you.'

Bringing it up right now, though, Eric might think I'm genuinely bothered. Well, I am, but not enough to sound like an arsehole. I'll tell him after the interview.

"Go over your pre-interview." Eric takes the moistened towel from my hands and replaces it with a printed page that's got the topics and stories I mentioned when this interview was first booked a few months back.

"He's going to ask about the kids: what it's like being a single dad, raising a blended family." We walk out and into the hallway just outside the sound studio.

"Yeah, I remember."

"A lot has changed since you were here. He's just going to play catch-up. Keep it light."

"Light. Right." We'll talk about being single without mentioning I'm a widower. I'm a dad to three great kids. Ignore how I'm the only parent they've got and why.

"He'll ask four or five questions. Two, minimum, about the film itself, then call-in questions. Twenty minutes and then you're done. Easy."

"Got it."

One of the producers comes by to greet me—an older chunky woman bearing a soft face and bright green eyes. Her hair is the oddest shade of strawberry blonde—it's almost pink against her tanned skin. She says her name is Michelle and that we've met before, but I can't place her. Of course I don't tell her that. We follow Michelle into the sound booth where the morning crew is quietly talking through a commercial break.

I'm reintroduced to everyone beginning with the host, Adam "mad-man" Price. Then his sidekicks, Ace and Dooby, and a guy who's too young to be losing his hair, whom they call The Bald Eagle.

Just before I shove my hand out to Price, I spot Eric in the far corner of the room. He discreetly slices a finger over his throat—the "kill" signal. Right—I forgot that Price is a Germaphobe. I nod my greeting and keep my hands to myself.

"Ninety seconds." Price announces to the room, smiling and gesturing to a pair of headphones hanging over a microphone on the high, round desk he's seated at. I take my assigned position directly across from him and slip on the head gear. Briefly, I wonder if Price has any children. They must be miserably clean.

I'm sitting quietly, waiting for them to come back from break. Through the chattering, I notice their "Bald Eagle" is now across the room at a smaller desk partitioned by glass walls. He's got a computer monitor in front of him and looks as if he's taking phone calls and typing at lightning speed.

"Thirty seconds." a voice comes from my headphones. I think it's one of the sound engineers outside the booth.

The red _On Air_ light flashes quickly then goes solid. Price makes his introductions, welcoming the listeners back and then begins chatting about some topic they were discussing before I got here. Something about his mother's screen door needing to be oiled so he can sneak in and out of the house.

It's silly and funny as he mocks himself, leading the listeners to believe that he still lives in his childhood home. If he does reside with his mother, I'm sure it's not in the Valley, and it's more like she lives with him. As Dooby begins talking about his dad, I see where the conversation is headed.

It's bleedin' weird. Last time I was here, I was promoting the final Time Redeemer movie. We talked about wet t-shirt contests and people dressing up their dogs for Halloween, whether or not time travel was possible, and if so, who would you go back in time and try to bang? It was fast-paced conversation designed to lure the younger listener. This time around my lead-in is squeaky screen doors.

Conscious of the smile I need to keep on my face, I look to Eric. He mouths, "Brilliant," and does a long blink that lets me know he's disappointed.

Good. I've not hit the back nine quite yet. But I get it, I do. This is the audience that will pay to watch _King Bobby_. People old enough to remember who Bobby Fischer was.

I hear my name and snap out of it. There's time to natter over demographics later. But Price only mentions me to say that my interview will begin after this next song plays. Apparently, it's one that was voted on by listeners via social media to signal the beginning of my interview. He flips a switch and Fallout Boy is singing about being a troubled soul.

So it will be one of those interviews where they dance around the tragedy that has come to define every aspect of my life. I'll be playing offense, then.

Very aware of the camera recording this interview for online streaming, I've got to keep a cool façade and shut down the part of my brain that wants to look at my life as a whole and focus on the part that recognizes this is all a game. That's all it is. And it must be played.

This is work. This is how it goes.

The moment the song ends, I'm introduced and asked, "What do you think about the fans' song choice?"

With a pleasing grin, I answer, "It's surprising. I thought maybe they'd ask for that one song, Break Stuff, by Limp Bizkit."

They all laugh, and much faster than should be possible, the sound director drops a hook from the song. _"It's all about the he-said/she-said bullsh—"_ and cuts it.

"He's very good." I point toward the hairless man in the corner; the one who was screening phone calls is pulling double-duty as the sound director.

"Our Bald Eagle is regal. The best in the biz." Price grins, and the interview commences with general questions about the well-being of my children. Namely, Ethan.

Everyone is always most interested in how Ethan is getting on. I make it a point to speak mostly of Caleb. Not only does Caleb like it, but he's just more interesting than Ethan at this stage. I mean, my two-year-old is cute and all, but it's not like we have long conversations or anything. Ethan's main interest is emptying every cupboard within reach. That's when he's not eating or shitting his pants.

Caleb however, is opinionated and funny. I want to tell them of the time I was in a store with Caleb when he pointed to someone else's baby and told the parents their child was not as cute as his little brother. But it's one of those things that's funny in the moment and only because you're involved.

Instead I relay how we love to play card games and I always lose because Ethan can't keep his mouth shut about the numbers or colors he sees.

"Being a single dad—how is that working out for you? Is it as tough as it sounds?" Price asks. He sounds very interested, but he's not even looking at me. He's got his eyes on the monitor in front of him.

Ace, the sidekick whose radio personality is a twenty-something douche, chimes in. "It sounds like punishment."

The sound of a whip cracking follows this statement.

They all laugh. I play along. "It probably would be difficult, if I tried. But I don't try. I pay other people, professionals, to do it for me. They'll do it right." I make sure to laugh as I say this, so everyone who cannot see my face will know that I'm lying.

Price pounces, as I hoped he would. "That's the way to do it. Hire a professional."

Ace adds his two-cents. "You may be onto something. Kids are important."

Dooby comes in next with, "I believe that children are the future." Bald Eagle drops the Whitney Houston song that's just been quoted and Dooby sings along.

I clear my throat. "Yes, I was surprised to learn that they don't come with instruction manuals."

Price is grinning. "I'm surprised no one has written one yet."

"So was I. I mean, if you can't do something right, hire someone who can. Who can you trust if not a professional?"

Price leans into his mic, and in a soft, almost whispery voice, he says, "You know, when my car breaks down I don't try to fix it myself. I take it to a mechanic."

"I call a plumber when there's trouble with the plumbing in my apartment." Dooby says, and then the room erupts in a collective groan.

Ace shouts, "No, no, no! We are not talking about your plumbing issues."

I like that the topic has changed, and ask, "What's wrong with your plumbing?" As if I'm genuinely interested.

Pierce laughs, "He takes forty minute bathroom breaks."

"Too much fiber in your diet?" I ask a pink-cheeked Dooby as the echoing sounds of a toilet flushing fills the studio.

"Too much food in his diet," Ace answers.

The conversation goes on like that, easy and light. A little dirty and kind of amusing. I talk about the film and how I learned to play chess. "I'm no Bobby Fischer, but I think I'm pretty good."

"Do you play better when you're in character?" Ace asks.

"Unbeatable," That's a load.

Then it's time to take call-in questions. I expect the queries to be prerecorded, but they aren't. The first girl squeals my name after being introduced. She says she loves me and my work, how she watches every one of my films simply because I am in them. I have done a lot of weird, out-of-the-box type stuff recently, so I have to tell her how much I appreciate her blind support. I really do. It means a lot, as an actor, to have the firm backing of your public.

And then the girl finally asks her question. "Are you dating anyone?"

_Lie. Lie like a dirty dog_ is my first instinct. It's no one's business who I am or am not seeing. But this is the type of question that can only have one answer; whether you're single, mingling, or whatever. "No, no I'm not seeing anyone at the moment." You only say 'yes' after you're married.

A girly scream comes over the line and another voice asks, "Rhys, will you marry me?"

The studio fills with chuckles as I answer. "Absolutely. Let's do it three years from next Tuesday."

"And that, dear friends, is how stalkers are made." Price announces over the sound of the call being cut-off.

Thankfully, the next caller is introduced quickly: Amanda from somewhere in Kentucky. She asks about the rumor that there will be another installment to the Time Redeemer trilogy—the franchise that got my career going.

"Not that I'm aware of."

There's her complete answer in a nutshell, but it's not enough. These people have been hanging on the line for some time and they deserve a bit more of my time in return, I think. "I mean, I don't know if they could legitimately make another movie. The three films were based on the three books. The ending was complete; but also left an opening, so there may be the possibility for more. Unless the author takes that leap though, I can't see them adding another film."

Price cackles as Ace speaks to the caller. "Thanks Amanda, for that perfectly boring question."

"Don't listen to him, Amanda," I say. "That was a perfectly legitimate question." It wasn't, but I'm not about to let him make her feel bad.

"We need a new screener." Price jokes.

Ace gets on to the next caller. "Hello Holly, you're on with Mad-Mans Morning Crew and Academy Award winning actor Rhys Matthews!"

No answer. Dead Air.

"Holly, are you there?" Price asks.

Muffled sounds come over the line, and then a man's flat voice. "I know who you are."

Dooby makes a not-so keen observation. "Holly is a man?"

A stream of cold shoots up my spine. I signal Eric with a tug at my earlobe. The gesture was developed as a covert order to contact security ASAP. Eric immediately leaves the booth.

Prices' thick black eyebrows have shot up, but he's still wearing the smile. "Holly could be a last name. What's your question for Rhys Matthews?"

"I know who you are." The caller repeats in monotone.

Ace gives a heartless chuckle. "Uh, yeah. That's why he's a guest on the show. He won an Academy Award for pretending to be someone else. I've never met a man named Holly. Is that a family name?"

Price is giving hand signals to people outside the booth as Dooby snickers while I struggle to maintain my light expression.

"I know who you are." The man repeats a third time and then the line clicks.

The entire morning crew responds as if this was nothing, immediately making light of the situation by threatening Bald Eagles job as a call screener.

Ace is asking, "You let a man named Holly through? What is wrong with you?"

Price lowers his voice in mock seriousness. "You're officially demoted. Back to crapping on statues, Eagle."

I'm faking a generous laugh. The show must go on, after all.

* * *

Not until we're back inside the privacy of my car is any word mentioned about the mysterious call. Even then, I've only got one question. "What the hell was that?"

Drew, my personal driver and security guard, dives right in: "It was placed from one of those pay-per-use phones.

"Great," Bloody great.

"Odds are it was a prank. There were no threats made. But PD is looking into it."

There was no threat made. Not even implied. At least, not to anyone who doesn't know my secret. To this day, no one knows anything about my being adopted, or the circumstances that led to it. I've had my records sealed and never spoken about it to anyone, except Gracie. Marcus doesn't even know.

Why would someone say something like that if it wasn't a threat?

As far as law enforcement is concerned, no threat means they can't move on it. Not even for a guy in my position; a walking target with a secret past and a family to protect.

That is exactly why I didn't say anything to Eric after, or leave in the middle of that damned interview. I insisted he take a different car to our next booking at the Hotel because I need time to think. This might have been treated as minor, but it will end up major if it's not handled properly.

The attending press for the junket are watching the film and then lining up to meet with the cast members. It's bulk interview day.

"I need to grab a coffee. Can we be across town in twenty minutes?" More of a reminder than a question.

"I picked this up since the interview ran long." Drew's got his arm extended over the back of the front seat, holding a covered mug of iced coffee. "You'll miss the panel questions, but I'll get us there as fast as I can, try to give you some private time." This is why Drew is my personal driver; his discretion and foresight.

"No love lost on missing the panel." I take the cup. "Thank you. Does John know?"

Drew looks at me through the rearview mirror. "Yes, sir. He's taken the lead on this one."

I nod, feeling somewhat mollified. "This is the second incident in less than twenty-four hours. I want answers and security doubled on everyone." The cramp in my stomach means my ulcer acting up.

Drew is speaking into his earpiece. "Four Seasons, ETA seven to ten minutes. Jedi recommends we double-down. Circle the wagons." He nods to some response from his ear piece and flips on the turn signal. "Good to go." He then taps a button to disconnect the call.

"It's taken care of, Mr. Matthews."

"Thank you."

Lying my head back against the seat, I can't help but wonder, _Does someone actually want to hurt me or my family again?_

Suppose that psycho-bitch was working with someone. And if so, what more do they want to take from me? Why now? Two years later? Have they been biding their time these past two years, plotting revenge? Is that plausible or am I getting carried away?

Clearing my throat, I look at the back of Drew's head as he swerves through traffic. "Is this the right thing, do you think?"

My phone buzzes. I take it from my jacket pocket as Drew responds.

"I can't say, sir, I don't have enough intel. But I can say this: if I were in your position, I would do the exact same thing. It's always better to overcompensate. In these matters there are no second chances."

Circle the wagons indeed.

Chapter 11

"The learned man knows that he is ignorant." —Victor Hugo

My phone buzzes again. The icon on the screen tells me I've missed a call from Lily. As I'm about to call back her text arrives.

—Heard the radio show. U were good. Don't give the weirdoes ur time. They gonna hate what they ain't.

'Hate what they ain't.' I can barely stand the poor grammar, but this is the one thing she tells me all the time. I text back with equally poor grammar:

—Haters gon' hate. Always.

A second later, she responds:

—exact-a-mundo! Where u off 2 next?

Another text comes in. This time, from Marcus.

—Caleb is asking after you.

Of course he is. My boy can sense stress with the keenness of the finest bloodhound. He grows antsy any time someone is upset. Briefly, I wonder if that is why he was all over me this morning—if my Caleb somehow sensed that someone was trying to crawl over the wall last night. I've got to do something to ease him.

My fingers fly over the virtual keyboard, responding to messages:

—Your husband is texting me about Caleb.

—Tell Caleb to pack a bag. I'm taking him with me tonight. Can't talk. Walking into Four Seasons.

Caleb loves to visit the set and he's never been to Louisiana before. This could work out well for both of us. Spending extra time together might help me sleep better.

We're in the line of cars at the back of the building, easing up to the place where Drew will drop me off. Time to put the weird phone call on the back burner. John will handle it and we're all safe right now.

When the back door of my car swings open Drew doesn't jump, but I do.

Eric climbs in, nabbing a seat on the opposite side. I know why he's here. He wants to go over what I should and shouldn't say; how I should react when the inevitable happens.

He confirms as much when he says, "They're going to ask."

"I know."

"What are you going to do?"

I shrug. "I've thought a lot about this. And I'm sure I should start with solid drop-kick to the face. Maybe follow with an elbow between the shoulder blades while they're trying to get up."

"I'm being serious."

So am I. Mostly. "I'll sit there and let you handle it."

This brings the hint of smile to his face. "Good."

I lay my head on the seat back and close my eyes as Eric goes rambling on.

Drew clears his throat, cuing me to open my eyes. "We're here, Mr. Matthews."

"Thanks Drew. No need to open my door." I hop out on my side. Eric hops out on his.

We walk together into the Four Seasons, nodding at the team of security guards awaiting our arrival and ignoring the paparazzi. The members of the Press are already inside.

One guard stays at the door while the second becomes a shadow, following us as we head through the side to check-in with the event coordinator. The suite I'll be in is ready and waiting, already filled with swarms of people. Some are Journalists, most are from online media outlets, as expected. Probably 2% are actual fans.

I'm not the only cast member giving interviews today, but I'm interviewing alone. Supporting cast got lucky and has been lumped together. I take my seat in a small chair in front of a black backdrop, beside a large electronic screen that offers slideshows of promotional movie posters. There's a small, low table on my other side, where a bottle of water and a cup of green tea wait for me.

I get my first sip of tea mid-way through interview number five. It's with Casey Ingram, a cute sixty-something bleach-blonde that's been in the biz longer than I've been out of diapers. She was with a major network but recently moved to an up-an-coming cable network called Free Net. Casey wears pale pink lipstick and too much mascara.

"Your life has changed so much in the last three years." Her statement's meant to prompt me into speaking.

"Yes, it has."

Casey Ingram from Free Net smiles, revealing perfect teeth, bleached to near transparency. "With so many ups and downs, the constant media scrutiny, how do you maintain a sense of normalcy within your family?"

I've got to hold my guffaw on this one. "Is there such a thing as normal? It's been years since I have seen anything close to normal. I've got a lot of crazy, though. Crazy with random bits of normal shoved in between." Then I laugh, "It keeps me on my toes."

Casey Ingram comes back with a serious, somber expression. "It is so good to see you smiling, to hear you laughing."

Kill. Me. Now.

Casey Ingram: "You seem to be coping well. What advice can you give to other single parents out there?"

As if having a microphone automatically qualifies me to give advice.

I look off camera to Eric. He is watching, but his face tells me that this question is acceptable to him. Now that I think on it, it's not a direct question. It's roundabout, trying to knock me off-kilter. Well screw that.

"I'm sure there are people out there who are doing this much better than me. But, if I had to say something, I guess ... 'Keep trying?'"

Casey Ingram from Free Net smiles. "Thank you Rhys Matthews. That's our time."

The next several interviews come screaming right out of the gate:

"Tell us about how you two met." Strike one, you are out.

"Is there anything, any experience, you'd like to share about losing your wife?" Bye-bye.

"What was she like?" None of your damned business.

Eric stops the interview, cutting the camera the moment the question is asked.

Once I'm assured the microphones are dead, I speak.

"Quite rude," I say to the last and obviously gay bloke who appears somewhat repentant. "Was it not agreed upon beforehand, in writing? Did my terms not clearly state that I would not answer questions about my wife?"

The bloke is slouching. His gray grandfather sweater fits a little too snug. One hand scrapes across the back of his head, knocking his wide-frame nerd glasses. He says, "I'm sorry. It's my boss—" he cuts off. "There is no decent excuse. You're right. I agreed not to ask. It was insensitive and unprofessional."

I have never met this guy before, at least I don't think I have, but something in me kind of breaks a little at his genuine repentance, at the worry in his eyes. "What was your name—have we met before?"

"Eugene Cling. No, we've never met. This is my first major interview. Or, it was."

"Right."

After thinking a moment I change my mind, though I'm not sure why.

"Far be it from me to ruin your first major interview." I'm poking my thumb at my chest as if I am the _major_ in this scenario. Well I am, but I don't like to actually say it. I don't even like thinking it because I don't want to feel it. I don't want to be a pretentious prick.

"One more chance," I offer, staring at him a little too long. "One question, so make it good. And if you ask about my wife, you're out and you're never coming back in."

"Of course," Eugene says, suddenly upbeat as if this sort of thing happens every day with him, as if this isn't awkward at all.

But then, I see it. Before Eugene even gets back into his chair under the lights he's broken out in sweat. Reopening his notebook, he adjusts is trendy fix framed glasses and we wait as his camera man makes ready.

Once everything is set and we're rolling, he looks to me. "Mr. Matthews, I think it's fair to say the media scrutiny surrounding the personal tragedies you suffered while filming _King Bobby_ has been bias."

I am nodding, waiting for him to make his point.

"Do you agree?"

Lead in, damn you. "They all seem stupid to me."

"We have something in common, then."

_Brilliant._ I've just called the inane media 'stupid,' which is of course absolutely true, which is exactly why I shouldn't say it.

Eric is just off-camera rubbing his stiffened jaw. I can practically see the word _retraction_ printed across his forehead. He's going to beg me to hire a publicist again, I know it.

"You lost your wife; that doesn't feel good." He is somber continuing, "Obviously you had feelings deep enough to, first, marry her and then, second, have a child together. So I'm not going to ask you anything about her or your family. It's too personal and I respect your privacy."

I'm rubbing sweaty palms across the knees of my trousers, hyperconscious of my even expression and forcing my posture to remain relaxed and open. He's dancing on the edge.

"I am going to ask you something personal, though." He pauses, letting that soak in.

It's well-timed and overly dramatic and I can't be sure where he's going. Eugene holds a look in his eyes ... it reads like mischief. I'm two seconds from the first drop-kick.

"But my question has nothing to do with your alleged drug problems or alcohol abuse."

Eric is making the cut signal across his throat, giving me a questioning look.

"And the question is not about you getting swept away and nearly drowning in the Pacific Ocean just a few short months before you began filming _King Bobby_ , which was a wonderfully cast and beautifully acted film in which I counted two extensive water sequences."

He's acknowledging the angle most of the media has taken. They can't ask about the wife, so they've focused mainly on the chore of filming underwater. I've told them all time and again—the fear was inside my head, that's how I controlled it. There actually wasn't any residual fear after, but they didn't want to hear that. So I let them all think I struggled with it.

But that's got nothing to do with this. It takes a great deal of effort to appear relaxed as I say, "You should have been a lawyer."

Eugene smiles, but doesn't waiver in his pursuit. "My question is quite simple, really." Another dramatic pause as he adjusts glasses. "I'd like to know, Mr. Matthews, if you'd be interested in buying my car."

Eric has stilled. "Come again?"

"Pardon me?" I say at the same time. "I think I've misheard."

"My car. Would you be interested in purchasing my car?"

My eyes shrink and Eugene's face pales a little. I read right. It was mischief I saw in his eyes. Only he's not so sure what he's doing. He's worried about my reaction.

My response lingers on my tongue, letting him squirm.

"Well, you're a fibber. That's not a simple question at all." Eugene relaxes and I remain serious. "I can't just give answer. I don't know anything about your car. What's the make, model, and year? What condition is it in? How much are you asking?"

It's all ridiculous. And maybe a little funny if I go along. If only to prove that I can be a good sport.

"It's a 2007 Suburban."

"Color?"

Eugene adjusts his glasses again. "White."

"How very _O.J_ of you. Condition?"

He chuckles. "It's a clunker, I guess."

"Yeah," I almost add, "a shit heap," but catch myself. _Language_. I must watch my language.

Eugene's brow furrows. "Well, it's not really that bad. Mechanically it's in really good condition. It's always passed SMOG, never had any major engine problems. I've always gotten the oil changes and tune ups when it needs it."

"What's the mileage?" Eric asks from off camera.

And I've got to laugh.

"Just over a hundred-thousand," Eugene says, "which is pretty good considering the age."

"Why are you selling?" I ask. "Isn't it better not to have a car note?"

"It's a little too quirky for me." Eugene says.

"A gas guzzler," Eric muses.

"What are the quirks?" I ask him.

"Small stuff," Eugene sets his notepad down, now showing more enthusiasm and I'm sure that this is the question that he's been waiting for. "Like, the front passenger door won't open from the inside."

"That's an easy fix."

"The door also sticks sometimes when the weather gets cold and the window won't roll down. Small stuff like that. Quirks."

"Quirks," I repeat. "You have to run the AC more often."

Eugene nods. "The drivers' door handle is broken from the outside, too."

I'm laughing. "How do you get inside the car?"

"I'm usually with my wife. She gets in the passenger side and opens my door from the inside and then I let her out when we get to wherever we're going."

He's quite feminine, so it's really amusing that he mentions a wife. Eric is laughing now, too.

Eugene goes on, grinning like a lark, "It encourages courtesy. You open my door, I open yours." Lighting and cameramen are laughing now as well.

* * *

Eric has his nose is buried in the iPad again. He's been smiling since we left the junket. "Are you actually considering buying that car?"

"It's not so bad. I like the quirks. What's next?" I'm anxious, still waiting on information about that weird phone call. Maybe I haven't heard anything because there is nothing to it.

Eric taps his screen. "Dinner meeting with the brothers from Traffic Cone."

I'm thinking ... and can't put a face with the name. "Who are they again?"

"The Conelly brothers. They're working with HBO on a limited run."

"A cable show?"

"Yes. Sci-Fi drama."

"First names?"

"Anthony and Demetrius Conelly."

"Oh, that's right. They're twins." I recall hearing about them. Their production company started a few years back. "Making a name of late, aren't they?"

Eric nods. "I haven't seen their work beyond that documentary on human trafficking. It was stellar. They're supposed to have the Midas Touch."

"That was a great documentary. However, I'm not doing telly."

"It's not TV. It's HBO."

"I'm not interested in doing HBO, then. I don't want a cable series."

"I thought you'd like a fixed location. Consistent schedule and normal work days. Isn't that what you're always complaining about?"

"I don't complain." When Eric glances at me, I add, "Not all the time."

"You agreed to this meeting and they are really excited about it. You shouldn't decide anything until you hear what they have to say."

"I've already decided." I wait for Eric to look up. "But I'll extend the courtesy of listening to their ideas before I shoot them down." As I speak, I curl my arms up as if wrapping them around a giant invisible machine gun and then point at the ideas flying about like airplanes. Eric chuckles when I pretend to shoot them all out of the sky.

Then he does this odd move, like a combination of a head shake and a nod. "Alright."

As he dives back into his work on the iPad, I look him over. Neat grey suit and black tie. Jacket, unbuttoned. He's wearing the type of Wingtip leather loafers that speak money. He wears no jewelry anymore. I wonder when he took off his wedding band. I know he's recently divorced, but when he told me it was finalized, he was fiddling with his ring.

"How's your daughter, Eric?"

Like the doting father he seems to be, Eric smiles at the thought. "Cassandra got the lead in her class production of The Wizard of Oz."

"As Dorothy?" His girl is around Calebs' age with a solid build.

"No, the Tin Man." His expression clouds as he grins and I know he's picturing his pudgy little heartbreaker in costume. "She's adorable in her tin foil suit."

"How often do you see her?" I'm breaking my own rules by asking these questions. But my mind is on Caleb, his sad eyes watching me this morning. I can't get them out of my head.

"Whenever I'm in town."

"So not very often?" I ask, knowing he's just as busy as me.

"Not as often as I would like," He sighs.

"Would you ever consider bringing her to set with you?"

Eric leans forward, adjusting the back of his suit coat. "I wouldn't mind. Don't know if her mom would like it, but I think she'd love it."

My pocket vibrates. Calebs' face is flashing over my phone screen when I pull it out. Then, I've got it to my ear, asking, "is something wrong?"

Calebs' little voice rings through the receiver. "Ethan misses you."

The carpet of the town car is pristine just like the shoes I wore specifically for these interviews. Clean and clear like the worry in Calebs' tone. "I miss you. Both of you."

His breath skims the receiver like a wild wind roaring. "Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"I really get to go with you?"

"Yes, of course you do." I probably should have thought a little longer before inviting him, but I can't take it back. "So be ready, my lad. Pack more britches than you think you'll need and you're swimming shorts. The hotel has a giant pool and a high dive. Now, pass the phone to your aunt."

I know Lily is nearby. I can hear her in the background. The woman has the loudest voice I've ever heard.

After a moment of muffled voices she answers, "What's up?"

I ask the question that's weighing on me. "What do you think?"

"About what? Ethan! No. Get down. Marcus! Will you get him?" More muffles. "Sorry," she says, "Your son has morphed into a mountain goat. Instead of constantly trying to empty the pantry, he's climbing all over the furniture."

"That's my boy. Keeping you on your toes. Has Caleb talked to you about coming with me?"

"Yes. He's looking forward to it. I talked to his school principal, already. You're welcome."

Guess I won't be getting any advice from her on the matter. She must not have an issue with it. "Good. Hey, put Marcus on."

Lily scoffs. "Seriously. Why not just call him?"

"I've already got you on the line. You're in the same room with him. Honestly, how much effort does it take to straighten your elbow and pass the phone?"

She sighs and I can practically hear her eyes rolling. "Hold on."

Caleb isn't one to do well being away from home. Not even sleeping over at a friends' house. Since his mother passed, whenever he's tried someone had to pick him up prematurely. A spontaneous flight from LA to NOLA is out of the question. But I plan to get him a tutor. I've asked Eric to put the word out.

The moment Marcus is on the line he's talking. "I'll do it; just this once. But I can't come for a few days. I've got business to handle."

"Do you, now?" Marcus has been trying to get into producing lately. He's loved music as long as I've known him and recently found a band he wants to invest in. Still, with all he's got going on, he knows what I want. I don't have to ask. My best mate is the best for a reason.

"I've got me own life, you know, beyond being your on-call personal assistant."

"When did that happen? I don't recall anyone asking me if you could get your own life."

Marcus laughs.

"I take it Caleb knows I'm running behind?" The boy is nothing if not persistent. He's wrangled Eric into sending him my daily schedule.

"Yep. He's worried over getting to the airport on time."

"You think it's a good idea then, bringing him along?"

"It don't much matter where he is so long you're there. He's having a tough go if it with his brother being off and everything."

Everything. We are all having a tough go of it. "Flight leaves at ten." I check my watch. "I've got another meeting, but I'll try to cut it short.

"He'll be ready. But don't get out, Ev. Ring me and I'll send him out. Ethan will have a fit if he sees you and you leave again."

That makes me sigh. I understand completely and don't like it one bit. "Alright."

Chapter 12

"Work is the curse of the drinking classes." —Oscar Wilde

I've never really understood the purpose of a dinner meeting. Eating is supposed to be an enjoyable experience one chooses to have in the company of friends and loved ones. When business gets thrown into the pot though, it's like mixing vinegar and wine and hoping for the same pleasure on the palate.

We're meeting at a restaurant downtown called _Ferment_ , which is famous for their award-winning wines and lagers, as well as for privacy. Each table is in its' own private room. I've never been, never indulged the idea since I'm not allowed to drink. But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't more than a little tempted today.

Drew comes inside with us, but waits at the nearest door as Eric and I charge ahead. The pungent aroma of a dark, frothy brew hits me as we pass a bar on the way to our reserved dining room.

This meeting is going to be wretched.

* * *

"That wasn't so bad, now, was it?" He's got this ridiculous look in his face—small eyes wide, brow drawn up in a furrow—speaking to me as if I'm a pouting child.

"Of course it was. All I had was bread." Eric knows full well it wasn't bad at all. I didn't order food partly because it would get cold before I got round to touching it, and partly preferring to wait until later to eat with Caleb.

Turns out all the Conelly brothers wanted was to offer me a chance to come in as co-producer on their newest project. They've attained rights to adapt the Time Redeemer storyline, using the same concept and world, but coming at it with new and different characters. They'd like my name included for credibility, since I had the lead in the three films and they're known for documentaries.

I can't believe I'm actually considering this. "I'll need to see an approved script for the pilot."

What I understand of the benefits of working with a studio like HBO is that they're old-school in terms of trusting the creators, writers, and directors to lead the show in the direction they think best. Whereas, most major studios micromanage every aspect. So a project that is conceived one way often ends up an unrecognizable to the original idea. If HBO is as hands-off as they say, I'll be happy to work with them, but I'll also need to see more than the TV treatment.

"I'd also like a meeting with the head writers and Showrunner before I commit."

Eric is nodding. "I'm emailing their people right now."

I check my phone for the time. The meeting was actually much faster than I thought. Since I wasn't discussing a character, but an investment, we mainly talked market and numbers.

"Drew, I need to see Tony." I call towards the Rovers' front seat.

My driver catches my eye in the rearview. "I'm on it." Then he's tapping his Bluetooth, I assume to coordinate this deviation with the second car that's following us.

* * *

My hands are braced on either side of the doorway as I stare into Tony's office.

When he looks up, I start. "I want to drink."

And I can't.

Not only would I lose the progress I've made, staying sober was one of Eric's conditions to work for me. His reputation for working with the heavy-hitters was impeccable. And I am still fighting my reputation as a philandering alcoholic. Eric has an exit clause in his contract: I must stay sober or find another manager.

Pastor Tony's eyes crinkle at the corners as he takes-in my drama from behind the large mahogany desk that occupies the majority of the space in his office.

"Well, I wasn't expecting to see you today, Evan. Come on in. I've got a hot cup of coffee with your name on it."

Not the type of drink I'm referring to, but he knows that.

I first came here to Graces' church just over two years ago. A necessity built on desperation. I'd been falling apart without her and needed to get my life together. I had no idea where to start and no one to ask. Grace wasn't speaking to me, Marcus was in England nursing his terminally ill father, and I'd already ended all contact with the psycho bitch. That left me with too much time on my idle hands. I'd turned back to drugs as a means to cope. The problem with alcohol is that it's a gateway. A means to my end.

"Cream, two sugars." Tony takes a flesh toned ceramic mug from under the Keurig that's set upon a small table behind his desk and passes me a lumpy cup.

The damned mug is shaped like a closed fist. The handle is an upward thrust thumb. On the back of the hand, words are stamped, "Your Name is awesome."

"Nice mug."

Tony's eyes are bright. "I thought you'd like that. It's supposed to be referring God since the term is capitalized."

"Clever."

"Well it's yours, then. I won't let anyone else use it when you're around." He leans back in his desk chair and clears his throat. "Have a seat. Let's chew the fat."

This is what I like about him. He gets right down to business. Just simple give and take.

Taking the seat in front of his desk, I take a sip of coffee and start. "I haven't felt the urge to drink in ages, then today it just comes at me. I actually wished for a beer. Several times."

"Have anything you to do with things going on at home?"

Tilting my head back, I take a deep breath, and let it all spill out. The stress of being away and then how hard it is to be home, and missing my boys so much it hurts. The fear that I will screw-up with them like I have with Noah.

I even tell him about that damned girl in the bathroom, knowing he won't judge me. He never has. Not even when I told him about the time I threw the chopping board and accidentally hit Grace with it.

Then it's on to my issues with Noah, how his temper has gone off the rails and how I'm sure that he is making poor choices for himself to spite me and how ridiculous it feels to say that out loud.

My worries over Caleb's sensitivity are next, and then Ethan forgetting me when I'm gone for weeks at a time. I save the stranger trying to climb the wall and threatening phone call for last.

"I'm thirty years-old and already widowed. I've got enough stalkers and death threats to keep me awake for the better part of the next century."

My breath comes shallow and fast. I lean forward in my chair, resting a forearm on the edge of Tony's desk. "Not to mention my ulcer."

Tony listens, then quietly asks, "Is it acting up?"

I shake my head. "A little less than it was this time last year. Actually, the ulcer may be the only thing in my life that's getting better."

Watching thoughtfully, he tilts his head to one side in what I've learned is consideration. "Well, dang. After hearing all that, I kind of want to drink myself."

I almost smile. "So you understand. Now tell me what to do about it."

Tony grins. "Just remind yourself that you can't control what other people do. Not even your children most times. That's a little parenting tip, right there. Kids have their own mind. Your job is to teach them how to use it. You show them how to act. They learn much faster by example than through instruction."

That is the opposite of what I learned growing up. "My mother used to say, 'do as I say, not as I do.'" But then, I still started smoking, just like she did.

"You can instruct and direct until you're blue in the face, Evan, but children emulate. They'll do what they see you do, no matter what you say."

I nod, understanding. Caleb is the one who watches me, Ethan watches Caleb. Who does Noah watch?

"Also, don't forget that temptation is a part of life and there is no sin in being tempted. Adam wasn't charged with sin until he took the apple from Eve and bit into it. So, don't judge yourself when you crave a drink, because you and I both know it's not the alcohol you want. It's release from the anxiety you carry.

"Now, if you do find yourself feeling too comfortable with wanting to give in to that temptation, call me. I'm never too busy for a friend. Also, don't forget that you have more than most people: a solid support system in your family and fans. People who want to see you succeed. Use that like you did today and then, don't drink."

"'Don't drink,' is your brilliant advice?"

"Wisdom is often disguised in simplicity."

* * *

"I think this is good. Enjoy the one-on-one time with Caleb." Marcus tosses Calebs' carry-on bag at me.

"Don't know why you couldn't find time to come to me, Ev."

I've told him about speaking to Pastor Tony. "You are always my first choice, but as you have said, you have your own life."

Caleb ignores our conversation and climbs into the backseat, anxious as ever to get going. We stand at the back of the navy blue Rover, having our quiet, serious conversation.

"That don't mean I haven't got time for yours," Marcus reasons.

"It should though, Marcus. You have a wife. You're trying for a family of your own and already helping me raise mine. I can't keep taking from you. It isn't right."

He nod, "yeah, but that's the way we've always done things."

"Only because I was alone, which I'm not anymore. And neither are you. As you said, it's time for change. So don't be cross if I don't run to you with every little issue."

Marcus shakes his head, "Have it your way, Ev."

"On that note, I still fully expect you to be in New Orleans by Wednesday."

"Plan on it."

The ride to the airport is actually soothing.

The relief I feel as we settle onto the plane is indescribable.

Once we reach cruising altitude the tension between my shoulder releases and I ease my seat back.

Chapter 13

"My life is a struggle" —Voltaire

This morning's call-time was pushed back. I'm not due on-set until ten a.m. It's perfect timing as I need to meet with Calebs' new tutor.

Mrs. Perry is an older woman with a warm skin tone and warmer brown eyes. I can tell straight away that she makes Caleb uncomfortable and somewhat enjoy the way he squirms under her gaze. It means he'll mind himself, that he respects her as an authority figure. Of course, Mrs. Perry notices as well and does her best to put him at ease. The meeting is cut short however when Eric calls to say he's got a potential au pair I should meet with.

"She comes highly recommended," he assures and then rattles off the girls' education and qualifications.

Marcus will be out in a few days. Even so, he can only stay a week and I promised Caleb I'd let him stay as long as he wants. It's three weeks to Noahs' birthday and we're supposed to be ready to wrap by that time.

I try not to think about the scheduling on the way to meet the girl.

Thirty minutes later we're in a small café, staring at my potential employee. Her name is Ainslie. She's quite Nordic in appearance with a French-Canadian accent. Her eyes are round as buttons and cornflower blue. I'm watching her pick apart a croissant as she asks Caleb a myriad of questions.

"Favorite color?"

"Blue."

"Favorite game?"

"Poker."

She laughs at that. "Favorite animal?"

"His name is Nigel. He's my dog. Only now he lives with my brother Noah in San Francisco. He's at college. He's gonna be a doctor. Nigel is small. A Pomapoo my dad bought my mom on her birthday. But we have big guard dogs now, Alvin and Chipmunk. So we had to make Nigel live with Noah. Dad said he didn't want Nigel to be a chew-toy." Caleb shrugs as if all he's said should be obvious.

Ainslie hides a chuckle in her napkin. "You like dogs?"

"Yeah. Nigel's my favorite. He was Mom's dog first, and then he was mine."

I'm shoveling the food in while I've got the time; soft cheeses smeared over dainty baguette slices, grapes, and chunks of melon.

"Will I be meeting Mrs. Matthews today?" Ainslie asks.

I stop chewing, rather rudely bringing my napkin up to discreetly spit the food out. If I swallow, it'll come right back up, I know it.

Before I can answer, Caleb does. "My mom's dead."

She looks at Caleb, her gaze tender. "Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that, Caleb."

He shrugs again, looking up to catch Ainslie's questioning glance at me. I nod to confirm. "Google it."

Caleb's little brow furrows again. "Google what?"

"Why the sky is blue." I say, taking my phone from my pocket to text Drew.

The whole of the world knows about what happened. Does this girl truly expect me to believe that she doesn't? That she's the type of person that conducts no research into the families she works for? She knows who I am. She runs within the exclusive circle of persons who know I'm searching for an au pair.

Okay, so technically she would be a nanny, but I can't imagine myself being one of those snobbish arsehole-types to use the word 'nanny.' _Tell Nanny Fairfax to bring Reginald down after he's been dressed, would you?_

Then, a thought occurs to me: an idea taking shape.

"I'm sorry, Ainslie, but this isn't going to work." Standing, I pull Caleb's chair out. "It was a pleasure meeting you. Please, stay and enjoy the rest of your meal, on me of course."

Caleb offers the girl his hand to shake. "Pleasure meeting you."

She's clearly knocked off-balance by our abrupt dismissal, as she is still watching when I stop at the door and pay our tab. We two head for the outdoor patio behind the café. There's a walking gate into a small alley where the Towne Car is waiting.

Drew opens the door for us. From the back seat, I note that there is also another man in the drivers' seat, whereas on our way here, Drew was driving.

Once my security guard is in the front passenger seat, he turns back to me, "Mr. Matthews, Mr. Marshall is waiting on the line for you."

It's unusual that John should call. He usually relays information through Drew. "Thanks."

Drew gives a stiff nod and turns round as the car speeds into traffic and the dark partition slides up.

My Bluetooth automatically syncs to the car phone, so I simply tap the button on my ear to answer after making sure that Caleb's attention is otherwise occupied. He's got headphones on, watching a movie.

"John, what's up?"

He has to have something about the perimeter breach. Or possibly the odd phone call. It's been driving me mad not knowing.

"Does this call have anything to do with why I've got two security guards in the car with me?" I'm trying not to sound unnerved and failing.

"The attempt to gain access to the property failed and appears to be isolated—but beyond that, nothing. I've got my people analyzing the security feeds. The moment we have an ID, you'll be notified."

"Isolated: as in, not connected to the strange caller?"

"We've found no connection between the two incidents. Mr. Matthews, I'm calling in regards to another, unrelated, matter."

"Right, then. Why do I have two guards?"

"Because you're not travelling alone."

Of course. "What's the unrelated matter?"

"I thought that you'd want to be informed that your step-son, Mr. Zuniga, reached out to me personally to request a detail."

My back straightens. "Really?" It doesn't sound like a question.

"He specifically requested an operative to meet him in San Francisco upon his return for a full risk management assessment."

He goes quiet and I know he's waiting for permission to proceed. Usually security requests come from me directly. "Give him whatever he wants. Keep me informed."

Caleb is still immersed in his video game as I end the call with John and dial Noah's number. The line rings and rings. I notice that the car has slowed. The road is congested in front and behind us.

Noahs' voice kicks on: "You've reached the voicemail of Noahs' Psychic Solutions. We know who you are and why you're calling. No need to leave a message."

After the beep, I say, "I thought the out-going message was funny the first fifty times. Noah, I've spoken to John about your security request. It's a go—but why did I have to hear about it from him? You could've talked with me yesterday. Or has something happened?" Sighing, I reiterate, "You know I hate asking a machine. Call me with answers, please."

* * *

There are too many things on my mind as we walk into the makeup trailer. Not one of them has a place to land outside my mouth. So I stay quiet while Caleb jabbers.

Noah has asked for security. Not hearing from him has me on edge.

I called John back and requested a full back ground check on January. Noah won't like it, but I need some damned answers. A secure detail has been at his disposable for some time now, but he's always refused it. So, why now? What's changed? Does he know about the near-breach of the perimeter wall? The phone call?

Eric has been dodging questions about it since the interview. The call itself was excluded from the final cut, as the show was pre-recorded. Nothing could be done about the live stream, though. Press are relentless.

Caleb takes the empty chair beside mine as the lead makeup artist, Casey, begins cleaning my face. Xavier covers my hair with a cap, beginning preparation for the long business of getting into character. There are three of them in total: Casey and two assistants. Blair is the newest, but she's talented.

Casey handles the job very well, firing off her orders. Each one looks closely at the dozens of photographs that were taken of me during the first full makeup session. From there, they begin carefully placing each latex peace in place on my ears nose and mouth and neck. Then a bit of critiquing and double checking to reassure that every bit looks exactly like the first time.

Caleb, bless him, watches closely asking questions about this and that.

"What is it made of?"

"What is that for?"

"How do you know it's right?"

Once he gets the idea of what all the phases are for, he begins comparing the process to watching his mother make and decorate a cake. He's excited and fascinated by all of it. He tries, several times, to ask me questions but I can't move my mouth and must let others respond for me.

I watch the makeup team very carefully, searching for signs of irritation. If anyone is bothered by my boys' inquisitive mind, they aren't showing it. I wouldn't make him stop even if they did. Caleb is having a ball.

Hours later, when I'm finally given the green light from makeup, it's already near two. Caleb has fallen asleep near the snack table, surrounded by empty pouches of graham crackers and trail mix. All the carbs and jetlag have caught up with him.

I ask the team if they'd mind keeping an eye on him as I get into wardrobe. Xavier offers to take Caleb back to my trailer but I know it will be hours before I'm back there.

"I'd like to keep him close by. If he wakes and can't find me he'll be worried. When I'm dressed, I'll take him with me to the sound stage." He loves to watch filming.

Once Xavier and Blair agree to watch him, I'm off.

Wardrobe is ready and waiting when I climb inside the trailer. I stand behind a flimsy screen to change into the trousers they've picked out, but Casey has to supervise the putting on of everything. She's spent too much time on my prosthetics and hairpieces to have her work ruined.

I've got paper bags over my hands to protect the painted liver spots while Casey and Angie, the wardrobe assistant, hold open the neck and arm holes of the first layer I'll be wearing, a simple undershirt. In film, there are almost always layers.

Mike, one of the sound techs, slips on the body mic. He says they may not need it, but it's better to prepared. After he's got me wired, the two ladies are then helping me don a button-down, then a bulky sweater and finally, a brown corduroy jacket.

I'm buried in makeup and wool when I leave the air conditioned trailer. The soundstage will be uncomfortable. I'll be well-done before nights' end.

Back inside the make-up trailer, Casey slips the bags off my hands and rechecks her work. After a few touch-ups, she's satisfied.

I turn and face the long mirror, taking in my aged appearance. It helps draw out my focus. My posture settles into a slump, the mild twist returns to my back. My knees stiffen just enough to make me walk slow, and with effort.

Xavier is bringing Caleb, whose got to go number one. "We'll meet you on-set."

And then we shuffle off: one production assistant escorts me, holding an umbrella over my head though the weather is clear and there's not a breath of wind. Casey, with her large fanny-pack of supplies strapped about her waist follows behind, and Angie from wardrobe, of course.

"Anybody know where Eric is?" I ask the group. They all respond with negatives, but Casey says he's probably camped out by craft service.

"The chef, Aaron, made his shrimp puffs and Eric is addicted."

"Sounds about right."

Caleb gasps when he sees me; covers his mouth as his sleepy eyes go wide. "You look awesome!"

"Thank you," Casey smiles. "That means a lot coming from you."

Caleb goes red in the face, but then turns to me mumbling. "Don't forget to grunt."

"I won't."

* * *

There are dozens of people standing around. All of them dressed very comfortably in t-shirts and shorts. Heat radiates from the lights bearing down on me. The largest of them is on the other side of a make-shift wall; it's the artificial sun. There is no ambient light in a sound-stage. The lamp is about six feet in diameter. The heat generated by that light alone is enough to barbecue a chicken.

Here I am in front of the damned thing wearing a sweater, sport coat, and two shirts. Ten pounds of makeup to boot. The set behind me is cheap as shit—a few pieces of ply wood propped up and decorated to create the illusion of an interior home. It looks good on camera, at least.

The floor is strewn with power cords and lighting stands, boom mics and operators, crewmen holding cardboard rectangles covered in reflective material that looks like aluminum foil. I'll have to remember to ask someone else what those are called. Every time I've ever asked, they never know the right answer.

There's a clear space about six feet wide with a small X made of yellow tape. My mark. I am standing on top of it. Waiting. I have only a few more lines to deliver, and then we can move on to another scene. I hope.

We've been over this scene a hundred times. I'm watching my hands shake with artificial tremors, waiting for the director to reappear.

"Rhys, I'm just going to touch you up while we're waiting." Casey steps to me with a thick immaculate cotton wipe from the make-up pouch strapped at her waist. She presses it to my forehead, soaking the beads of sweat trying to form at my hairline. "If I have to keep wiping, we may need to put you back in the make-up chair."

I sigh impatiently.

"Rhys?" It's Ellen, the irritating assistant from wardrobe this time, peeking around Casey's shoulders while she brushes the down the unruly eyebrows that I have a tendency to pick at, "can you give me your jacket, please? Angie wants me to steam out the wrinkles in back."

"Of course," I straighten my arms, flatten my hands, and let her remove the overcoat. I don't want a smudge.

"Have fun." I flash my brightest smile at Ellen, who flushes pink.

"You are so bad," Casey chuckles, reapplying powder.

"I know," I wink at her.

"Don't try that cute stuff with me. I'll just feed you. Both of my kids are about your age."

I stare at her smooth skin while she pats and blots and touches up. Her skin looks very young. If she dyed her hair, she could pass for forty, easy. Maybe even thirty-five.

"Casey, how old are you?"

"Never ask a woman her age." Her tone reminds me of my mother.

"I thought that only applied to old women?"

"You're quite the charmer today," She notes. "And you're done. Why don't you take a seat until Ellen gets back?" She gestures to a chair just outside the range of the hot lights.

"Good idea. I'm baking in here." Pulling at the hem of my sweater makes air rush in as I walk from my mark on hells' equator.

"Do you want some water?"

"I'm alright." I throw myself into the canvas folding chair with enthusiasm, sending it screeching across the concrete floor. "Eric is bringing me some when he and Caleb get back." I slump into the chair and stretch out my legs in front of me.

"I can get it for you, it's no trouble." Casey offers again, placing a hand on her walkie-talkie to call for a water run.

"Casey?"

"Yes?" She's waiting with one hand cocked up on her hip.

"No, thank you, dear." I smile boldly. "Where is Harrison?" He isn't hovering near the monitor anymore.

"He had to take a call. He'll be back in a few minutes."

We are _so_ close to the end of this scene. I'm impatient to finish.

This is an independent film, called _Death Knocks_. It's about the life of an average guy who's wasted his life, only he doesn't know it until the doctor tells him he's got lung cancer. He's old and angry. It sounds boring, but the script is fantastic and the story feels unique.

At this point in the film, my character is fighting his adult children for the right to die in a way he sees fit. They want to force him into hospice care and he'd rather die than do as they ask. I don't understand him at all, which makes him hard to play, which makes this fun—regardless of the fact that I have to wear twenty layers of clothes and ten pounds of makeup for the next two weeks.

How I got the part for this, I will never know. Not true. I know why I got this one—because of that damned award. I shouldn't complain, I suppose. It is good to be able to make a film because you _want_ to and not because you have to.

Still, it seems I'm only ever doing one of three things these days. Shooting, preparing to shoot, or promoting something I've already shot. It's a monotonous routine with the family moulding around it. It is exhausting trying to keep up.

And then all this business with the phone call, the would-be intruder—and who could forget Noah and his idiotic choices.

Leaning back in my chair, my eyelids feel like led. Resting my chin on my chest, I figure it can't hurt to nod off for a few seconds.

"Rhys?"

"Yes?" I open one eye. It's the irritating girl, Ellen. She's holding my jacket. And she just _had_ to say something. She couldn't let me sit undisturbed for five seconds.

"Do you want to put this on now or wait?"

She's leaning over as she asks. Hovering in a way that allows me—and everyone else on my side of the room—the opportunity to gaze down her shirt. I can see far down. Too far down. Way beyond the second-rate rack she's working so hard to flaunt.

I can see her navel. Lord, is _that_ her belly button? It's a weird knob shaped out-y that makes me shudder. Honestly, I'm trying to look away but it's drawing me in like a car accident. I don't want to look, but if I turn I'll miss the gore.

I shouldn't have smiled at her. Why did I do that? Ellen has been flirting since we started shooting and I had to smile back.

Women (and some men) make offers all the time. It's disconcerting how forward some are. Like the girl from the coffee shop. Then there are some who don't bother with charm, they simply follow me until I'm relatively alone then get right to taking off their clothes.

Those moments are always awkward. I never was a guy to need an emotional connection before, but everything feels different now. _She_ changed me and I can't go back to that easy medium of casual sex. It's just one of those facets to post-Grace life.

But with Ellen ...well first off, I have no illusions about her motives. She is exactly like all the others, the ones infatuated with the image, the persona, my position and notoriety, all of which have very little to do with who I am.

Secondly, she's flaunting her shit in front of Caleb. Who cares if he's not in the immediate vicinity? Does Ellen think just because she's here and my boys' gone off for a snack that she has a chance? That I would consider her? To be fair, she isn't ugly. She's actually kind of hot. But she's too forward and that turns me cold. I'm in no mood for pleasure or pretense. I have been running on empty for far too long and have far too much on my mind to consider reacting to her desperate suggestions.

Third, if a girl is irritating, then it doesn't matter how hot she is.

And dammit—it must be over a hundred degrees in here. Why would I want to put on the jacket and get it all wrinkly and sweaty just so she has to take it back and steam it again?

In my mind, I've told just where she can stick that stuffy overcoat.

"Bring it back when we're ready to roll." I close my eye, ignoring her.

I'm not judging her. There is nothing wrong with flirting. But it's supposed to be alluring. Besides, if the whole crew has already seen what she's got, why would I want to? Not that I expect she's a virgin or anything, but I have seen where she's been, rather who she's been with and I am not going anywhere near that. And where did the notion that nothing should be left to imagination come from, anyway?

I am sort of with someone, anyway. Well, more than one someone. I've got my three boys to care for and a job to do. They own what's left of my heart. There's no room for anyone else.

I reposition to get more comfortable and cross my arms, settling my chin back down on my chest, trying once more to doze off but the urge has left me. I hope the director returns soon so we can get things moving again since no one wants to let me sleep.

It would be nice to finish early for a change but I don't think that's going to happen. Maybe Eric will stick around a bit longer, in case I need help with Caleb.

The filming schedule has been very aggressive. It has to be since the budget is so small. The entire crew is multi-tasking. Everyone helps everyone do their job in order to stay on schedule. There have been lots of eighteen hour days, interviews in between takes, and photo shoots on my days off. Sometimes it feels like slave labor.

A loud clap thunders overhead. "Rhys! Are you ready?"

It's the director, Harrison. A short round fellow with a head full of curly brown hair. He reminds me of a surly hobbit. He loves to clap and snap as he talks at people—one of those demonstrative types, always using his hands to convey a point as if they are in some way attached to his words.

"Hey! You awake?" He snaps his chubby fingers again. Both hands are moving in circles. Similar to the way a boxer works a speed bag, only he's snapping instead of punching.

"Yes," I sit up straight away, clearing my throat, "just concentrating on the scene." Utter shit. I am fairly sure I will deliver in this bit. I have been fortunate that way. This character, though a mystery, comes quite easy to me.

With this project, the dynamic between the main characters feels organic. Probably because the script is so solid. It feels almost a second nature. I don't know how to describe it; it just comes out in the moment. I try to make a study of people I see and work off their energy. I like the way they conduct themselves when they think no one is looking. I also have a knack for print memorization. It helps that I spend a moderate amount of time in preparation and that I am in full costume.

"Great, let's do it. We're burning day light."

Director shouts his orders, peppered with familiar curses to the crew, ordering everyone who was not involved to get out of the way. He shouts reminders of how a select group ruined a wide shot by standing around when they should have been working.

Everyone falls quiet while Ellen slips the jacket on me, adjusting it while Casey gives me her final touch up and approval.

I take my mark under the burning lights. The cameras slowly roll over the scene marker. The commands go off in succession:

"Rolling!"

"Roll sound."

"And ...Action!"

* * *

The motel room is quiet, save the sound of our breathing. Caleb is wearing headphones, staring at the ceiling. It's long past his bedtime and we're two hours ahead of California time. I should make him go to sleep. It's been a long ass day, though he caught at least two naps throughout.

I've forgotten how comforting it is to have someone with me during downtime. Maybe I'll let him stay up a little longer.

Chapter 14

"Man was made at the end of the week's work when God was tired." —Mark Twain

The soundstage has been set-up for more interior shots, but today the area outside the windows is draped in green screen. The lights are concentrated more from above rather than the sides like yesterday. I've got my same three hours of makeup on, but different clothes. A simple navy long-sleeve shirt.

Chuck, one of the assistant directors, hands me some yellow pages—script changes.

"Thank you." Flipping through, I note that some of the changes are for the scene we're shooting today. Though they seem small, these modifications will serve my characters arc. He starts out frightened and on his deathbed at the beginning of the film then he looks back on his life—hence the need for all this makeup. Todays' scene is the family physically forcing my character into hospital. I am to be angry and combative, unwilling, and belligerent, while paying close attention to blocking. His adult children demand he get treatment, under threat of never speaking to him again. The toughest part of today is the small change that has been made. In this scene I am to hit someone: the daughter.

I've got my eye on Caleb as we repeatedly run through the physical sequence. Each move is calculated but can't look that way. He is watching intently at the beginning, but then his interest wanes as our blocking becomes more technical. By the time we are ready to shoot, I am as confident as I can be.

Zoey Sheradon plays the seventeen year-old daughter. She's actually twenty-three and this is her first major role. Liam Ericsson is playing the son. He's also an unknown. From what I can tell the two are both experienced stage actors and quite professional in the way they work through the scene with the fight coordinator. This scene requires them both to handle me roughly, in effort to force my character out of the house and into the car to make him seek cancer treatment.

Liam must grab me up. I scream and shout, swinging wildly at him. Of course Liam is to duck and my character will accidentally hit his daughter who is only trying to stop the fight.

"The main thing is, to look wild but be controlled so you don't actually hit her." Paul, the coordinator reiterates to the three of us.

"Got it." I say.

Zoe crosses her arms. "If I get hit, I get hit."

"The goal is no contact, but you've got to pay attention. Snap your neck around at just the right moment," Paul repeats and illustrates, snapping his own head around.

"I'll do my best." Zoey answers, but looks disappointed.

Her attitude worries me. It's almost as if she's offended that we're striving for no contact. I've never hit a girl before. Never. Not even when they've asked me to.

"I'm not a doll." Zoey mutters, spinning away toward her mark, and I am positive that she is unaware that we have all heard her.

I've got no time to worry about her mood. I've got to get my focus on my character. His inner feelings have got to add up with what I'm to act out. I draw on the anger that is so familiar to me, the one that fits like an old glove. Once I've harnessed it, it's time to check my posture, the placement of my hands and feet. My stance must be angry, stiff and still mangled. _Grunt_ , I remember Calebs' direction and make a note to work the sound in as the scene plays out.

From the moment the director calls action its bedlam. Liam and I are on. But the second he ducks to avoid my swinging arm, I feel myself holding back.

Damn. I've pulled out too soon, my move falling too short of Zoeys' cheek. For her part, she is ready to take the hit and part of me admires that, except the goal of making it look real is in direct contrast to my goal of no contact.

After Zoey has a quick aside with Paul about blocking, we're back to it.

The first ten takes, she does exactly what she's supposed to do. Flinch. It's me who's falling short, pulling back too soon. But by the fifteenth take, it is cemented in my head: I must trust that she is going to flinch so I can swing wide.

"Ready?" I ask them, just as we're preparing to go again. "I'm coming for you this time," I assure her.

Liam and Zoey chuckle as Casey, once again, retouches my makeup and hair. "We've got to get this right." I tell them, "I'm sweating off my liver spots."

The next take I feel it.

This. Is. The. One.

When Liam takes me by the arm and lifts me to my feet, I swing out with my free arm just like I did the first fourteen times. Only difference is this time I feel the energy of the moment and I know. I _know_. I can see her: little Zoey, looking on as the loving daughter. She is afraid of her father. I shake off Liam, as I'm supposed to, and swing again. He ducks just a Zoey moves in.

In her face I read determined hesitation. It is perfect. She is going to flinch and I am not.

I carry the move to completion, all the way out, having complete confidence.

And hit Zoey. Square in the jaw. With my closed fist.

She flinches as we rehearsed, then follows through snapping her head around before falling back with tear-filled eyes. A hand covering her face.

Liam and I have both stopped to stare. My mortification is not an act. Liam is frozen. Worried.

"Cut!" Calls the director.

Assistant Directors rush in to check on her.

"Zoey, I'm sorry."

I have to fight through three A.D's and my makeup artist.

Liam is following suit, saying all the wrong things. "Why didn't you pull? He barely would have clipped you if you'd pulled."

"No," I say, "it was my fault." There's a red swell forming on her cheek and I swear my heart hits my feet at the sight. "Are you alright?"

I'm not: I'm a woman beater.

I'm going to have to send her on a long holiday or something. A weeklong spa treatment, maybe? Would that make up for this? What the hell do you give to a female coworker under these circumstances?

Zoey is waving her hands, dismissively. "I'm fine. I'm fine!" She huffs, "If Liam was the one who'd gotten hit, would you guys be freaking out like this?"

The three A.D's and me stop.

Liam says the wrong thing again. "Of course we would."

"I wouldn't." I've got to make my disagreement known.

"Why? Because he's a guy and I'm just a helpless little girl?" Zoeys' eyes widen with incredulity.

"No," I gesture to Casey, begging her with my eyes to pause her touching up and move from my line of sight for just a moment. Once she does, I continue. "No. Not because he's a guy, but because you are a person who is half my size and I know how hard I hit you. We have a right to 'freak out.'" I can't take my eyes off the red welt on her jaw. "You really should put ice on that. It's swelling." Casey moves back in to resume her touch ups.

"Nah, she's tough. She can take it." Liam says.

The director, who's been standing off to one side during our exchange, pats Zoey on the back and offers up an ice pack. "Here's to your first on the job injury. Congratulations."

* * *

There's chatter around the set that quiets down the moment I walk past. Even Caleb has remained quiet since the smack heard round the world.

"I thought you weren't supposed to hit her." He's carrying an expression of seriousness that surpasses his eight years.

"It was an accident." I assure him as we move along in the line at craft service.

"How did it happen?"

"It was a miscommunication." It's the best I can explain it.

His little brows flutter up his forehead. "What does that mean?"

"It means that we forgot what we were supposed to do. We didn't talk about it enough as we were working at it. And then someone got hurt as a result."

"Oh," Caleb says.

"Actually, it didn't hurt that much."

Zoey is standing behind me when I straighten and turn around. My stomach contracts, though the red blotch on her lower cheek and jaw has faded to pink.

"It looked like it hurt a lot on the playback," Caleb disagrees.

"But look," Zoey points to her face. "No bruise. It's not swollen anymore, either. It's barely even red."

Caleb examines her with narrowed eyes. "You should have flinched," he surmises.

"I did." Zoey almost blushes. "I just did it a second too late."

"Or you stepped in too far." Calebs' tone sounds almost as if he's admonishing. "I saw you take five steps, but you took four the other times."

I straighten at the observation. Did she really? Does it make me a terrible person that I hope he's right? If she did come in further, then I didn't go out too far, and the whole thing really is her fault. I'll still send her the spa gift certificate.

Zoeys' eyes widen. "I think you're right, Caleb. Thanks for the insight." She winks at him, pats his head, and walks over to the fresh fruit trays in the tent beside the catering truck.

"Did she really?" I ask as we move further up the line.

"Yep," he nods. "I counted. It was for four steps and flinch." He taps the fingers of one hand onto the other. "One, two, three, four, flinch." His eyes have clouded, as if he's seeing it on replay in his mind.

"What else did you notice?" I actually mean, what do I need to work on?

"That Liam guy has to tuck his shirt in."

Odd. "Why?"

Caleb explains, "It was coming out in the other scenes, but in the last take, the back came out all the way."

"That is a solid point, my lad." I nod, knowing they aren't going to reshoot that bit because of one detail. But Caleb notices things like that: like when an actor lights a cigarette twice, or if the drink glass on the table is moved even though no one has touched it. Those are all things, moves, that happen in between takes. Some get used, some don't. All are choices made in the editing bay and actors have no control over it.

We finally get our turn at the food trucks window. "Now, what do you want to eat?"

Caleb goes Italian, ordering Chicken Parmesan while I go Greek, eating light with roasted garlic hummus and pita bread, carrots and feta cheese stuffed olives. I should stay away from the salty food—all the sweating combined with the makeup they've got me in, my skin is looking like shit. But I rarely do as I should.

I've barely eaten my second baby carrot when my phone vibrates from my pocket, alerting me that I've received a text message. Setting my phone on the table, I pop an olive into my mouth and offer to help Caleb slice up his chicken breast. The flatware is all plastic and though the chicken is tender, he's having trouble holding the piece in place to saw off a bite.

He insists he's got it.

"Finger food, my boy. That is the way to go when they don't offer metal cutlery." Smiling at his independence, I eat another olive and a few carrots with hummus.

My phone goes off a second time. Lily is texting me again and I've got oil all over my fingers from the olives. Swiping the phone screen with my pinky, I tap the inbox icon and read:

—Found this on Instagram, posted by one of the fans you follow. Does she look familiar?

Scrolling down, I locate the image of a girl. Straight away, I know that she is a stranger, but Lily is right. There's something vaguely familiar about her. The picture isn't a snap shot. It's a portrait. The girl is posing, smiling, though it doesn't touch her eyes. She's standing up, leaning against a prop with her elbows on top. Her hands are folded together, tucked under her chin. She's wearing a white, long-sleeve top with lace trim around the cuff and collar. Her eyes are large and light. Possibly grey. Her hair hangs in billows that fall below her shoulder. It's neatly parted down the center, but still appears ruffled, as if there's too much of it. It's the kind of thick hair that women pay top dollar for. Overall, the portrait looks dated by at least twenty years. Maybe thirty.

Wiping my hands, I move onto Lilys' second message.

—Who does she look like?

I text her back:

—Enlighten me.

Instantly, she responds:

—Can't place her, huh?

This conversation is extremely irritating. I type back:

—How's Ethan? Have you heard from Noah?

While waiting for her reply, I work at clearing my plate. We've got to get back to work soon.

—Everyone is fine and dandy. Talked to Noah last night. Nigel has diarrhea. Ate a house plant while they were gone.  I miss that dog. As for the girl in the pic ...you'll figure it out.

Caleb is done with his chicken. Everyone is migrating back towards the soundstage and I'm not done eating. I slap the last of the hummus onto what's left of my pita bread and roll it up. One the way back to set, I take small quick bites, trying not to jostle my makeup.

* * *

After a long day of filming, I've got Caleb to occupy my time with plenty of card games and endless questions about phrases or terms he's picked up on set.

"What's a smash cut?"

I can tell by the crease marring his forehead that explaining what it is exactly won't do and so begin searching for good examples of the quick scene change from a list on my laptop. Netflix comes in handy when the best example I can think of surfaces in an episode of LOST.

After, watching and explaining the abrupt transition, Caleb decides to fall asleep before it's over.

* * *

As the days pass, Caleb proves that he doesn't need a caretaker beyond myself. When I'm stuck in front of the camera he's watching me, floating his advice—both usable and nonsense—my way. The crew finds his devotion and attention span peculiar and marvelous. As does his tutor, Mrs. Perry. She can't stop going on about his knack for referencing information and remembering details.

To me it's just the way Caleb is. He pursues all of his interests whether it's a simple card game, making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, or his school work, with everything he has. Fortunately for me he enjoys his schooling. If he endeavored to misbehave I would be in trouble. If I had to worry about him every second of the day as I do with his younger brother I'd probably go mad.

My grateful attitude is put to the test with a phone call. It comes while I'm in the makeup chair. My phone buzzes over the counter in front of me and I've got my head tilted back and up. I can't risk a move to look at the screen. I don't know where Blair or Xavier are at the moment, as they aren't in my periphery.

"Caleb, get my phone?" It's a mumble, trying not to move my lips.

Casey scowls in concentration from above. From the corner of my eye, I see Caleb hop down from the chair that he's been spinning in.

His voice comes from in front of me now. "Who is Marshall John?"

"That's John Marshall," I correct, raising one hand for my phone and the other to inform Casey that she needs to give me a moment.

"What is it John?" He only calls if it's major news. They must have something on the wall crawler from the other night. Or maybe the eerie phone call.

"A couple of things," he says. "First, I want you to know that everyone is fine."

Could a knife cut me open any more quickly? "What does that mean?"

"Lily got a letter."

That's all he says. That's all I get. _Everyone is fine. Lily got a letter._ "I need you to elaborate. A letter from whom?"

Here is where I notice Caleb watching me. He's gone stiff and quiet, probably noting the quick of my tone and obvious worry. I reach a hand out and rub his back. "Hold on a moment, John."

I look squarely at Caleb, setting the phone on my knee. "I don't want you getting upset. Nothing is wrong, mate. I have overreacted. Do you understand?"

He nods but doesn't relax.

"Caleb."

He gives a large, loud swallow that shows his nervousness. "What?"

"Everything is fine. I promise."

Casey, intuitive as ever, asks Caleb if he would like some ice cream, gesturing at the door of the trailer. He hesitates and she keeps on. "If you come with me to craft service we can see what flavors they have. Do you want any Dad?" She asks me and I read in her eyes a command to say _yes_ , so I agree.

I guess her logic is that if I'm eating ice cream, I must not be worried. Eating ice cream is fun. Right? So far as Caleb is concerned, anyway.

"Absolutely," I say, pouring on the enthusiasm. "Get me chocolate, if they've got it. With some sprinkles."

Caleb seems to unwind a bit at this and agrees to leave with Casey. Once they're out the door, I've got the phone back at my ear.

"Still there?"

"Yes, Mr. Matthews."

"Tell me everything."

After getting the rundown from John, it's time to call Lily. Part of me is upset that she or Marcus weren't the ones to phone me but I remind myself that she did the right thing. She called for reinforcements.

All I know so far is that there was no postmark on the letter. No return address. The writing on the envelope was from that of a printer. Inside the standard business size mass-produced white paper envelope, was a single page of an unremarkable white, standard size paper. On said paper, there was a message that consisted of five words. Typed.

Only the font is unusual. It's made to look like each letter was cut from a newspaper. So though the words are typed, it looks like one of those threatening letters you see in the movies.

I stare at the picture John has sent me. At the five words composed of fourteen letters that form an obvious threat:

Chapter 15

"Man is but a reed, the most feeble thing in nature, but he is a thinking reed." —Blaise Pascal

I can't shut my mind off.

Caleb is sound asleep and I'm just lying here—watching, listening to the sound of his breath, noting the time crawling past. It's been hours.

The same damned message as the phone call.

"I know who you are." The monotone voice said and I watched everyone laugh it off. I pretended, as well. I wanted them to be right when they said it was just a sick joke. Now they want to think that the letter came because of the phone call. The phone call during my radio interview was a joke. Now this letter ...is a copycat? Of the same sick joke?

I shut my eyes, staving off the shudder that has enveloped me.

I need help, Gracie. I don't know what to do. I don't know how to protect our boys. I don't know who to trust.

Reaching out, I take up my phone from the bedside table and open the picture folder. I often avoid looking at her pictures, especially the ones of us together, but right now I need it. I need to feel closer to her. Tapping the thumbnail of one of my favorite pictures of us I can look into her face and see her bright blue eyes and genuine smile as she started to laugh. Lily actually snapped this picture and sent it to me. It's from a day when we went out for sushi. Grace was sitting beside me. I can't, for the life of me, remember what we were talking about but I was trying to make her laugh—showing off my Rodin, The Thinker pose—and succeeded. She tossed her head back and let loose a great musical sound. Lily caught me with my chin down, peeking sideways at my girl and Grace with her eyes on me as well, sharing a beautiful grin that would build into the laughter that echoes in my mind whenever I look at this picture of us. This frozen moment of genuine happiness.

I tap the right side of the screen, moving on to other pictures. Most are candid shots of her. Ones I took when she wasn't looking. That was my favorite thing about her, the way she looked when she thought no one was watching. She was happy and silly. She was a terrible dancer. Gorgeous and graceful, yet without an ounce of rhythm. Still, she'd dance for no reason. Or skip across a room to kiss me even though I wasn't going anywhere. She'd touch me for no other reason except that I was within reach. From the second I saw her sitting alone in that bar I have been within her reach.

There's another picture of her standing by the sink in her kitchen. Her eyes are crossed, her tongue sticking out. "Stop taking my picture!" She'd whined, and then made a face when I snapped it anyway. I stare at her bright red hair and full mouth remembering how I kissed her after.

The next picture to come up is the one of Grace sitting with Noah on her old blue couch. His face is younger, plumper. His eyes less dull than they are now. The next picture is Grace and me, my arm slipped over her shoulders as she leans into me. I took this one of us.

Scrolling through image after image, moving slower through them as a sleepy feeling warms over me; I come across the picture that Lily sent. The portrait of the young girl.

Her light eyes. That strong chin. The shape of her mouth . . .

Before I realize what I'm doing, the line is ringing. It's too late to call even though California is a few hours behind.

"Hello?" Lily croaks.

"Does she look like me?" I can't believe how desperate I sound, but I have to know what she meant. I have only ever seen one other person that looks like me and that is my biological son, Ethan.

"Evan? What are you talking about?"

"The girl in the Instagram picture you sent me. Were you implying that she looks like me?"

There were no pictures of Elizabeth Poynter included in the file of information that my private investigator sent. Of course he was working with limited resources at the time, as was I. And what he was able to dig up about my birth parents was damning enough that I didn't care to know anything beyond the initial information he provided. The indication that my conception was the by-product of a rape between my natural mother and her husband, Jeffrey Poynter, was too devastating to see beyond.

And being adopted by Sylvia and Harold Matthews changed my life. I told myself that it didn't matter where I came from. Even if Harold changed his mind about me and left us, Sylvia, my mother, she loved me enough for all of them. That is what I told myself. And I never shared the information of my past with anyone except Grace.

Lily is fighting her way through a yawn while I wait for her response. Finally, she says, "Evan, it's no big deal. I saw it and thought it was cute that she looked like you. That's all. Can I go back to sleep now?"

She doesn't know. Grace would never have told her. Not without asking me first. That is why she sounds confused and I sound like a madman, making mid-night inquiries.

"Yeah. Sorry to wake you. Goodnight." I say this knowing damned well I won't be getting a wink tonight or any night in the foreseeable future. Not so long as this dread hangs over me, not so long as the one who wrote that letter, who made that phone call, who tried to climb the wall that protects my family is still out there.

My mother was named Sylvia Matthews and I looked nothing like her.

She and my delinquent father, Harold, adopted me. She worked as a cleaning woman in a posh district in London. She barely earned enough money to support us, but she indulged my interest in the theatre. She spent all of her money on me. She got me into the best programs and theatre groups in our area that would encourage my chosen profession. She was convinced I had a gift and I promised her that I would buy her a house and take care of her after I became rich and famous.

Looking back, when I turned sixteen, I should have noticed the signs. There was a period of time when she was constantly tired and losing weight. She attributed the feeling to being overworked.

I didn't know she was sick until I saw her coughing up the blood. The doctor told us the cancer had already spread from her pancreas into her stomach, and was already staking its' claim in her lungs as well. There was nothing he could do.

It was horrifying how quickly she withered away. Once she knew she had it, she gave up. In only a few weeks she went from the lovely, energetic woman I knew to a perpetually vomiting, gaunt shell of a person with a poor imitation my mothers' frail face.

Agents came to hospital while she was waiting to die. They gave her their recommendations about what to do with me. She never answered, only shook her head to disagree with their plans. She was also an only child and I had not seen or heard from my father since I was five.

I stayed at home while she was in hospital. Marcus' parents let him stay over with me on the nights I refused to stay at their house. I was old enough to know what was going to happen. They weren't going to let me stay in my home and there was nowhere else for me to go.

That was when I learned that growing up doesn't happen every day. Maybe physically it does, but emotionally, it happens in moments. In the midst of tribulations. The bigger the travesty, the more painful the growing pains.

With startling certainty I recall the violent thrust from my youth into adulthood. It happened one night when Marcus stayed over.

My mum was at hospital fighting that losing battle as I shared my fears with my best friend. We conjured up the idea of running off to America. He was already eighteen and we had planned on doing it anyway, once I was of age.

The way things were going it seemed the dreams we made were dying along with my mother. She had invested so much of her money and time into my future. She was so sure I would succeed. I couldn't piss her dreams away just because she wasn't going to be around long enough to see them realized. I owed her more than that. I owed her everything. I had to make her dreams for me come true. It was the only way I could see to pay a proper tribute to all her sacrifices.

Everything in my life had gone to shit so quickly, the only solution I could stomach was going away. So Marcus and I planned our departure, but means to pay for our plane tickets was a real problem. They'd cost much more than he or I had in our meager savings.

We'd started going through every room in my house. It was all going to charity after she was gone anyway. We searched the closets, the cupboards, pockets, drawers, the jewelry box, looking for anything of value that we could sell. We needed enough for the tickets and pocket money to last until we could find work.

While digging through my mother's closet, I came upon a shoe box buried deep in the back of the very top shelf. It was too heavy to be holding shoes so I dusted off the top and opened it. There were several bundles of unopened letters addressed to my mum. I wondered why she kept them if she wasn't going to read them. I put them aside without a second glance. The other loose items in the bottom held more interest to me. There was an old gold pocket watch, I took that, planning a trip to the pawn shop.

Below that, a large paper with a detailed border caught my eye. I pulled it out and saw that it was a birth record. I assumed it was mine, being an only child and the date of birth was the same as my own.

Suspicion flashed and filled me with dread. I decided not to read it just then, and so folded the paper and tucked it away in my pocket. I wasn't sure what I found or what I was doing, I only knew that I didn't want to tell Marcus.

I'd wait until the next day, when I was to visit my mother to question her about the document. I hoped maybe it wasn't mine. The parents' names weren't Harold or Sylvia, after all. In some far away part of my brain I imagined it belonged to whomever lived in the flat before us. But the birth date ...The only logical explanation was that I had been adopted. I think on some level, I suspected it all along.

When Marcus left that night, I started reading. Anger and resentment rose within me with pass of the page. I held it in, determined to save it until I saw her. I felt cheated and lied to. I was going to unleash it all; tell her exactly what she could do with her apology once I got it.

That night, I went bananas replaying all the times I had asked my parents about the obvious differences in our appearances. Memories of me at the dinner table asking why I didn't look like her or my father filled my mind (not that I clearly remember what he looked like). It was plain to me that I didn't resemble anyone I knew; a fact that was routinely rejected when I mentioned it.

Mum said I was lucky to be so handsome, that I got all the good genes. "Good looks skip a generation in my family." When I didn't accept that, she'd say, "Someone had to get the handsome gene. Should be glad it was you." And then pat me on the head. I'd be left to comparing our differences—how much thinner I was than my parents, how my hands were longer and my ears smaller and more round, the way I had hazel eyes while theirs were brown—in silence.

That night though, I put it out of my mind because I was sure that if it were true, that if I was adopted, that my mum would have told me. I trusted her. She'd always taught me to tell the truth and I was punished when I was caught fibbing.

Here I found out, not only was she leaving me all alone in the world, but she had been lying to me my whole life?

I was furious all that night, waiting to speak with her. I still am, sometimes, if I think about it too much. It helps to remember that she was trying to do the right thing. She was trying to protect me.

All my devices, my rage, my reasoning's and furious plans melted away when I entered her hospital room early the next morning. Vanished like water down a drainpipe.

She'd looked so much worse than they day before.

I sat on the edge of her bed in the warm, pale room and stared. I told her I loved her and she worked up an awful smile. Her face was drawn and distorted. It was not the face of the mother who me read bedtime stories or took me to the ice cream shop on Saturday afternoons after I got beaten up. That face was gone. Her shriveled body was barely visible in to the folds of the blanket tucked around her tiny frame.

I gathered my courage and took the paper from my pocket. I held it up where she could see the words and asked the most important question.

"Is this me?" There was no animosity like I wanted, only traitor tears pouring down my pubescent cheeks.

With a great effort, Mum nodded once. _Yes._ It was all she could do and that was all it took to destroy my world.

The revelation knowledge left me staggered. The big question had been answered, but other more prominent ones were developing. The only family I had ever known wasn't even mine and I needed so badly to have a real conversation with her. To know the answers that eluded me from then until now. All I had were my speculations. All I would ever have: _Why didn't she tell me? Who did I belong to?_

"Did you love me ...like your own?" I wiped my eyes and prayed for her to answer. Those prayers were met with stagnant silence as my mother's eyes widened and shrank.

But then ...she shook her head. _Yes._

It'd taken all her energy to give that simple acknowledgement and in that act I figured that she must have been afraid. Perhaps she thought I would resent her. Maybe she never intended for me to know, but when I came in asking that dreadful question, she was cornered.

I like to think she'd always planned to tell me when I was old enough to understand. But maybe she became afraid later on as I did exhibit a tendency towards insecurity. I had to believe her. I had nothing else but the small move of her head that said, _"Yes, I do love you like my own."_

I planned to find my birth mother as soon as I turned eighteen, if I had the money. I didn't have it then, but I did when I was twenty. Marcus and I went back to London for a weeklong holiday. I rented a room while he visited with his parents.

Within the confines of that narrow window, I didn't find my birth mother but I did manage to find a guy who specialized in that sort of thing. I hired him to work on my behalf before heading back to the States.

He sent me a file a few months after I got back.

Chapter 16

"There is no fate that cannot be surmounted by scorn." —Albert Camus

There is so much going on and Noah still hasn't called me back.

John got the background information on January that I requested, but I don't want to delve into it without talking to Noah first, not with things between us being so shaky. Besides most of my serious worries were put to rest by John, as he said she has some skeletons like we all do, but overall she seems harmless. And he's got a security detail on Noah and January as well. So that gives me the confidence to wait.

Marcus never did make it up here. First there was some issue with the band he's been working with, and then he and Lily were too busy boinking like bunnies. They're trying to start their own family as I am barely keeping mine together. I haven't the heart to take Marcus away from her right now.

I need to sort out my own problems.

Speaking of, it has been three days since the letter arrived and two since I tripled security on all of us. We are surrounded. There isn't a space, direction, dark corner, that I can look in without finding a member of John's security team.

We are swathed in layer upon layer of protection yet I feel more vulnerable than ever. I have no answers about the would-be intruder, the creepy caller, the letter—

"Cut!" Harrison cries. "Rhys, what is the problem?"

"Sorry." I shake my head. That's the third time I've missed my cue.

My character in this scene is having a moment of clarity, realizing that he is dying, that his life is, in fact, over. But he's also in the middle of a disagreement with his granddaughter, played by Zoey. He's supposed to be angry yet introspective. Quiet and then lashing out. I am supposed to interrupt her complaining when the opening is there, when it feels right. This man is dying and he is pissed. On his way into diving headlong into the despair of acceptance.

"Reflect a moment," Harrison directs. "Rhys, this guy is listening to his teenage granddaughter tell him that his dying is the easy side of this situation. He has fucking cancer crawling through his lungs, infecting every breath he labors to take. And this kid—" he points to Zoey, radiating the indignation that I am striving for, "She thinks she has the harder job. That living and breathing unencumbered in her youth is the hard part. That is bullshit." Harrison points to me. "Call her on it."

It is bullshit. Utter bullshit.

* * *

Despite the distractions, my part of filming finishes on schedule. There's a wrap party next week for all of cast and crew. I have been asked to attend, but right now I've got to get back home.

After Eric receives our flight confirmation, Caleb and I head for the airport. Drew is driving the seven passenger van with an extra man in front and a car behind. I think the new guy's name is Kevin, but I wouldn't swear to it.

We land at LAX and are picked up by another car, this one is being driven by another new guy, a tall, bulky fella with a flat top and a sharp grey suit. He introduces himself as Dean when I approach. I thank Dean for the last minute fill-in, as I felt quite generous on the flight home and messaged Drew that since I am off, he should be as well. John then arranged another driver and secure escort. So, for the next week Dean will be standing around.

"Noahs' birthday party is tomorrow." Caleb chirps and I can feel his excitement. We've basically ignored Thanksgiving since I was working and neither Lily nor Marcus can cook. I simply don't get the commercialism of the Holiday. The start of the Christmas shopping season is a day marked to give thanks? By overeating? And Turkey? Honestly, could you choose a drier bird? Gratitude equals turkey coma: it makes no damn sense.

Neither here nor there, really. All it means is that I've decided to make up for my blatant lack of fat American gratitude by giving Noah a giant birthday party that he hasn't asked for. I hired the same company that did Calebs party and Lily has invited some of Noahs' high school friends as well as every living relative.

"Will you take me to get him a present?"

I have to hide the relief when I see that Caleb is talking to Marcus, who was waiting in the car when we climbed inside. My boy has been glued to my side for the past two weeks and I'd like a minute alone. Not that the house won't be crawling with guests, but not until tomorrow.

Noah is turning nineteen. Ronnie and his brood are coming. So that's three kids, the wife, and his Aunt.

I personally called Graces' aunt Rose and begged her to come. She lives with Graces' older brother, Ronnie, so I sent him to a doctor in Kansas City to get tranquilizers for his dear old aunt. I met her once before when I flew out to KC to let the kids visit with their cousins last year. Aunt Rose is a sweet old woman, but not at all like I expected her to be. She drinks and smokes. She curses. A lot. She's careful to watch her mouth around the kids, though. She's a riot.

I wonder briefly if she and Maria get along and remind myself to ask Lily.

* * *

It is party day and Ronnie's wife, Daphne, won't stop mooning over me. I swear she's worse than her fifteen year-old daughter.

It's not like she's flirting, but she's got that mushy-eyed look every time she turns my way. She's a little too enthusiastic in speaking with me, a little too keen to agree with everything I say. I don't think she's aware of it, but I am—more so, because home is supposed to be a sanctuary from this type of thing. I know Ronnie sees it as well. Each time his wife stands a little too close or pats my arm when she says something to me, Ronnie looks at me with this gleam in his eye. He told me the first time I was introduced that she was a fan (his daughter and two sons, thankfully are not). That's one of the reasons he was so keen to take the Oscar back home. I think he wants me to charm her, give her something appropriate to smile about, so I make sure to stand between her and her husband when the family photos are taken. But beyond that, I don't really feel like being charming.

Aunt Rose and Maria actually do get along. It might be due to Maria's newfound sainthood where Grace is concerned. Each time she comes up in conversation—with those two it's every other minute—they both fawn and Maria embellishes. It's the same way she speaks of her son, Solomon. So, the boys are gathered around them, listening and sharing memories of the life they once had. Getting their cheeks pinched every five minutes.

I don't know what it is about Aunt Rose but the woman has Ethan down for the count in less than five minutes of holding him. His chubby legs are sprawled over her lap, his sweaty little head—he gets that from me; all the hair and the sleep sweating—is in the nook of her elbow. As she engages in conversation with her grand-niece and nephews, she rubs his temples.

I've offered to put him to bed several times—the boy gets heavy after awhile—but she won't have it. I can't blame her. The weight of a loved one is no weight at all.

I've got to get some fresh air. I'm used to crowds, and still the house has too many people in it.

Taking a seat on the stone bench, I watch Noah chat with a group of his friends. Some of them are smoking, flicking the ashes into the late November breeze. A fag sounds good right about now, but I have given that up, as well.

Noah has been constantly holding onto January since they arrived. He was holding her hand when they walked in this morning. He didn't let go when we sat down to breakfast. She seemed to love it. I've caught January smiling to herself more than once.

"Did you sleep last night?" Lily sidles up to me, passing a short glass of soda water with lime.

She's caught me in the middle of a yawn, so I shake my head. "Too much on my mind. How are you doing? Make any babies yet?" We arrived last night, but she was ovulating and we've both been busy today.

Lily saws her bottom lip with her teeth and chuckles. "Eh, that may take a while. I used the Depo shot." She sighs, adding, "That's normal," before I have the chance to ask.

"Where'd they meet, again?" Daphne asks after seeming to appear from nowhere. It's like I blink and then she's beside me, looking past me at Lily and gesturing to Noah and his girl.

"They work together." Lily nods, a nervous tick of hers, Marcus tells me. I never noticed it before, the woman oozes self-assuredness.

"Oh, that's right. She is just a doll. So beautiful, too. They make a handsome couple. How long have they been dating?" Here, Daphne looks to me with wide, gooey eyes; the strawberry colored waves of her shoulder length hair bouncing

I shrug, ready to answer that I'm not sure, exactly, but reasoning that if they met through Noahs' job, they couldn't have been involved before August. That's when he left home to begin classes at Berkley.

This gives me pause.

"Nearly three months." Lily answers, and then gasps, "Oh, Daphne, I just remembered I wanted to show you the wallpaper samples I picked up the other day for my dining room."

"I didn't know you were redecorating," Daphne responds, utterly enthused. Her green eyes are all alight because that is her forte. She is an interior designer.

"I didn't know Lily was redecorating, either." I say to no one in particular.

My brain feels cloudy; whatever information its' trying to absorb, it can't find a context. It's like an old, dusty library of strewn reference material up there. The rows of card catalogues that should be neatly tucked into drawers and organized by subject have all been yanked out and tossed—information ransacked—strewn about the tables and floor.

Almost three months; that means something. Noah and January met through his work, barely three months ago.

Trailing after Lily, I catch her by the elbow before she makes it through the adjoining gate. "Dearest sister-in-law, a word please?" By expression, I know Lily hears the strain in my voice though my face gives nothing away.

Lily looks at me and gives a small, nearly imperceptible nod. Back to Ronnie's wife she says, "Daphne, you go ahead. The samples are on the table. I'll be there in a sec."

The moment she turns back to me, I give her the most practiced, most relaxed air I can manage. "I just realized, I never asked Noah when the baby is due."

Lily's forehead creases with concern. Too much concern.

So I offer more information. Some that's true, yet hardly relevant at the moment. "I've bought Noah a ten day Hawaiian vacation for his birthday, but I need to make sure that the dates are okay for January to travel." I sound very calm and clueless.

Lily must think so as well, because the line cutting down her forehead relaxes. "So long as the trip is in the next two months, it should be okay." Then she's nodding again, that tiny little tell that says she is concerned. "You should probably talk to Noah. He's the one who knows." Thoughtful pause. "Since he's going to be a doctor and all."

Her tone is so innocuous. Bland, almost. It sounds as if she's speaking in some sort of code. But she pats my arm and walks through the gate to join Daphne in ogling wallpaper samples.

I take my phone from my pocket, open Google, and type my question into the search engine: how long does it take for a womans pregnant belly to show?

The results are varied and instantaneous. The overriding facts seem that every woman carries a baby differently but a baby bump reveals itself usually around the four month mark. At three months, the abdomen should feel firm, and the woman might not feel comfortable lying on her stomach. But actually seeing the defined roundness that gives way her impending delivery happens around four months, sometimes as late as six. It all depends upon the individual womans body.

Not five minutes pass before I've peeled Noah away from January and have us both sequestered inside the conference room. The master bedroom.

"How far along is she? What's her due date?" I'm asking the second the bedroom door clicks shut.

Noah—who waltzed into the center of the room as if he'd been expecting this call back—slowly turns to face me.

Was he expecting this?

"So you've finally done the math."

Talk about knocking the wind from my sails. The anger that had me charging in here has evaporated. And I am shocked. Utterly fucking shocked. "It's not your baby."

His arms cross defensively. "No."

"And you knew it."

He looks near me, his gaze shooting left, to the security monitors in the corner behind me. "Yeah, I knew."

"This whole time? But last time you came home and I asked you—"

"You never asked. You assumed. I just played along."

"Of course I assumed, Noah! Why would it ever cross my mind that your girlfriend is pregnant by another man? That is absolutely absurd and you know it." My hands are tearing through my hair, looking for some semblance of reason to hold to and coming up empty.

"I had a shot at getting to you and I took it."

It's as if I've been struck. His admission is a physical blow that makes me stumble back. "You let me ...let me worry over you. For weeks." Let me think he was having a baby with a girl he barely knew.

I think of how Noah looked at me that day, all those weeks ago, as we stood in this very room. He got in my face. Twice. Looking as if he wished for the nerve to strike me. As if waiting for me to give him the excuse.

Was he counting on me flying off the handle? Is he still?

Why would he do that? Not just to me, but to his family, to himself? This girl is trapping him and he is letting her.

"Does your aunt know?" I have to ask. Lily is the fucking inspector general in this troupe and rarely does anything get past her. I didn't realize how much I've come to count on her in that regard.

"I think she suspects. But I think she also knows that it doesn't matter to me. I'm with Jan."

He is with January. Who is having a child. One that is not his.

"You lied." I can't even work up the urge to get angry. This should piss me right off. I am just so ...disillusioned. Devastated, really.

How much does he hate me that he would lead me to believe something like this? There is no other explanation. Noah meant what he said the last time he came home. He blames me for everything that happened with his mother and I blame myself, as well. But I can't really ask him to change his mind about my being a part of his family. I'm here. I'm father to his brothers and there is no stepping away from that. He has to know this.

That's got to be his reasoning. He hates me and he's trying to make me hate him. It's easier to hold onto disdain when it's answered with contempt.

Noah steps closer to me, holding his hands out. "It was wrong, okay? I know I should have said something. I was going to, but you wouldn't have listened."

"Because you wouldn't give me the chance."

"Because you were being impossible, like always."

Impossible: that is me. Every day of the week. I take what needs fixing and do my damndest to make it right. But it seems that everything I do, everything I touch is rendered unfixable. Like I am what breaks them—what makes them impossible.

"Yes." I tip my head toward Noah, offering a little bow. "You may be right, Noah. I'll do my part and bugger off, then."

On the other side of the bedroom door, I go left down the hall instead of right, into the living area. I can't go back into that party. Inside the garage, I am grateful to find the car keys are still on the hook inside the utility cabinet. I slip into the soft leather seat of the Caprice I bought at auction last year.

The driveway has been left clear of cars for security reasons. Most of the visitors' vehicles are parked around the back, along the second driveway that runs the length of the property. That way the guests don't have to walk so far to their cars and it's no trouble for me to leave.

I'm on Highway-10, coming up on the junction for the State Route-1, when my phone rings.

The steady voice of my best mate fills the car. "Where are you, Ev? We're gathering to sing Happy Birthday."

"Marcus. I had to step away for a moment."

There's a long pause before he asks. "When will you be back?"

"After Noah is gone."

I hear his breath as he sighs. "Where you off to?"

"Just driving. For now."

The background noise of the party has cut off and I suspect Marcus has closed himself into a more private space. "You and Noah had words, then?"

"Of a sort."

"I knew it. I've a very keen sense about these things." Maybe he's trying to lighten the mood, but his next words are dark. "He asked Lily for a talk a bit ago and after, she was crying. I tried talking with her, but you know how she gets."

I do know. Grace was the one she sought out to chew over a problem with. "She always lets you in, Marcus. Give her time."

"I know, Ev. I do. It just seems every time we make progress, something comes up and takes us down a peg, or two. Or three. Then the Holidays come and we're all reminded of who's not here. My mum is having a tough go of it as well. I'm having her out for Christmas. She just can't do it without my dad and I hate to think of her so far off, all by herself."

"That's a good idea."

"Then there's right now. Me wife's in tears, Ev, and you've gone off somewhere. All I'm getting from you is that remote piety you hand out to fans. While I need to know what the hell is going on."

"It's not his baby." The words sound far away as I am cloaked in numbness that supplants the pressure building in my chest and pushing into my throat. "He knew all along. He let us believe—"

Marcus scoffs, muttering a litany of curses. "That's it, is it? I never would have thought this. Lily loves that January and she does seem sweet and timid. But the way Noahs' been on, I've got to wonder what the bleedin' hell that girl has done to him."

"I don't know. But I intend to find out." The blue-green pacific opens up on the right as the road twists along the coastline. It's one of the most beautiful stretches of pavement in the U.S. and I can't soak it in.

"Could you make sure Noah gets my present? I left it in an envelope on the chest of drawers in the bedroom."

"Sure thing, Ev."

"Marcus?"

"Yeah?"

"It will get better. Won't it?"

"We just need to find some balance, again. All of us. It's the only thing to remind us how foolish we are, that we don't have to be slaves to our situations, Ev."

After a quick goodbye, I lose myself to the road, rolling down the window and cranking up the stereo. The cliffs and rocky shoreline break way to sandy beaches and signs to watch for crossing pedestrians.

This is what we've come to, Noah? The verbal equivalent of ringing a doorbell and running away?

At some point, I must have turned around, because I find myself passing back through the Palisades. And then I'm passing over the lane that leads to my beach house. I hadn't even thought of coming here, but here I am, parking on the cobblestone driveway.

Chapter 17

"Memory is deceptive because it is colored by today's events." —Albert Einstein

_I should sell it,_ I think as I get out of the car, taking in the tropical plants that line the driveway and obscure the wall that encloses my beach front home.

I've been playing with the idea for some time now. I mean, I never come here anymore and even when I do, having the little ones so near open water is distressing. Really what is the point in keeping a four-thousand square foot palace when it feels like a dungeon?

The Cape Cop style house has four bedrooms, five baths and I'm the only one to ever sleep here. One guy, with one ass in a place with five toilets and six showers.

When I met Grace I was already looking into buying a house, but I was searching in Calabasas. Right after we met, I decided on buying in the Palisades, nearer to her. This house was supposed to be a place for us to come as a family and enjoy the private beach. And my plans changed, as they often do.

The weather warmed up, my relationship cooled. I moved in alone. Each day consisted of drinking until I pissed myself or threw up, and then I drank some more. Religiously drank myself into oblivion because the only way could survive without her was to pretend we'd never met.

Walking up the path to the front door, I remember the burn of icy water as it filled my lungs, the black walls that pushed me under, the blinding terror upon realizing I was about to die.

There's not a single happy memory in this place because she was never here. Gracie never set foot on the cobblestone driveway or touched the brass door handle. She never walked over the marble entry. Never stood on the long deck and watched the sunset with me or swam in the infinity pool.

But even in my darkest moments, even when I was treading water lost in the night sea, wishing for the courage to let myself give up; all those moments are still better than the ones I've been stuck inside for the past two years. Lost in this perpetual mourning, this never ending November.

The time I spent with and without her between those Octobers, even though I was miserable for most of it, there was still hope. The hope of a future with her. She was alive and it never crossed my mind that she wouldn't be. Never a thought, or even the consideration of a thought that her time would end so suddenly, that I would never find a way to be by her side because when I set my mind on something, I don't stop until it's mine. Hope is all I've ever needed to keep going.

"You can't sell it." Turning towards the voice interrupting my ruminations, I see Harry, the neighbour. Well he's the caretaker of a neighbouring property but he checks in on my place as well.

I relax in the presence of my acquaintance. Or friend, perhaps? He feels like a friend and has always held a calming, avuncular-type presence.

"Harry," I call out swinging around from the ocean view in the living room to greet him.

"How goes it?" Harry asks and I catch the slight air of cockney in his words. He once told me that he was originally from London. A black Irish ruffian, he is, with his inky hair and bright blue eyes. He's very near my height, but has lost most of his mop to age. His accent was stolen years of American culture.

"It goes." Harry pats my back as I stuff my hands into the pouch of my sweatshirt.

"Academy Award-winning actor has nothing to talk about?" His eyes twinkle, his mouth pulls into that puckish grin of his.

"Not much to tell." Infectious as his smiles usually are, right now I'm immune. I sigh and Harry nods knowingly.

When I used to stay here, we'd often talk about Grace, about my problems with her. Not all of them but more than I discussed with most people. More than once he pulled me from the sandy beach out back and up onto the deck after I'd passed out.

After a stretch of silence, I offer him a drink. He declines, then pointing to the front window at the bare white post and asks, "You're selling?"

It sounds like an accusation, or maybe it just feels that way. "I don't know," I answer honestly. "I was going to. I think I should but then I came in just now..."

"And ...what?"

"Don't know if I should let go."

"Of the house?"

_Yes, the house,_ I want to say, but, "I don't know."

He sets a small paper bag on the kitchen island. "Hungry?"

I walk around the kitchen, open a cupboard and take out two plates. "Just like old times."

"Except for the whiskey," Harry mutters, glancing at the whiskey bottles over on the credenza.

I haven't tossed them out. Harry knows I'm supposed to be dry. Only people who want to be tempted would leave that shit lying about. How I detest those bottles of brown liquid, loathe the way they sing my name.

As Harry portions out the Italian food he's brought, I stare out the massive windows at the unending sea.

I cannot count the number of times I've wished to be able to drop everything. Forget it all and go back to England. To simply pack it in, pretend like the last three years—shit, the last ten—never happened. Go back and build a smaller, simpler life.

No Grace. No heartache.

But then I think of Noah, how he thinks he's all alone, fighting the world all by himself. Then Caleb, floating along, trying his best to fit into my world if only to feel like he has a place. And then my little Ethan. He's the one soul who seems untouched by all of this tragedy, yet touched all the same. It breaks me to think of how he doesn't know her—that he never will.

I could never leave. Not without them.

Its better I fight. Maybe...

"What's got you so quiet?"

"Sometimes I think it would be easier to walk away." The setting sun streaks the horizon with pinks and blues. I focus on the blue, waiting for Harry to scold me.

"It is easier." Harry surprises me. "But it catches up with you."

Looking at him, I mean to ask for more but don't know how. I just want him to elaborate.

"No security with you today?"

I shake my head. "I left them at home." Never mind the fact that my phone has been blowing up since I cut-out. Dean called three times, then Drew started. I'm not supposed to take-off without a guard. Those are my rules and I'm breaking them.

Harrys' eyes are glassy as he clears his throat. "I used to be married, you know. Before I ruined it, I had a lovely family."

I recall his mentioning this before. Just one or two vague references about a wife he lost a long time ago. It was never any more than a passing reference, one that left no space for questions.

"What happened?"

He wipes a hand down his face and for some reason I find this gesture comforting. "I did what I always did back then. Took a shite on everything I loved and left."

Harry shakes his head in plain disgust, now staring at the walnut planks of the floor. Such a prolonged pause follows, I'm half-wondering if I should change the subject, but then he goes on.

"I married this beautiful girl. Too good for me, she was. I was poor when I asked for her hand, but she was content to struggle at my side. We thought it would get better, but it never did. There was never enough; we were always battling to keep the lights on, the flat warm. We'd fight about it sometimes."

He raises his open hands, looking at me as he explains. "Money is one of those tricky things, as you know. When you haven't got any, you think getting some will solve all your problems. It does help the most basic ones, but it creates others as well; the types that come with having excess. But I was blind and I wanted, more than anything, to have more of that thing that would make my life easier.

"I had at least two jobs through twenties and thirties. I drove a black cab, packed groceries, sold newspapers, any job I could find. Then, I was working at this pub down the lane from our flat. The pub was what I preferred. It paid more. Of course, so much time working meant less time at home. Before long, one of the girls there caught my eye. She waited the tables and was quite lovely, and kind-hearted. I used to watch out for her when the customers got rambunctious. We talked, Lizzy and I, you know, about our troubles. She was married as well, but that didn't matter to me.

"One night, I went in for a shift. I'd just gone a round with the missus. Lizzy was waiting with curious eyes. I told her all about how my wife was never satisfied.

"She wanted a baby. Bloody scared the life out of me. We'd talked about making a family, but it was always someday, you know. Far off."

"I know how that goes."

His eyes close as a pained expression works over his features. "I couldn't make her understand. We could hardly feed ourselves, and she was adamant about starting a family."

"It wasn't only about the money, was it?"

Harry opens his eyes, somberly admitting, "Truly, I wanted to have a baby with her, but we had nothing to offer one. And I was nowhere near ready to be a father."

I know the burden. I was well-loved but always wanting. Being so dreadfully poor ... it does something to you on the inside; mars a person in ways that no outsider could understand. In ways you don't see until you pass through, and then look back.

"I'm ashamed to say... after that we started up, Lizzy and me."

"And you left your wife?"

Harry shakes his head. "No, my relationship with Lizzy was just my way of sabotaging the baby conversation. She would never have left her husband, bastard though he was."

"So you carried on with them both."

He nods. "After about six months, Lizzy got pregnant."

It feels wrong, the way my hands get suddenly clammy and my ulcer flares—a painful prod in my gut. "Irony, eh."

"You've no idea. She was terrified of her husband. I mentioned he was a bastard. Well, he'd put his hands on her from time to time. She'd never admit anything, but I saw the signs. I begged her to leave him. I promised her that we could raise the child together."

He pauses, brings a hand to his mouth, covering his lips as if he can't bear to say anymore. I won't make him. Still, after a moment he drops his hand and continues.

"Liz refused me. Said the baby wasn't mine, and ended things between us. A week later, I quit that job and did my best to forget I ever met her. I was glad because even though I'd been unfaithful, I couldn't imagine leaving my wife."

"It really wasn't your baby?" This subject is hitting too close to home. _Damned Noah_. A nervous sweat breaks out all over my head.

"Here's where it gets tricky. See, after a while my conscious got the better of me. I went to the wife—that good, faithful woman—and told her everything; the affair and the baby." His voice cracks.

"Then, one day I come home from work and there the two were, Lizzy sitting on a chair beside my wife at our kitchen table. Having a tete a tete. Sipping tea.

"Her belly was high and round." Harry pauses, taking a deep breath and a long blink. "I'll never forget the way my wife looked at me. It was the strangest combination of hope and helplessness. She said, 'the baby is yours and Lizzy can't keep it.'

"Something in me knew—knew it in my bones that Lizzy was in trouble. So after much ado we decided that the missus would adopt the boy."

"Very forgiving woman, your wife." To want the son he fathered with a mistress? It was either that or desperation.

"She was, though I know if I hadn't told her about the affair first-hand, our marriage would have ended that day."

"So you adopted her son?" I ask.

Harry corrects, "My wife adopted my son." His eyes cloud over. "The boys' mother though ... I don't know if it was hormones or genuine depression but s-she hung herself just after he was born. Very sudden, you know. We hadn't expected that."

I haven't smoked in nearly six months, but right now, I'd literally wrestle a lion for a drag.

"Her husband was in jail at the time. One day when he went at her, someone finally called the police. They found him beating her and put him away, well before the baby was born."

A tingle burns down my spine. The story bears too strong a resemblance to mine; the only person I ever told it to was Gracie.

In Harrys' situation he is the father, but in mine I was the unexpected child. There is one other important distinction, which has my stomach churning. The child in my story was conceived by rape and later given up for adoption because my biological mother couldn't tolerate the reminder of what was done to her. I was taken in by a poor couple and then abandoned by that second chance father at the impressionable age of five. If it weren't for the strength of my mother, Sylvia, and her unyielding love and devotion to me, I wouldn't have survived.

"Losing her was unexpectedly painful." Harry says and I feel a bit guilty that I forgot for a moment that we were still having this conversation. "Our boy looked exactly like her. As if Lizzy were the one and only parentage. So my boy grew up not knowing anyone who looked like him."

"Where is he now? Your son?"

Harry looks from me to the untouched plates on the counter and back. "He's around."

"Here, in America?" That surprises me.

Harry moves from foot to foot. "Yeah. I came here looking for him."

"Looking? So you didn't know where he was?"

Harry shakes his head. "He came by himself and I came after him. That was my biggest mistake, you know, not keeping up with him. But I was weak. I left my wife over the guilt of what happened to Lizzy. I couldn't stand looking into my boys face—his mums face. I took the easy path, as always. Left'em both."

A chill has crept into the room and settled over me.

"I regret it more with each day that passes."

The heater is humming and there's sweat on my brow. Still, the air is frigid.

There's a question weighing on my mind. In the three years I've known Harry, he's made references but never used any names. I'm compelled to ask about the omissions, especially now. Through this whole conversation, with all the intimate detail, he's only named his dead girlfriend. "What did you say your wife's name was?

Harry's eyes gloss over, taking the likeness glass marbles. Fearful orbs soaked in too much lacquer.

"My wife was called Sylvia. Sylvia Matthews.

Chapter 18

"To endure is the first thing that a child ought to learn" —Jean Jaques Rousseau

Back home in Essex, my mother worked at a cleaning service that served posh families in and around London. Add to that the side jobs she took over the weekends doing any task that she could, and I needn't explain how much time I spent on my own.

There was an elderly woman, a Mrs. Martin, who would sometimes ask my mother to run her errands. She paid well, too. Mrs. Martin was widowed, and most of her family lived in France, where she was from. One day Mrs. Martin called our flat looking for my mother who was already out for the day at her regular job. This happened from time to time, when anyone rang requesting my mother, it was my job to take her messages.

Mrs. Martins' request was one that could not wait. She needed someone to pick up her garments from the cleaners. There was a particular pants suit she wanted for an engagement late that same afternoon. Since my mother would be working well into the evening, and since Mrs. Martin was known for paying so well, I offered my services.

"What time do you expect her, precious boy?" Mrs. Martins' soft tone came through the phone line. It was that endearment, "precious boy," that made me want to help her.

"This evening ma'am, in time for supper." Mum was hardly ever home that early, but I didn't want Mrs. Martin to think poorly of my mother even though I ate alone most days.

"Oh, that's too bad." Mrs. Martin answered. "That's too late, I'm afraid."

"I could do it for you, ma'am, if you are in desperate need."

"I suppose I am a bit desperate," she said, and then passed the pertinent information.

I biked over to the cleaners and they gave me her package with her laundered linen suit, and I took it straight to her.

She paid me with a ten pound note, even though it only took about twenty minutes from pick up to delivery. Pride swelled within me. Ten pounds was a lot, and for such a small task. I held the bill in my hand, making plans for how I was going to use it. Before I reached the end of the block, I'd spent it fifty times.

Round the corner from Mrs. Martins place, I came upon a group of boys from the private school. Well-bred brats, they were. The type I made a point in avoiding. The ones that made me feel like the deer to their hunter. Each one of them was a crack shot.

They beat me, took my ten-pound note and tore it, tossed the pieces into the street, then ran off with my bike.

The reason the incident comes to mind right now ... I'm not sure, but I remember it so clearly over all the other times I was teased and tormented because of the absolute cruelty, for nothing more than sport. Those boys didn't want my bike or my money.

They wanted to leave me with nothing, and succeeded spectacularly.

Since that day, that feeling of powerlessness, of insolvency, has stuck with me. It was there when I found the records that said I was adopted. It was there when my mother told me she had cancer. It grew in size and strength as I watched her slip away. When she took her last aching breath, it swallowed me whole.

I tried to run from it, from that hospital, from England straight to America.

It went away for a while when I got my first leading role and shrank a little more with my first magazine cover. Eventually it became so small that I started to think it was gone altogether.

Then I met Gretchen Bakker. She was such a powerhouse, performance wise, and I wanted to be connected to that confidence. I wanted to share in it, but as I got to know her I was only disappointed. All her bravado was just that. In fact, she seemed to be the one feeding off me. By the time we were over, that plague, that fear of never being good enough was back at me, full force.

Then came Gracie. She showed me truths about myself that I had never known: that I let others place a value on me, that I was more than what people said about me. She said I underestimated myself. She gave value to the private spaces inside me, the ones I was sure were never worth showing. She was so good and kind and she knew me better than anyone.

That's why it hurt so much when she pushed me away—when she couldn't believe that I didn't cheat on her. It felt as if she had taken a deep look at who I really was and found me lacking, just like I always feared.

Just like my natural mother did.

Just like my father did.

Of course all of these thoughts, these memories and feelings, pass in a split-second as I stand inside the open kitchen, inside the beach house, staring at the man before me who is claiming to be my father.

That can't really be him, can it?

My world that was barely mending itself was torn open by the rift between Noah and me. And now in this place, where I have come seeking solace, I find the rug that was under my feet is not actually stretched over a solid floor. It was a trap hiding a gaping hole. And I fell into it.

"Are you taking the piss?"

Harry stiffens, looking pale. His hands are shaking as he steps toward me. "No, not at all, son."

My hands go up as I step back, stopping that word from getting any closer. "Don't. Don't call me that."

Harold—that was the name of my mothers' husband. Harold Matthews was the man that left when I was only five and never looked back.

"Jeffrey Poynter is the name of my useless father."

"I'm sorry," Harry says, "but that's not right. He may have been her husband, but he is not to your father."

A bubble has formed in my chest. I feel the air rising into my throat. It reaches my mouth and sounds like a laugh as it leaves my body, though none of this shit is remotely funny. "You're sorry? Sorry?" Another laugh. "Why ever would you apologize to me?"

"Don't get polite on me, now."

Shaking my head, I can't believe I fell for this act.

"How's this then?" I offer, sounding quite nice and gallant. I even add a little smile before letting loose. "Fuck you, you fucking worthless imposter. Get the hell out of my house."

I contradict myself by turning on my heel, leaving him standing there in the kitchen.

At the front door, I take the knob in hand and pause.

I'm a grown man. I don't need his lies or pitiful apologies.

When he passes through the frame, it's time to let him know I'm onto him. "You'll not get one dime off me so don't bother trying."

Chapter 19

"Wise men speak because they have something to say; Fools because they have to say something."—Plato

They say that timing is everything. In acting, this is true. A well-timed pause, whether from the actor or the camera, can make or break a scene. Sometimes an audience needs to think on something—a joke or meaningful moment—before moving onto the next.

As a kid, I learned very early on to wait until my mother was in a good mood before asking for something I wanted. But I don't think there is ever a right time to be confronted with something you loathe. Ever.

Screw him and his sob stories. I neither want nor need them. I am getting on a plane.

I am getting on a plane and I am not thinking about what I'm doing.

This is what I do: I go. I may be a man of relatively meaningless words, but always a man of action. A man who doesn't need a pathetic excuse for a father coming around and shaking shit up. I handle myself and my family and that man is _not_ my family.

The edges of all I see are tinged with red.

I've got both hands on the wheel as the sound of a ringing phone fills my Caprice.

Drew picks up straight away. "Mr. Matthews—" he sounds relieved.

"I needed time to myself."

He takes notes as I make my request for him to get a pair of plane tickets and then meet me at the airport. Dean is a decent body guard and all, but I'd rather have someone who knows when to leave me alone and when to bring me coffee.

It's a quick call. Drew doesn't need the dirty details and if it turns out he does, he can get them from John—who is my next phone call.

The moment he answers with his usual, "Marshall," I break in.

"I know who's sending the letters." It makes perfect sense. The message from the caller and the note were all about knowing who I am. Explaining this secret to John isn't easy and not a conversation I want to have over the phone, especially not while I'm driving. I may dive off a cliff on a whim. Nevertheless, he needs some detials.

"At my home, inside my closet, there is a safe."

"I'm familiar with it."

That's right. He's the one who had me upgrade from the fire proof box Grace used for her personal documents to an in-wall safe. "Good."

Giving John the combination and describing the envelope that holds the information he needs is a nonissue. He's already in the neighbourhood and has his own set of house keys for emergencies. I ask him to call ahead, to tell Marcus he's coming. He and Lily don't need to be surprised.

"After reading the confidential information in the packet, I'll need you to see if you can dig up any photographs of a deceased woman named Elizabeth Poynter."

Then, I relay the information on where he can find Harry. "See if you can get a DNA sample off him."

John's sense of professionalism won't allow him to pause. I don't think it's possible to startle him. When we looked for Gracie, he barely took off his suit coat. After we found her, his consummate proficiency never wavered. He always kept going. Steady-on. Stiff upper lip and all that. He's got the heart of a Brit.

"Covert?" Is his only question.

I think for a moment. "Let's be cautious and inform him after you get the sample. Watch his reactions closely. He's a good liar. I've got to go, I'm meeting Drew at LAX and we're getting on a plane."

He doesn't ask where I'm going or why. His only concern is, "Confirmation by phone?"

"Yes, please. I'll be in New Orleans, attending a wrap party tomorrow night and back home the next day."

After hitting the overnight parking at the airport, I send a quick text to Eric to let him know where I'll be, as well. I told him I wasn't going to attend the wrap party. I didn't want to. I still don't. But I can't go back home and I don't want to keep driving aimlessly.

Living around this pain has become unfuckingbearable. When I'm at home, it's like living with a ghost. Grace is in every single part of that house. In her sons, in the paint on the walls, the carpets on the floor, the counter tops in the kitchen, and the towels inside the bath. The beach house is tainted, and I hate hotels. Since that's my only option right now, I may as well book a suite that's far away.

Drew is already waiting when I enter the first class lounge. He's sitting in a black leather chair with his phone at his ear. His face is stern. I plop on the seat across from him and order sparkling water with lime, even though I'm salivating at the thought of something stronger.

Drew can tell I don't want to talk and lets me stew in silence.

Silence. Every damned day of my life, I crave it. But horrible things happen when it's quiet.

I manage to slip through security and board the plane without being recognized, which is good since I haven't called home yet. I turned off my phone shortly after parking, needing the quiet more than communication. If Lily or Marcus needs me, they can leave a message. Besides, when they can't reach me, they usually check-in with Eric, because he always knows where I am.

About an hour after takeoff, the seatbelt light shuts off. I recline my seat in hopes of getting some sleep. Planes hold the most promise of rest these days. These first class chairs are spacious and sparse, thank God. I've got leg and breathing room. Drew is in a seat across the aisle.

Bits of the conversation I had with Noah spear through my mind as I try to drift off—followed by the bombshell of who Harry is. Who he _says_ he is.

My head falls to one side and I jolt awake. Rubbing the kink from my neck, the cabin shudders again. Turbulence.

Rather than thinking my current headache into a full-blown, ulcerative migraine, I wave over the dark and shapely flight attendant to ask for some pain reliever. She quickly retrieves a packet from a small cupboard up front; I think it's her personal stash. She hands it to me along with a bottle of water and a wink.

"You are an angel." I commend, "My head has been killing me all day. Thank you, dear." I flash a grin. She turns away, cheeks washed in red.

Something about air travel makes me sleepy. Since I haven't rested much in the last few years and it is a semi-long flight, I want to grab as much rest as I can. I pop the pills and take a long drink of water. Then, pull my baseball cap down over my eyes, immediately feeling the deep pull of sleep drag me back down.

"Rhys? Rhys Matthews?" An all too familiar sound squeals at me.

I pull my hat up to spot a young girl, golden skin and dark brown eyes, maybe fifteen years old. She's practically jumping out of her skin with excitement.

Drew is already pushing his arm between me and the girl. She looks so disappointed when she sees I don't intend to stop him, that I swallow the dread and smile back. Tapping Drew's shoulder, I nod to let him know I'm caving. "It's alright."

It's inconvenient, this life. I understand it's part of the gig and all, but that doesn't make it any easier to accept the constant disruption. It's moments like this though, the times when I see an obvious fan wearing that awful, disillusioned look yet they still back away out of respect for my space ... it gets to me. If they're assholes then I don't give a fig, but when they take the rejection quietly, I can't help but think, _when am I ever going to come across this well-behaved person again? And shouldn't virtue be rewarded?_

"Hello, love," I say, offering my hand.

The girls' dim eyes brighten. "It's really you!" She starts to jump, but the same flight attendant has returned, and grabs the girls' arm, motioning for her to retreat back to business class and leave me be.

I wave her off, "She's alright."

"Are you sure? You looked like you were sleeping." She eyeballs my admirer.

"It's perfectly fine." I offer a reassuring smile. She walks back down the aisle with a fresh sway to her hips. I refrain from rolling my eyes.

It would be best to get this over with quickly. Just because I've agreed to an introduction and autograph, doesn't mean I'm suddenly happy about it. Sympathetic—yes. Enthusiastic—no. I've got to get her sorted before she starts telling people I'm on the plane. If I'm nice, maybe she'll do me a solid and keep quiet.

I turn my attention back to the young girl whose face is alight with jubilation. Despite my dislike of the situation in which I am cornered, the admiration is something I never tire of, blind as it may be.

I love my fans. Most of the time, so long as they keep their heads and don't ask for a lock of hair, or a drop of blood or something. Many of them are interesting people with jobs I've never heard of. Like this one fella who begged a photo on behalf of his wife, he was a forensic accountant. It was his job to find money that had been lost through illegal electronic transactions. This one other girl was a Distribution Officer for a sperm bank. She had some entertaining stories.

Some fans have uncontrollably wept, others weren't able to speak, and some never stop talking. Every encounter is either interesting or truly baffling. Sometimes both.

Staring at my fan, I wait for the question. Some sort of audible request. An autograph? A picture? Both? Normally one or the other will do, as I'm usually on my way somewhere when this happens, but we're trapped on a plane. The usual, "I'm in a hurry," won't work.

"What's your name?" I finally ask.

She looks dumbfounded. "Um," she's searching for an answer, like it's a pop-quiz on Geography.

I chuckle a little.

She covers her face, "Madison. My name is Madison," and blushes deep red. "Can I have your autograph?"

"Of course you can, Madison. Do you have a pen?" I gently touch the hand over her eyes.

A sudden intake of air tells me she's surprised and pleased. The exact response I was going for. I pull my hand back and reach past her, towards Drew who's holding a page he's torn from an airline magazine. I thank him for it and wait for an answer from Madison.

She stands there, not quite sure if she should say 'no'. She's probably afraid she won't get a memento of this encounter if she does.

"Would you like to take a picture with me instead?"

No response.

"Does your phone have a camera?"

"Oh! Yes," She shakes her head, like she's trying to clear it. Apparently it works because once she starts, there is no stopping her. "Thank you so much! I love all your movies! Are you dating anyone? Oh, I hope so! I hope you get married again. You should do another movie with Gretchen." She gasps, "You should get back together with her!"

It really is tough to keep quiet when I hear crust like that, but I let her babble on for a few minutes, making more absurd projections about the direction of my personal life. Sighing. Deeply. Waiting for the spiel to end and smiling politely while she prattles.

I ask her a few distracting questions when there's an opening in effort to restrain her line of inquiries; is she leaving home or returning, what grade is she in, what are her favorite movies? All that sort of thing. I manage to avoid answering her queries in this manner. Lastly, I offer to follow her on Twitter. It's kind of my thing. Take a picture with a fan, have them post it and tag me, and then follow them. Makes their silly day. It makes Madison's day as well, even though she doesn't have a Twitter account. She swears, the moment she gets back to her home, she'll get one. Then I thank her for her support of my work and send her back to her seat.

Drew watches her until she's out of our section.

The moment I close my eyes again, there is more turbulence, more schmoozing with other passengers in my section that approach, and the return of Madison, who has found a pen and paper. I keep going—doing for them what I hope would be done for me if the tables were turned.

I'm remembering words my mother used to say, "All you can do is your best. The rest is someone else's fault." So I do my best to be personable and welcoming, though I feel nauseated with from stress and tired from life in general, as it's all a tank of shite. And the damned pain reliever never did anything for my headache.

I'm ham-fisted with the autographs. They're messy, which suits me fine, since I've misspelled a few names. Even mine. On one of them, I signed my name twice. _To Rhys. From Rhys._ I was trying to write the girls name—Amber, I think she said—but all that came out was mine.

She thought it was cute.

Chapter 20

"Fame is the most fleeting of all forms of success. Why it tends to induce such a lack of humility in those who have it is a mystery to me." —Donnie Wahlberg

Once I'm checked-in and settled into my suite, I make the calls I've been putting off.

"Dad?" Caleb's small voice comes in clear over the line and I already feel closer to home than when I was actually there this morning.

"How's my lad?"

"Where did you go?" There's a trace of a sniffle after he the last word and it cracks my chest wide open.

"I had some—" I stop. I don't know what I was going to say, but it was not going to be the truth. I swore to myself that I would never do that—lie to my children like I was lied to. Grace was adamant about honesty, as well. She never even told the kids about a Tooth Fairy or Easter Bunny, not even Santa.

"I'm sorry, Caleb. There was some trouble and I had to leave because of it."

This room I'm in has a French antique slash contemporary décor. I'm sitting on a fainting couch covered in brown suede.

"Because of what Noah said?"

What could he possibly know about my conversation with Noah? I clear my throat. "What did you hear?"

Caleb's breath blows over the receiver, roaring like Chicago wind in my ear. "I heard him say to my aunt, that you're mad because he's taking a baby."

Caleb is too perceptive for his own good. Too sensitive. He's to be protected from this kind of drama. "Who said that?"

"Noah said. Is that why you're mad? Because he's taking somebody else's baby?"

I've got a water bottle from the mini fridge and am tossing it back when he asks the question. Water spews all over the floor. "Caleb, why would you say that?"

It only just occurs to me: Caleb has been upset this whole time and hiding it. If Lily knew, she'd have called.

"I'm not your baby, Dad." His voice cracks again and sobs break over the line.

I am a verifiably horrible person; drawing the lines from one conversation to next far too late. "You are so, Caleb. You have been mine from the day we met. You are my son and I love you, you know that. Even if you started out as someone else's baby, you are my boy just as much as Ethan is."

He sniffles. "But you're mad at Noah."

I'm pacing the room, pinching my eyebrow with my free hand. "I am not angry with Noah because of the baby." I keep my voice calm and clear, sure not to sound ill-tempered so he keeps talking. "How did you even know about that anyway?"

The line is quiet. I hear the television noise in the background so I know he's still there and his lack of response tells me that he's most likely gained this knowledge through subversive activities. Eavesdropping—which he knows he not supposed to do—so he won't fess up.

"Listen: Noah and I had a disagreement and I am upset with him. But, it has nothing to do with January or her baby, or you or anyone else. It's between me and Noah. So Noah and I are the ones who will work it out together. I don't want you worrying over this. Alright?"

"Okay."

"Okay." I nod at him even though he can't see. "Now. Tell me all the fun stuff I missed at the party."

Right then, as Caleb's explanation launches, his tone changes and I know that the issue is resolved, for now at least. According to Caleb, I missed out on a really spectacular cake—strawberries and cream—and a thumb wrestling match, for the title, between his uncle Ronnie and one of Noah's old friends. I laugh when it's appropriate and sigh when he's done.

"I've got to go now, Caleb, but I'll be home soon, alright?"

Nothing.

"Alright, Caleb?"

"Alright."

"I love you more than anything. You know that, don't you?"

"Yeah."

"You better or I'll have to stuff the words into your brain box."

At that, he laughs. Finally! "It's not a box. It's only a brain."

The sound of his joy eases the tension between my shoulders. "If you feel like you need to talk or ask questions, you call me. Even if it's late."

"I will."

"Goodnight, my lad."

"Goodnight, my dad." He mimics me, putting a decent English accent.

Once he's off the line, I send a text to Lily and Marcus, letting them both know what Caleb heard and how. Lily responds that she will speak to him. Marcus demands that I turn my ass around and come home. I don't answer either of them.

* * *

They must have given me a padded room with a view.

I feel like I'm losing my mind, the way my chest is burning—literally burning—as if someone dropped a match down my throat, setting fire to the acid in my stomach. It's late and the consummate burning ache won't let me rest.

I've got a prescription for the acid reflux and my ulcer, but try not to take pills, unless I have to. Tonight, the horrid fire in my chest has me calling for room service. I ask them to bring me a shot glass of cider vinegar, which they give a bit of guff about but eventually agree.

Two hours later, the vinegar has not neutralized the stomach acids as it usually does. In fact, I feel worse.

By three a.m., I've given up on sleep and decide to check-in with John by email, even though he's already gotten all the evidence he's going to get with the video of the attempted intruder from earlier this month.

Once that's done, I sit back on the bed and turn on the TV for background noise to drown my chaotic mind.

* * *

Somehow, I've got one eye cracked open. It's dried up like a damned prune, it feels. The hotel phone is at my ear. The voice coming through the receiver is saying my name.

"Mr. Matthews? Are you there?"

"Yeah," I'm not awake, but I'm listening.

"I said it's John Marshall, sir."

When he says his name, my brain affixes the sound of his voice with his face. I go from lying on my stomach up to my knees. "What is it?"

"Another letter."

I look towards the longest wall in the suite, at the glass doors to the balcony. The blackout drapes are drawn shut so I can't tell if it's day yet. The clock on my bedside table reads 4:13 a.m. I'm quite confused and also half-astounded that I actually fell asleep.

"Did Lily check the P.O. box in the middle of the night or something?" Stupid. The post office closes at five. "Why am I hearing about this right now?"

"The note was taped to your front door."

Adrenaline kicks in at sound of those last two words. "My front door? Explain."

"At zero plus thirty, surveillance spotted an unknown male jogging up the road from the park. He climbed the front gate, left the note on the front door. Secured it under the weight of the iron knocker. He didn't trip the motion sensors or the lights. He was in and out so fast the dogs didn't even get a whiff. He was half way down to the park before my guys got up there."

"Why was no one stationed at the front of the property?"

"My guy, Edinger, was on the front gate. The roadway was clear all night. He radioed that he'd be taking a bathroom break. He was gone four minutes."

"And the suspect?" I know the answer. Otherwise this call would've started with an announcement instead of a plea.

"He slipped through the park. Probably ran out the community jogging path down on the other side. I've got my guys looking, but they haven't seen him for five minutes."

"Get everyone out of the house. I want a car to take them to a secure hotel, out of the city. Different names for check-in."

"Everyone is still sleeping, sir. Neither home was compromised."

"Not compromised? You're kidding, right?" My head is going to explode. If something happens to any one of them ..."I want them gone within the hour."

"I'll escort them, personally. Arriving in five." John says and I hang up, already hitting Marcus's number on my cell phone.

It rings three times and goes to voice mail. I hang up and call right back. He answers on the first ring this time.

"John is on his way. He's just called me. They've found another note. It was left on my front door."

"Which place?" Marcus asks his voice gruff with sleep.

" _My_ house. Are you all there or next door?"

"Next door. My place."

"I've instructed John to come get you all and take you to a hotel until we catch whoever is leaving these notes. He'll be there in a few minutes."

"You'll get no fight from me. We'll be ready to move asap."

"Thank you, Marcus. I'm sorry about this." I was afraid he'd fight with me, upset that I've brought this threat into all our lives.

They are gone from their home in under an hour.

After he's got the family set and squared away with a formidable level of security, John calls me back. He's sent me the links for the security footage and we talk for over an hour, examining the film frame by frame.

"I don't understand." I'm shaking my head. "Are you certain there is no way that this guy—" I'm alone in my room, but still point to the computer screen showing a freeze-frame of the note-bearing intruder "is Harry?"

"Positive. We've got him under surveillance since twenty minutes after we talked last night. I've got verification from two of my guys that he's been in his home, watching television all night. No one has entered or exited the residence. He hasn't used his phone or computer. It does appear that whoever this trespasser is, he has the same height, build, and stride as the previous."

"How do you know?"

"Computer analysis. We've compared the footage of both incidents. If you look closely, you can see that the guy has a small hitch on his right side."

No matter where I go, whether it's to work or home, I can't escape the drama of my life. I'm trying to move forward but the track just runs in a damned a circle. The past loops back around, jumping ahead and tripping me up.

"If it's not him, then he's paid someone to deliver his threats for him." John is saying, but I can't focus.

I can't think.

"I'll talk to you tomorrow, John. Thank you." Without waiting for a response, I hang up and lie back on the bed, slamming my laptop shut.

None of this makes sense.

* * *

Somehow I managed to asleep. For ten hours straight. I'm a bit peeved that it's so late in the afternoon, but can't complain. I am rejuvenated. Alive. Electric.

The wrap party is at the home of one of the films' local producers, just outside New Orleans. I love this city. It's filled with beautiful, crazy people and some wonderful architecture. The vibe, though. The 'I'm-here-let's-get-wasted' vibe that the city exudes I must ignore.

I've got to keep busy. Having something to do will help me get my mind off my troubles. The ones I can't do anything about at the moment.

Passing through the French Quarter, the party vibe screams at me, but my mind is on Noah and Harry. And strangers in hoodies with threatening notes and a talent for evasion.

Gerard Baron is the producer hosting the party. I met with him in pre-production and saw him around set a few times during filming but never really got to know him. He's got a great house, though.

The contemporary three-story structure sticks up like a high-rise compared to the other rooflines in the neighbourhood. The modern furnished home looks literally like large boxes of rooms stacked on top of one another. The tile floors look like red brick. Inside, the stairs and fixtures are stainless steel.

Two cameramen, Ralph and his assistant Steven, greet me the moment I walk in.

"Hey, man! I told everybody you'd come." Ralph is talking louder than is strictly necessary. I nod, make a quick joke about I hope he bet on it, feeling his heavy smack on the back as I pass. "Hell yeah, I did."

On most movie sets, the crew and talent don't have much chance to interact. Obviously, you work with some of them, but there are some crew you'll just never meet. There are hundreds of people that work on a movie, in pre and post production. Tonight's party is a farewell to the bonds formed between coworkers who worked on production, but I don't know many people outside the cast, AD's assigned to me and the camera operators. It's the way it is when you keep different hours and work in different areas most times.

So, when I ask Ralph who else is here, he answers with the names of the other actors first and then mumbles something about a few of the crew he thinks I might know, who I don't. At least not by name.

"Zoey and Liam are in the back with Dane. Food's out there, too. Gerard's got a badass outdoor kitchen. Soft drinks are in the fridge outside."

I notice how he's left out the location of the bar. The hard drinks. I'm not sure why that bothers me.

The back garden is good-sized and lit by strategically placed torches.

Graham, one of the boom operators spots me. He brings an icy bottle of water and offers it to me, then shakes my hand. "Never seen you drink anything but water."

"It's great, thanks." I've worked with Graham a few times over the years. He's quiet and personable.

"Liam and Zoey are over there." Graham motions to a darkened area in the back corner of the garden, pointing out the two actors I worked with the most often. Just then, an explosion of laughter shoots from their group. "They're all getting shit-faced."

"Amateurs," I shake my head.

Graham nods, "But they do have a lot to celebrate. They both just canned a film with the greatest Boom guys in the biz," he gestures to himself, "not to mention working with Academy Award-winning actor Rhys Matthews." I roll my eyes. "You know, the best part is Zoey gets to tell everybody that you punched her in the face."

"What?"

"She's over there telling everybody right now."

I hold up my water bottle. "Thanks for this. I'll ... be right back."

The strong smell of marijuana lingers through the distance as I close in on the group of people, (mostly cast, but some crew as well) chattering in varied conversations.

As I near the dim edge of the group, Liam is leaving. And then there's Zoey's voice.

"... terrible what happened to his wife and I totally feel bad for his family. I freaking love his kid, Caleb. But that doesn't mean he isn't a—what? Molly, why are you waving your hands like that?"

The girl who's frantically flagging Zoey is looking me straight in the eye. "Hi, Molly," I greet her louder than necessary, giving a polite nod and then shift my focus to address my costar.

"I didn't quite catch that last part, Zoey. You were saying, "that doesn't mean he isn't a," ... what?"

"I was just going to say that I suspect that you're a manist." Zoey turns around, chuckling. She doesn't seem at all surprised, though her sarcasm is amazingly sharp. "You think the _weaker sex_ needs special treatment, don't you?"

"What the hell is a _man-ist_? That's not an actual word." I force a chuckle.

"Yes it is and you know you are." She raises her hand and her voice, drawing the attention of everyone else in the back garden as she's already got her little group completely rapt. Though I can't help but notice that it's been thinning out since I walked up.

"You were all worried, apologizing to me, _"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to hit you!"_ I thought you were gonna cry!" She laughs, sloshing her drink up to her mouth to tease me over the rim of her glass. "You're a manist. Admit it."

The girl is beyond drunk and much more egotistical than I gave her credit for. I thought she had a good head on her shoulders, but clearly the little bit of fame she's been exposed to is already changing her. "I think the word you're searching for is _gentleman_. As I believe a man should never hit a woman."

She's shooting off a full-on belly laugh now. "Oh, Mister Darcy! He was a manist, too!"

"Right."

I've been itching for a drink all week. This small-minded girl is reeking of alcohol and practically doubling-over, laughing at me over a made-up word.

"Maybe the term you're searching for is _chauvinist_ or possibly _sexist_ , since those are actual words with real meaning. But I can assure you, I'm neither. Do yourself a favor, Zoey." I clear my throat and she straightens to look at me. "Learn to hold you liquor. And buy a fucking dictionary."

Though I've spoken to her much more subtly than she did with me, there's a ripple of chuckles as I head back into the house.

Meeting Drew at the front door, he nods to me, asking, "Hotel?"

"Yes. Then the airport."

Chapter 21

"Everybody's got to believe in something. I believe I'll have another beer." —W.C. Fields

I manage to walk almost the whole length of the lobby without stopping. But then tell Drew I need some time to myself. He leaves me at the bank of elevators. He's completely clueless as to how much I wanted him to refuse, to offer to see me upstairs. He wasn't inside at the party. He didn't see what happened and has no idea how useless it made me feel.

I don't allow myself to think on it. I simply turn and head for the lobby bar.

* * *

Grabbing the cool metal handle on the door to my room, pulling a little too hard. My fingers lose their grip. The heavy door slams backward on the outside wall, making a loud noise.

"Shh!" I laugh.

"Come on. You've got to put your foot out a little further if you're intending to make it _inside_." My good friend, Marcus helps me into the room and sits me on the floor.

I'm too piss-drunk to make it on my own. It is funny how the body responds sometimes. I feel completely lucid on the inside. Motor skills are the second thing to go. Good judgment being the first.

I'm prostrate on the floor. The cold marble feels fantastic on my skin.

He's eyeing me, probably expecting I'll need to chuck soon. I stare at his dark brown hair. Half of his face invisible behind an untidy beard. He needs a haircut, too.

"You're shaggy, Marcus."

"My name is Riley, Mr. Matthews. See?" Marcus points at his name tag, but the letters are all squiggly.

"Sir, do you need help getting into the bathroom? You don't want to puke on the floor." He examines me closely, rolling his eyes slowly over my features.

_Ooh, he's getting antsy._ "I knew you were going to say that!" My body shakes with laughter. "Oh, Marcus, you're such a good mate ... carrying me over the threshold—" I'm choking with laughter.

"Okay..." He laughs with me. "In my whole life, Mr. Matthews, I've never seen anyone piss off a room full people so fast. You got the assistant manager spitting tacks, talking about his wife like that. And rubbing your knob on half the staff? Classic." Marcus wipes the sweat from his forehead and stretches, popping his back.

I keep lying on the floor, smiling to myself even though none of this is particularly funny.

Drinking makes my mouth-to-brain-filter dissolve. Inside my head I'm a complete arsehole most of the time. .

_What did I say?_ I think called someone a salad dodger. I remember saying the words. There's also a distinct feeling that the phrase was not well-received.

Maybe that's how I got back to my room so fast.

"Was I yelling ... or somebody was yelling at me?"

I'm not talking to anyone in particular, but I think Marcus is.

Yeah, he's standing in the open doorway. Definitely talking to someone.

The walls wobble when I recognize Drew's voice.

Shit. I don't want him here. Don't want him to see me like this. I close my eyes, feeling the room move around me.

Spinning like a merry-go-round.

"Marcus ...som' wa'er, please?"

I passed piss-drunk a while ago. This feels bad; shit-faced, hangover bad. Those last shots were a mistake. When I start slurring . . .

"I've got you."

The floor is gone as I'm being lifted. A tug under my arm holds me in a sitting position. My head wobbles on my neck.

"Here, drink this." Drew says and somebody hands me a cold bottle of water.

I drink it down as quick as my throat will carry it. When it's gone, I touch the bridge of my nose with my forefinger, testing. Grace used to do it. She'd stop drinking when the tip of her nose felt numb. My whole face is numb. Unless I am mistaken and rubbing something else entirely.

"The verdict ...I'm over-cook. Goose." My eyes can't focus. Blinking takes too long. "Is 'ere anything to eat? I drank too mush." Enunciations are hard. My lips are working against my tongue.

"I think you may be onto something." Drew moves to the mini fridge near my head.

I lean over, resting against the nearest wall. My head is starting to spin again. I need food and caffeine. I need to focus on something else.

"Marcuss . . ."

"His name is Riley." Drew says. "All I see is a turkey sandwich, a few crackers, and breath mints. You want the sandwich?"

I cannot answer, my throat is suddenly huge. I clamp my mouth shut as my stomach heaves.

"Aw, shit."

Drew is a blur of activity. With his help, I make it to the bathroom door in no time. But the knob is slippery. Going for it a second time, I now it's already too late.

We're too late.

Drew drops me as I double over. The contents of my stomach spews from my mouth and nose in a revolting geyser of lager, whisky, and dirty martinis. I didn't eat anything at the party, so when I started drinking; there was only liquid and bile sprinkled with the remnants of some green olives. It splatters all over the door to the bathroom, the floor ... everywhere.

I'm crumpled on the carpet, covered in barf, fighting against the relentless heaves that won't abate, feeling the warm wet vomit on my fingers and palms, barely holding myself up over the puddle. It's all over my shirt, my pants, and inside my shoes.

From what I gather, the only thing not covered by my drunken emission is Drew. He's standing at the other end of the long room, in front of the door. Clean and smiling.

I consider flicking my hand in the puddle and splashing him. I would, if I could manage without falling over.

After a while the heaving stops, but relief is fleeting. My pulse drums sharp in my head, like a hammer.

Drew reminds me to open the bathroom door. I manage, though the handle is even slicker, now coated in recyclables.

While I wash my hands and face, Drew is asking the guy who isn't Marcus for the play-by-play of my drunken escapades down stairs. The guy sings like a canary. Bell-end.

Once I hear Drew dismiss the guy, I add my own take on the events. "I was a prick to everyone."

Drew helps me gather every piece of cloth within the suite (that isn't mine) and use them to cover the stagnant puddles. I keep one clean towel on the bathroom counter and then jump in the shower, still dressed. The water is freezing, so I don't pass out whilst cleaning up.

Teeth chatter as I dry off and put on my last set of clean clothes. A sweat suit.

Swathed in soft cotton, I grab a sandwich from a tray Drew set on the table near the sofa and shoved it in my mouth. The room smells like puke and the taste of the turkey and cheese makes me gag, but I need to sober up.

"Come on, Sleeping Beauty, I'm not carrying you." Drew grabs my arm to help guide me from the sofa and pain shoots through my skull.

I bellow, rubbing my throbbing temples. "I have a headache. Dick."

"Eric sent some paperwork for you." He answers calmly, ignoring my belligerence and making me feel like the dick. "And the cleaning people need you out of the way."

The sound of his voice is so piercing I want to vomit again. I feel the pressure driving into the back of my eyes. There's an audible throbbing in my ears.

It takes all I've got to make the jagged trudge toward my bedroom. "I'm never drinking again." The promise is for me. I'll remember how much I hate this feeling.

I fling myself onto the bed, ignoring the stack of papers that Eric sent and let go of consciousness.

* * *

_The_ _Flintstones_ theme song sounds through the room. It plays to completion and starts up again seconds later. My reddened eyes shoot open at the realization that my phone is ringing and then bolt shut again, shocked and pained by the bright beams of sun shooting into my room.

Nothing like the feel of fresh guilt in the morning. Lots of it.

I can't believe I fell off the wagon. Rubbing my aching sockets, I can't recall opening the blinds, then reach for my sunglasses that I hope are on the bedside table. Feeling around like a clumsy idiot, knocking down everything I touch, and spilling a stale soda. The phone stops ringing, to my great relief.

Eric can leave a message.

The shrill song starts up again. I jump at the unexpected noise. "Damn it!" I am fuming when I answer "What?!"

"Good morning to you, too. Heard you had a rough night," Eric states. Not asks.

It's too early for this.

"Rhys? Hello?"

"Sorry, Eric," The raspy sound of phlegm gurgles in my apology. I clear my throat and the air scrapes against the raw that remains after the stomach acid. Ignoring the ache, I reach for the floor, aiming for a morning smoke before remembering that I don't do that anymore. I quit a long while ago.

"Drew called last night. He was concerned." Eric sounds like he's smiling. "Apparently, you were making fun of a barman's wife?" He questions with the smallest hint of humor in his tone.

Then goes serious. "I called the concierge last night to get the details that Drew wasn't telling me. You know, the barman is a veteran and a cancer survivor. You called his wife a salad-dodger; a woman who used to be a fan of yours. She's taken hormone therapy to conceive. They're threatening to sue and I can't blame them."

"What?" I try to sit up and regret it. "You can't sue someone for being an asshole."

"Make no mistake, Rhys, if that poor woman gets so stressed out that a famous Hollywood actor humiliated her that she has complications because of that stress, she can most definitely file a lawsuit."

A weighty cold _thunks_ into my gut. Is that what I did? Said some shitty things to an expectant mother?

"Rhys, do you realize what you've done?" Eric asks, though it's obviously a warning shot.

This is serious. "Send them a lovely apology from me, would you?"

"Rhys," His tone softens, "what is going on with you? I am used to watching you struggle, but this ...you have never been like this. Not since I've known you. Your reputation has always been too important to you."

He's right. Sort of. Either way, I have no argument and so I say nothing.

"Are you still having trouble sleeping? Is that why you were drinking?"

"I'm not going to have this conversation with you."

"We have a contract that says you cannot drink or use drugs. I am within my rights to terminate. So we are going to discuss this."

"Eric, please. I can't talk about it. Not right now. My head is killing me." His response is complete silence. I sigh, "It was a mistake. I regret it wholeheartedly and I will never drink or do anything like this ever again, I swear."

"I'll send them your deepest apologies, but it would mean more coming from you."

I concede with a heavy sigh. "Crow for breakfast, it is."

"Alright, then, down to business: I suppose you didn't see the itinerary I left for you."

He assumes correctly. I did sleep on it, though. I pluck it out from under the pile of blankets, "I'm looking at it right now."

"Good. Then you shouldn't have any trouble making it to the airport on time."

A knock comes from the adjoining door. I cover the phone and yell, "Come in!"

"Well?" Eric asks.

"Don't worry. I'll be ready in a little while."

Drew is coming through the door, completely dressed and ready to leave bearing two cups of coffee. He shakes his head at me, implying that I've given the wrong answer.

"Uh, I mean, I'll be ready . . ."

Drew sets the cups down on the dresser and shows me first two, then five fingers. "In twenty-five minutes." I thank him with a gesture of my own, involving only one finger.

"Tell Drew I said thank you and I will see you back in Los Angeles." The line clicks.

"Twenty-five minutes." My eyes bulge with disbelief. "You should have woken me earlier." I put my phone in my pocket and grab a fresh shirt. "Eric says 'thank you', by the way." I toss on some deodorant and cologne before the clean shirt. "Though I don't think I'll thank you for ratting me out. What are you, five?"

"He is very welcome. I don't need your thanks, and I did wake you up." He's leaning against the wall, sipping at his coffee. "I came in here an hour ago. Who do you think opened the blinds?" He asks, pointing to the large windowpane filled with blinding light that provokes my lingering headache every time I peek in its' direction.

I throw the few items lying around the suite into my duffle bag on the floor, then rush to the surprisingly clean bathroom to brush my teeth.

I have a bit of an obsession with fresh breath. If anyone happens to recognize me, I don't want to worry about bad breath. I can just imagine the blogs generated accusing me of chronic halitosis. _'Brits have notoriously bad teeth, it must be true.'_

When I'm done with that I put my hands under the running water and comb my fingers through the mess of bed head until all traces are gone. "That should keep you down for a while." I tell to my follicles, "stay."

There's no time for a proper shave so I wash my face and turn off the light as I walk out. Drew has the bags stacked and waiting by the door.

Last nights' socks will have to hold on a little longer. I throw my Doc Martins back on and head out.

"Off we go ...Wait." I feel like I'm forgetting something but can't think of what it is. After taking a quick look around, I shake my head. "Let's get out of Dodge."

Coming out of the elevator in the lobby, I pass the bar, which is now closed and feel like a wet turd. My feet pull to a halt. "I'll meet you in the car."

"You don't want me to go with you?"

"No. I made this mess on my own. I'll get it sorted."

Drew nods, seeing me eye the man beyond the glass in the closed area, taking down chairs from tabletops. "I'll wait out front. Call if you need anything."

I walk over to the glass wall and knock. I think the man I'm looking at is the barman from last night. He's the one who kept handing me drinks. He pauses when he spots me. His face goes hard and I know I'll be eating more than crow. _Wonderful_. It's going to be one of those pride-swallowing, shit-eating apologies.

The barman is dressed in a white, pressed button down shirt tucked into black slacks that end over his shiny black shoes. He takes his time unlocking the door while glaring at me. He cracks the door a fraction and sets his mouth in the opening. "I already told your manager. I don't want your pity or your money. Now get the hell out of here before I mop the floor with your pansy ass, like I should have done last night."

Threats made in a soft tone, like his, leave no room for doubting their level of credibility. He doesn't even feel the need to raise his voice to show that he is serious, because he is so obviously serious. The rage has been established, it's palpable. Only a real shit-talker would yell a threat at a moment like this. This is not a threat, it's a statement of intention.

"That's why I've come."

His shoulders tense while a genuine puzzlement creases his forehead. His eyes are black as night. "Are you making fun of me?" One hand comes through the break between the doors and yanks me forward. Before I know it I'm pressed against the glass wall, standing toe to toe with the angry stranger on the other side of the door. "Or are you trying to get me fired?"

"I would never do that." I shake my head, aiming to talk as fast as I can, to give as much explanation as I may before he punches me. "I've already checked out and I'm going back home, but I didn't want to leave things the way they were. I was disrespectful and wrong. Completely deserving of your anger. I would feel the same if I were in your position. I didn't know what I was doing—"

"Damn right." He growls, shaking with red-faced fury.

"If anyone spoke of my ...my wife that way I'd—"

"Don't. I'm not going to feel sorry for you."

My hands form fists. I lean forward. "I don't want your pity, either. I made a shitty mistake. I was sober for nearly three years before last night and—"

"Sober?" He takes a step back and crosses his arms, seeming to shrink as his anger dissipates.

"Yes, I said sober. It's not a newsflash. Everyone knows I'm an alcoholic and drug addict. But drinking is what—" I shake my head, realizing what I'm doing; he doesn't need explanations or excuses. "It doesn't matter. I came to apologize. So, I'm sorry. I'd like your permission to apologize to your wife, as well. I was bloody awful to the both of you. It's the least I can do."

"Not everyone knows about you." The barman says, uncrossing his arms. "I had no idea you were an alcoholic or I wouldn't have served you." His hands are still balled into fists.

"If you want to hit me, I won't fight back. Just, please don't do it in the face. I don't want to have to explain the marks to my security guard." At that, the barman looks around. "He's outside, waiting in the car."

The barman's stiff face cracks with a small smile. "You'd let me hit you?"

I shrug. "It's only right."

He shakes his head. "I'm Alex. Alex Delano."

"Rhys Matthews." I stretch out my hand but he doesn't take it.

"I know. My wife was a long time fan."

This just keeps getting better. "So now I'm an even bigger twat than I realized."

"Yep. But don't worry about it. I might have exaggerated the incident to your manager. My wife will forgive you. That phrase you used, 'salad dodger' went right over her head. I'm the one who's pissed."

"Right. So ...how can I make this right?"

"You gotta let me hit you in the face." He holds both hands out, a gesture of sincerity. My head is still foggy, so I'm not sure I've heard him right. But then Alex says, "How 'bout I get the icepack ready first, then you give me one clean shot to the mouth. No repercussions and I'll put this whole thing behind us."

Right.

* * *

Drew is waiting in the drivers' seat with the heater on.

"You're a p-pal." I stuttered through my icepack as he hands me the cup of coffee I thought I'd forgotten in my room. The heat from the cup stings my icy hands and swollen lip.

"Do I need to do anything about this?" He waves at my face, obviously putting the pieces together.

"I consider it settled."

Drew puts the car in gear. "So, he hit you?"

"And I shook his hand."

Drew stifles a chuckle.

"Then, took the pain reliever and icepack he offered."

The coffee burns my mouth, thanks to the icepack on my lip between sips. When the cup is empty I lay my head back on the head rest.

* * *

I am numb.

A complete idiot with my seat locked in the upright position. The swelling on my mouth went down, which is good since I couldn't get the icepack past security. I'm not tired in the least. I barely feel sick since finishing the coffee.

I'm thinking about how much I don't want to think about my problems when a flight attendant passes through the aisle and drops two tiny bottles of Bourbon on my lap. I look up and she winks, but doesn't stop.

Shit.

Just bollocks.

Why does everything have to be so complicated? I should want to vomit looking at this but ... I don't. Do I want to drink? How can the so-called kindness of some random stranger threaten to undo me the moment after I've barely strung myself back together?

Only a second ago I was fine—bored, but fine. And now, victimized by two ounces of brown liquor? A ridiculous, pitiful weakness.

If I know in advance there is going to be alcohol, I can mentally prepare; talk myself into not wanting the sweet heat and bitter bite. It's moments like this, moments I don't expect it that have the most potential to knock me straight off the wagon.

Like confronting Zoey at the wrap party; I didn't even realize she'd gotten to me. But her attitude towards me was the proverbial straw that broke—

"Did you order that?" Drew asks.

I've got both bottles in my hand, though I don't remember picking them up. "No," is all I say, still staring at the blue labels and white cursive lettering.

"Do you mind?" Drew reaches across the aisle.

I hand-off the mini-bottles to him and close my eyes, able to breathe again. When they open, Drew is gone from his seat.

Reaching for the SkyMall magazine, I can't help but notice that the attendant who passed me the bottles has been moved to the back of the plane.

* * *

As soon as we pass security at LAX, a swarm moves in. My sunglasses go on, hat goes down.

The cameras are all over. Paparazzi herding like ants to a piece of candy. Someone must have called someone from the plane or tweeted something. I walk as quickly as I can with my head downcast as Drew moves out ahead to clear a path. Several voices bark my name and ask for autographs, shoving pictures and markers at me. I grant a few, though the large older men holding photos are obviously not fans. The 8x10 glossies will end up for sale on the internet.

Dealing with paparazzi is a delicate matter. It's a love hate relationship. Well, more like they pretend to love me, but actually hate me. There are two types of camera-touting stalkers: those who pretend to know me, pretend to care, and pay me compliments while invading my space. Then there are the ones who really don't give a shit. They act the same as the others but are a bit more open about the fact that they're only trying to earn a buck. I hate them all equally, but can at least respect the honesty of the latter group.

The questions are shouted from an arms' length away and designed to get a reaction. Is this or that rumor true? Are you dating (whichever woman you were seen standing less than five feet away from)? Gretchen Bakker just got engaged—what do you think about that?

I was in the same restaurant as Gretchen a few weeks back. We didn't speak or see each other. We weren't even there at the same time, just on the same day. The tabloids have us "reconnecting." I'll count it a blessing since this rumour keeps them from asking about Grace and the family.

The high-speed cameras they use are made to take pictures without pause. The lights are blinding so I wear the hat and keep my head down.

If I were to lay out, on a table, all of the photos taken by just one of the dozen or so cameras and sift through them, a person might think that the simple act of my walking from the airport exit doors to the back seat of a waiting car at the curb takes twenty minutes, not fifteen seconds. It would make people think that I came here just to be spotted.

I was hoping to arrive unnoticed but that idea was shot to hell, probably through social media. Now, I am in the thick of it trying to appear unaffected though casual as I fight my way through the bedlam.

"Move. Out of the way. Get back! You're blocking the car!" Drew shouts at them.

A few guys from airport security have appeared, thankfully. They swoop in on both sides and in back to block the cameras. Another one appears up front near Drew, trying to help make a path to the curb.

The stalkers move when they're told, only to get in my way in another spot. They move from directly in front of me, to the door I'm trying to walk through, to the car door being held for me, to the front of the car to get my photo through the windscreen; snapping frame after frame, ceaselessly every single second. The flashing lights and noise are disorienting.

As soon as Drew hops in the car, the driver, Dean, honks the horn repeatedly while inching away from the curb. The cameras scatter like rats before he takes off. Once we're in the lane of moving traffic, there are at least five cars following us, tailgating and snapping away.

I lay my head back on the seat.

It's the worst kind of scrutiny and one of the hardest parts of my life. The intensity—which has always been severe—has steadily increased over the last few months, since Gretchen announced her engagement to some musician and she made the mistake of entertaining the media questions on our break up. I think she hoped it would ease the scrutiny on her current relationship, or maybe she was trying to deflect the attention by saying my name, hoping it would squelch the constant badgering. Whatever her motives, it only made things worse, for us both. The questions for her got more frequent and more personal. Whereas for me, they simply want my reaction or some type of verification of whatever she told them about our time together.

I'm not going to make that mistake. Some actors can give the answer and then the questions go away. They appear so stoic, taking the high road. But for some reason, for Gretchen and me, they won't quit. When we got together, we were filming. We were playing lovers, and for some reason that romanticized version of our character's relationship bled over to our real-life relationship even though one was nothing like the other. So, no matter how much information we offered it was never enough because our lives were not like the movie.

The extreme fascination leaves me only two reactions. Allowing myself to be bled dry by leeches or going into complete isolation—cutting myself off from the outside world. Either way, I end up swarmed and stalked by invasive strangers with no respect for my privacy or well-being every time I step outside. I'm scrutinized and studied. Every move I make is exaggerated to the point where I literally break down trying to separate the lies from my real life.

I used to read the gossip just to prepare myself for what they were saying about me. But I literally can't anymore. I'll end up back in rehab. I have to treat it all like background noise. Speak over it, never addressing it.

That's one of the things I've learned about all of this scrutiny: if someone is determined to believe something there's nothing I can do to change their minds. The only difference I can make is whether or not my jaws will be flapping. And since everything I say is taken out of context and parsed and snipped into racy sound bites, I decided a while back to stop talking altogether.

I realize that this is the life I've chosen, and I like attention—to a point. My profession requires it. But there has to be a line somewhere. I have to keep some things for myself. I suppose I just don't understand the difference between a stalker and a paparazzo. These men would be arrested treating a private citizen this way. As far as I'm concerned, when I'm off-duty, I am off limits, but that is simply not the case. It's not even realistic.

Being a spectacle wears on a person after a while. It makes you hype-aware of everything you do.

The clothes I wear and the way I walk, the way I look when I sneeze—all of these natural motions come into question when placed under the microscope of public fascination. The simplest action becomes a ridiculous affair.

Sometimes, while pushing my hair from my face—that is all I am doing, simply moving my hair out of my eyes—I find myself worrying about the movement of my fingers, how my hand appears mid-swipe. I will check the angle of my wrist, making sure it doesn't look too rigid as I turn my hand towards my head. I don't want someone reading any obscene gestures into the movement.

Everything is backwards.

Chapter 22

"Music doesn't lie. If there is something to be changed in this world, then it can only happen through music."—Jimi Hendrix

Home is empty as it should be. After thanking Drew, he dismisses himself, adding he'll be in the guard hut down the way should I need anything. He wants to stay in the house with me, I can tell by the reluctant way he nods. He doesn't ask, though, and I won't offer. I don't want him standing in a corner somewhere all night. He's been up all day and half the night before. He needs rest.

Inside her bedroom, I drop my bag on the floor before logging into the security system to flip through the report log. The system was armed before the family left last night and was disarmed once afterward, then rearmed five minutes later.

Marcus must have forgotten something.

Speaking of ...I take my phone from my pocket and dial his number. It rings until voicemail picks up. "I'm not leaving a message to tell you that I'm back. I'll simply call your wife. She always answers." I say, being intentionally ironic.

Hanging up, I've got every intention of keeping my word, but think better of it. It's late, I shouldn't wake Lily. I settle on shooting her a text. She'll see it in the morning. Its two simple words: I'm home.

Then, I send another text to the security posted outside. John insisted on putting a man at each corner of the property, so it's a mass text:

—If there's any movement inside or out, know that I am in bed. If I wake, I'll message you.

Kicking off my shoes, I throw myself onto the bed and draw the blackout curtains all around. It's dark and comfortable. And I cannot sleep.

Here. At home.

This is my home.

This is my bed but it feels like hers.

I'm stuck back in that life with her because I want to go back to it so badly. Actually, I just want Grace. I need her and she's never coming back. And so the gaping hole that is her absence continues.

It feels as if I'm living at the edge of a great precipice. The cliff side is dangerous and I can't maneuver without fear. Without hurt. I'm trying to build a life beyond her, but the void she's left me with is too deep to walk through. Too wide to cross over. Too big to ignore.

I know that time is supposed to give me perspective. Supposed to help me navigate the next part of my life the same way time helped to heal the wound of my mother dying. I know that time will help. Eventually. Maybe not heal me completely—I'll always carry these scars—but enough to live around the void. To learn to build up upon the edges of those cliffs. Time should help keep the fear of losing more at bay. Time will help dull the sharp edges and cool the heated ache, the burning pain.

But I find myself asking more and more these days, "How much longer?" It's been two years. How is it that I am still so bloody and broken?

She and I were together, actively, for only six months. We were separated for eight months at the time of her passing. She's been gone for two years, now, and it's not getting easier.

When is it supposed to get easier?

I swear I am on a damned hamster wheel, running like mad, spinning back around in this strange loop that only goes to the past. No matter how much I run forward, I keep getting drawn back. Like a corkscrew on a roller coaster.

Sort of similar to the way I think of Gretchen sometimes, remembering what she did, how she betrayed me. Ironically, it's more painful now than it was when it happened. Because now I have Ethan and I could've had a three year-old; another son or a daughter. I know exactly what Gretchen took from me, and yet in the same way I will never fully grasp what she took from me.

And when I think of Grace being taken from me, the injustice of it all, I get so bloody angry. What might have been ...I will never know. But I know exactly what I'm missing. Everything. It's so much worse, though, than the thing with Gretchen because she knows what she's done. She regrets it, and I am just small enough to feel better knowing that.

But with Gracie, there's no one. I mean, the bitch who did this to her has paid the ultimate price, but I'm not satisfied with that.

This is too much: lying in our bed, hoping to find enough peace to fall asleep. All I'm really doing is waging war. A battle I'll never win.

* * *

I don't care for running. I rarely do it. In fact, I usually swim or practice kickboxing for my cardio workouts and have only been running but a handful of times in the past two years. Still, a swim right now means having a guard standing watch while I try to pretend he isn't there. Most times I can do that without issue, but not right now. I need privacy. Genuine privacy.

After irreparably damaging my relationship with Noah, losing Eric's trust, insulting a pregnant woman, fighting with her husband, punching an actress, worrying Caleb and Marcus, walking out on my would-be friend and father who turns out to be an actual stalker—then generally letting everyone down by drinking again, I think that going for a run just might be the proper punishment and only solution to clearing my head.

So after shooting a text to the guards outside to let them know I'm up again, I reach into her chest of drawers—which mainly holds her notebooks and some personal items—and pull out Grace's iPod. She was an avid runner and has left a vast playlist of the appropriate music.

I hook the device into the charger cord mounted on the treadmill and start it up. A strong, steady beat fills my ears and I recognize the song. _Conductor_ by AFI.

After I'm all warmed up, I hit the buttons to increase speed and incline while Jared Leto sings about giving no apologies and making no excuses. The electronic instrumentation pumps me up. Taking long strides, increasing my speed, I am enjoying the release of all the pent-up frustration, but then he starts singing about suns being born and dreams dying, and my throat wants to swell shut.

I skip the song.

The playlist is set to shuffle, so the next one is slower and filled with drums and distorted guitar. But the beat is good and steady. The iPod screen tells me the band is called Autovein and the song is titled _Hard As It Is_. I recall Grace humming this tune on several occasions and feel closer to her as the rough tones blast through the earbuds. I'm a bit of a lyric junky, as Grace was, and so I listen closely to each line as the singer tells of his urge to run away from the one thing that he wants more than anything. How it's hard not to run away from this thing he wants when he feels so confused and scared. But he wants this elusive something more than he wants to bolt. I dig into the feeling, hanging onto it for the duration of the song.

Next comes Fallout Boy, decrying the lies of success, which flows into My Chemical Romance with their catchy angst and angry theatrics. I keep a steady pace, clinging to the lyrics of the songs that say it for me.

Nearly two hours later, I'm ready to fall off the treadmill with my rubber legs, but _Counting Stars_ by One Republic rejuvenates me long enough to hang in for this last song. During my cool down, as my pace steadily slows, I find another playlist that's marked _favorites_ and open it.

_Thrice_ is the name of the band that begins to play. The low strum of a guitar comes in—slowly thumping along to a quick, but subtle drumbeat. The sound is soothing and so I listen as the smooth vocal slowly begins.

The song tells the story of a man standing on the banks of a river and I am immediately enraptured in his plight. He feels like he's lost something and when he looks into the cold river water, he sees a lonely book floating there. He reaches out to pick it up but it's too heavy to hold and he begins to sink in the rising water. Begins to drown. He cries for someone to save him, feeling only the cold water and the sweet bitterness of the words from the book that are killing him.

The treadmill stops though the soft melody of the sad song continues. I wander over to the bed and fall into it, utterly exhausted.

Chapter 23

"A dream is a wish your heart makes." —Walt Disney

The bathroom sink is full of shaving foam. I run my hand across my chin, checking the smooth skin for any hairs I might've missed when I catch her reflection in the mirror, through the archway that separates our room from the en suite bath.

She's at the end of the bed, her knees drawn up, folded against her chest as she bends forward carefully painting her toenails a dark blue. Gracie looks up and smiles at me as I admire her. She bites her plump bottom lip and shakes her head.

That's all it takes.

Her full breasts jiggle as I toss her back onto the pillows. I recognize the white ribbed material hugging them as one of my tank tops. I love it when she wears my clothes. Her hair flails around her face as I bury my head in her neck and inhale. She smells of pure Grace and Rose Water.

She laughs and squeals. "You'll ruin my nail polish!"

I press my hands between her thighs. "Don't worry, love. I don't need your feet for this." The sweet lines of hips are wrapped inside a pair of my boxer-briefs. I take in the sight of her long, taught legs. Solid black cotton leads down to her defined calves that tell she is a runner.

I reach down, grasping her small foot in my hand and pull until her leg has gone straight, then push it aside, making more room for my hips. "Leave that just there." I instruct, staring at her foot that's now near my shoulder.

"I miss you," she mumbles.

I'm hovering above her, paused in wonder at the three words, why they're so unsettling.

Her round hold more depth than I knew existed. Her small, pert nose leads to two ruby tinged lips, those apple cheeks and sweet chin. The slope of her neck takes me to the ridge of her collarbone. I kiss the hollow in the center. With that simple touch, I remember why she's missed me.

Every part of the last two and a half years rushes back in a second and the reality is so heavy I drop my head and move away, peeling back on my knees. "You're gone."

Her expression grows serious. "I'm gone," she repeats, sitting up and moving close to rest her palms on my face.

"Am I dreaming?"

She gazes into my eyes. "You're dreaming."

I pull away, preparing for the onslaught. The moment I realize I'm sleeping, it's over. I always wake up. Heat floods my eyes.

"Don't cry, Evan."

I scoff. "I'm not crying," and wipe at my eyes.

Gracie examines me; one eyebrow rising above the other, silently calling my bullshit.

"Just because I want to doesn't mean I will."

"Maybe you should." Her bottom lip lightly juts out as she considers. "But not now because we need to talk and I won't be able to take it. Cry like a baby after I leave." She offers this sweet smile and tilts her head in a way that tells me she thinks she's being cute.

I don't like this talk of waking. I'll be left alone and she will be gone and I will most assuredly cry like a bitch because I have dreamed of her a thousand times but none of them have ever looked this clear or felt this real. I can hear her breathing, see her chest rise and fall in tandem. Feel the warmth of her fingers on my wrist and the dip in the bed where she sits before me. It's like she's really here and I'll lose my mind when I wake up alone.

Taking Grace into my arms, I wrap myself around her, clinging tightly and begging. "Don't go, love. Not yet, I'm not ready."

Her answer is muffled by my chest, but clear as day when she says, "I won't go until after we talk, I promise."

"You'll stay?" Hope has me squeezing her tighter.

"As long as it takes to say what needs to be said." She assures me. "But I'm thinking ...we don't have to talk right this minute."

Keeping her shoulders locked in my grasp, I press her back to look into her beautiful face. "How long can we put it off?"

She tries to shrug, but my grip prevents it. I feel it more than see it. "Long enough for me to cook for you?"

I can't help but laugh. I have missed her cooking. "I would love that."

"What can I make you?"

I give her my best disapproving scowl. "As if you don't know." When we were together, she was always cooking. I mean _always_. Every day she would prepare an assortment of meals and snacks for me and the boys, but there was one dish that I was always begging her to make for me. Over and over again.

Her nose crinkles. "Chicken enchiladas."

I nod.

She takes to her feet and tilts her head. "With green sauce."

"You know it."

She leans closer to me. "Extra cheese?"

I stand beside her. "Is it wrong that I'm so turned on?"

"What else?"

I match her move, leaning in until our lips are barely touching. "I want some of that Spanish rice you make and the refried beans on the side, and chocolate chip cookies for dessert."

Her face breaks into a gorgeous grin, lighting her eyes, her face, my heart. The room. "You don't want much, do you?"

Pulling her into me again, our lips touch. Deeply. Slowly. Pouring all the pain and longing, the suffering and worry, the deep abiding love I'm drowning in, into this precious connection. Pouring myself into her as her hands rake into my hair, gripping it by the roots in a move so familiar I forget it's never going to happen again.

She stops. My eyes open.

"Aren't you hungry?"

"Do bears shit in the woods?"

Gracie giggles. "Yes, I believe they do."

"You have your answer, then."

She plants a great smacking kiss on my mouth. "I missed you like crazy." Tugging on my arm, she adds, "Now, let me feed you."

We talk while I watch her cook, making easy conversation as she prepares the chicken and roasts the green chiles, tomatillos, and onions for the sauce. I'm sitting on a stool at the kitchen island, watching her shred cheese and trying to think of every question I've ever wanted to ask but never could.

"Were you scared?"

Grace looks up from her work. "Of dying?" I nod. "Kind of, but mostly I was worried about Ethan. I needed him to be okay." She smiles widely, "And he is."

"Did you know you were going to die?"

Her bottom lip quivers ever-so slightly. Gracie sighs, "Not until it was happening."

"What was it like?"

"Falling. Slowly falling into a sleep so deep that you can't even dream." Her eyes go misty and it makes my chest tighten.

"Does it bother you that Ethan will never know you?"

Grace sets the glass bowl of shredded cheese aside and rests her hands on the countertop between us. "Yes. But I sing to him every night."

"No wonder he has trouble sleeping, you couldn't carry a tune with a bucket."

Gracie chuckles. "Hey! I'm better than I used to be. I don't know if Ethan hears me, but I'm always there, singing." She nods, affirming her point and then begins assembling the enchiladas.

"What about me?" I ask. "I miss you more than he ever will." It's a terrible thing to say, knowing how she loves him and how she gave everything to save him.

But still true. I've been suffering with no relief in sight since I watched her walk out of my hotel room.

Grace finishes rolling the enchilada she's working on then stops, wiping her hands on the navy colored dish towel resting on her shoulder. Three short green smears. "That's part of what I came to talk to you about."

"Then don't answer." I say, changing my mind as dread wells within me at the thought of her leaving. "Wait until later, until after we eat."

"And dance!" Grace adds with her grin flashing in full force. "I miss dancing with you."

It seems only seconds later we're sitting at the kitchen table, side by side, eating my favorite meal prepared by my favorite person.

One hand holds my fork, the other grips her knee.

The moment I set my fork down, Grace is talking. "Evan, can I ask you for a favor?"

"Love, you can ask me for anything." I jiggle her knee. "Whatever you want, you'll get it."

Gracie sets her index finger on the swell of her cheek. "What if I want the moon?"

"I'll buy a rocket and a lasso."

"The stars?" She looks into my eyes, placing her hand on my cheek. "The real ones."

My face and neck flush with heat, recalling how she'd whisper, _"Stars live in the sky,"_ anytime a person called me a movie star. "They're yours, Gracie. All of them."

"What if all I want is a little bit of forgiveness?"

A second hand comes up to grasp the other side of my face. Now I can't look away. She knew I'd want to and she knew all she had to do was hold me.

"Please. Will you forgive me?"

"For what?" I ask, even though the answer is obvious.

"For not telling you about Ethan. For dying."

I close my eyes. "None of that was your fault."

"You're so mad all the time."

Opening my eyes, I meet the gaze burrowing into me. "I'm angry about a lot of things, Gracie."

Her nose just barely crinkles as both her eyebrows hitch, so I know she's going to ask a difficult question. "Would you forgive yourself, at least? Because I never, not for one single second, blamed you for anything. Ever."

"Who else's fault would it possibly be?"

"Sheri's."

A shiver rolls through me. "Don't say that name."

"I've forgiven her." Grace drops her hands and her gaze falls to my chest.

I take her chin between two fingers and make her look at me. I need to see those eyes the whole time they're here. "That's because you are infuriatingly forgiving and generous." Its what made her so perfect for the never-ending screw-up that is me.

"You said anything I want, Evan. I want forgiveness. Forgiveness for me, for you, and anybody else that needs it. It takes too much energy to hold a grudge and no one even knows it's there except you. I see it on you, Evan. Like a black spot on your heart. It's getting in the way of everything you want. It's stealing the peace you're trying so hard to find."

"You were my peace, Gracie. My home. I've been without them both since you left."

Her eyes fill until great globs of tears wash down both cheeks. "I didn't mean to."

She barely holds back a sob and I try to comfort her, to wipe the tears away, to take back the words, but she won't let me.

"Evan, it was not your fault. She was determined to hurt me. You and I both know that when a person is determined to do something, no matter the cost, they will succeed. The human spirit is a powerful force, Evan. It's the beauty and bane of our existence. For good or for evil, anything is possible when we put our minds to it."

"Alright, Gracie." Hard swallow. "I'll try. I promise."

Her tears slow. That smile I love so dearly resurafaces, warming the room.

"Let's binge on cookies and then you have to dance with me."

The house is graveyard quiet. No music plays, though we sway together in a small circle in the middle of the bedroom—our bodies molded so close they've been reshaped. We are one form, dancing for no reason at all.

"I was always dancing." She whispers. "Sometimes only inside, but I was almost always dancing."

"For someone who did it all the time, you sure were terrible at it." I say and Grace guffaws. "You had no rhythm."

She smacks my shoulder and giggles, nuzzling her head further into me. "You're hilarious."

Her head rests against my chest. My cheek presses against the top of her head, my lips ghost kisses into her hair. I take in her sweet scent as we nuzzle. Every remembered part of her feels so surreal; like a faraway dream of the amazing that fades in waking. A dream I long to live again.

"How often do you visit the cemetery?"

"I don't."

Grace looks up, her puzzled expression meeting my somber one. "Why not?"

"I feel you more inside this house than that musty mausoleum."

She shakes her head. "That sounds terrible. It can't be healthy feeling like I'm around all the time."

I'm about to protest, but I'm uncomfortable here most of the time. This was her home long before it was mine and when she died, the things of mine that remained here after she kicked me out were boxed up and rotting in a corner.

"How is Noah?" Grace asks.

There is no hesitation, only a heavy sigh as I unload all the trouble we've had between us, even my request to have him blame me and the regretful bathroom incident. Grace cringes, but assures me she is well aware that I have physical needs.

"That's another one of those things I need to talk to you about." She notes, before urging me to continue.

After kissing her thoroughly—she tastes of chocolate chips and sweet Grace—I go back to explaining the most recent fight with Noah. Grace is especially interested in January and oddly pleased about the paternity of her baby, even though Noah has made it clear that he intends to help raise it.

"You know, he's not a virgin." I say, and Grace plugs her ears.

I laugh at her as she tries to speak over me. "I don't want to hear it! No, no, no!"

I grab her hands, loving how silly she is. No one around here is silly anymore. "Love, I'll never mention it again."

She gets up on her toes and pecks a kiss on the tip of my nose. "Good."

As we smile at each other, there's a low rumbling noise, but I can't tell where it's coming from. It sounds like it's pouring into the room from everywhere. Grace's forehead creases.

"What is it, love?"

"You're waking up."

"No. No, I'm not." I say, though I'm not sure and notice that the sound has gotten loud enough to determine that it's music.

"I have to go." She shakes her head, blue eyes seeming frantic. "I should tell you—"

"You're not going anywhere." I insist, gripping both her arms above the elbows. "I'll sleep the rest of forever to keep you."

"Stay calm," she says, reaching out a hand and touching my chest. An instant peace flows through me from the spot where she's touching, out to my fingertips, into my legs and feet. My shoulders and head lift with a renewed, light feeling.

"I'll talk and maybe you'll sleep a little longer."

"Will you come back tomorrow?" The answer to this question is cause for concern, but I don't feel it.

"That's ...another thing." Gracie hesitates, biting her lip as she clears her throat. "Evan, it's time to let go."

Shaking my head, I know she's speaking reason. It's something I've struggled with. But having her with me right now, touching her—I can't even fathom where to start.

"How did you let go of Sol?"

Her serious expression softens with relief, though traces of the worry still hang in her eyes. "I don't know. I just did, and then I found you."

My throat feels like its shrinking. "I don't want anyone else."

"Only because you haven't met her yet." I shake my head, vehement. "Evan, it will happen and when it does, you need to be ready or you'll miss out. I mean, _sheesh_! I was married to Sol for thirteen years and it was only a year after he left that I found you. And we were great, weren't we?"

"The best."

She takes both of my hands in hers and looks me squarely in the eyes. "Give Noah some time. He hides behind anger and then lashes out. He did it with me after his father passed. You were the one that brought him back, then. You can do it again, now. He just needs your patient understanding."

I'm not sure what to say; I have never been either of those things.

"I love you, Evan. I will always carry part of you with me." She pats my chest. "But you have to leave me here."

"I don't know how."

"It's a choice." She nods, sagely. "A decision you have to make every single day, dozens of times a day. It's the choice to open up when you want to stay closed-off, it's letting yourself smile and not feel guilty. It's choosing to forget about the losses and focusing on what you've gained. It's saying nice things to yourself and about yourself—to build up instead of tear down. Make the choice not to worry about the parts of life you can't control, and learn to trust yourself again because you are trustworthy, Evan."

Grace's eyes are glossy. She sniffles, pulling me to her in a warm embrace. "Not everyone is out to hurt you, baby. The ones who are will make themselves known in time. Trust your instincts, Evan. Like my Dad used to say, 'walk softly, but carry a big stick.'"

She pulls back to look me in the eye and takes my face in her hands. "You are worthy of all the love and faith I have in you, so don't feel guilty for living. I left everything that matters with you."

The music is suddenly louder and Grace drops her hands, letting me go as a warm electric guitar plays. The riff makes me picture the coiled loops on one of Ethan's springy toys. Springing up and down to the steady beat of a drum, it's stretched taught, yet bounces back into shape.

"Don't leave."

She's further away, calling to me over the music. "God might squeeze but He doesn't choke."

"Grace, don't go. I can't do this alone!"

"You might feel lonely, my love." I hear her say, though I can't see her anymore, "but I promise, you are not alone."

# Chapter 24

"The future belongs to those who believe in their dreams." —Eleanor Roosevelt

A beam of light has found its way into the sanctuary of the canopy bed. Its morning and the noise cancelling ear buds of Grace's iPod are still in my ears. A melodic singer is wailing over how none of us are alone, how there is more to this life than what we know.

Something tugs at the corners of my mind as I listen. When it's over I hit repeat. I've heard this song a thousand times over the years, but for some reason, the three words of the chorus and the opening riff combined with the heavy feeling in my stomach ... burns. Makes my chest want to burst wide open. All at once, my body wrenches out uncontrollable heaves.

The melancholy. Dear God, it's so heavy.

I can't recall the last time I wept, but it wasn't like this: locked in a fetal position, holding myself, my eyes leaking like it's their sole function.

Am I _this_ sad? I have to ask myself, because, truly, a grown man waking up crying... the type of cry I will deny, deny, deny to anyone outside this room. Yet I wouldn't be able to stop if there were unexpected company.

Once the same song has ended and began a half-dozen times, there's a semblance of peace. I feel lighter, if nothing else.

Yanking the ear buds from my ears just in time to hear my cell phone ringing.

Lily's voice is a welcome change. "Hey." She mumbles. "Just a heads up; John is doing one last sweep of the houses and then we're coming back."

"Are—" my voice cracks. I clear my throat to start again. "Is he sure it's safe?"

She sighs. "It's as safe as we can make it. Don't start with me, either. I like staying in hotels and all, but I need to be comfortable. The kids need to be in their own rooms with their own toys. I'm not going to deprive them of that because of some _butthole_ that you know John and his guys are going to catch."

I feel myself smile as she whispers the 'swear-word.' "Such language, from a lady," I tease. "Yeah, too right. John's got a degree in Badass."

"A Masters in Badass-ery." She giggles. "He used to be a Navy Seal and he did some contract work for the FBI and Homeland Security, did you know that?"

"Uh, yeah. He runs the top personal security firm in North America. That's why I hired him."

"How'd you sleep last night?"

"Actually, I slept."

"You finally took an Ambien?"

"No. No meds. I just... fell asleep." I shrug, even though she can't see. "Like magic."

"Speaking of magic, I dreamt about Grace last night."

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I recall that Lily once told me that she's never had a dream about her. "What was it about?"

"Nothing, really. We talked, drank coffee the same way we used to, but it felt so real. She was her normal goofy self. Said she missed me and the boys. She asked me to look after you. I woke up crying."

There's a sharp twinge in my chest.

A raunchy fart sound bursts over the line and Lily gasps. "Oh Lord, take that to the other room!"

"A bit gassy, eh?"

She's laughing. "Evan. Marcus bought Caleb and Ethan whoopee cushions." As she says it, I hear more fart sounds in the background proceeded by conspiratorial chuckles.

"Well, farts are funny. I don't care what anyone says."

"Would you believe that after the first fifty times, fake flatulence begins to lose its charm? I am very close to strangling my husband. No couch or chair is safe. I've been standing all morning."

I'm at the bathroom sink, drying my face and nearly bust a gut laughing.

"Anyways, we're coming home after breakfast, but I wanted to talk to you without the extra ears, if I could."

"About what?"

"You and Noah and the not talking."

Chapter 25

"Tell me and I forget. Teach me and I remember. Involve me and I learn."—Benjamin Franklin

Here's something no one should ever say to Lily: "you are right," even when it's clearly the case. She eats that shit up.

Seeking resolution has me back at LAX, headed for Berkeley before she, Marcus, and the boys are even checked out of their hotel.

In a little more than two hours I will be in San Francisco.

Before boarding, though, I make a point to use a secure internet connection in the first class lounge to download a file that John sent me a while back.

The background information took weeks to get because January had her record sealed when she turned eighteen. John advised me not to be concerned over it. He said a lot of people seal their records after they reach adulthood, even if there's nothing to hide. I don't know if I agree. I had mine sealed for that very reason: to hide.

I was originally planning to talk with Noah about her rather than going behind his back. But he and I are on the outs and January seems so very in with him, I've no choice but to be well-informed before our talk.

My mind goes back to the night of Ethan's birthday party; when I spoke to January. She was so vague... It's not what it looks like." "I've been through some stuff..." "Noah is helping me."

While waiting for my flight to be called I forward the information from my laptop to my Blackberry. Even my iPad screen is too big. Even with the privacy display screen, there's no guarantee that someone won't nose-in over my shoulder. Once I'm sure that I've downloaded the entire file, I pack up everything and make my way to my seat with plenty of time to settle in before takeoff. As the plane begins to fill, I set my hat low and turn my back towards the window, anxiously reading. John said in his email that there wasn't much information on her so the report doesn't take long to go through.

* * *

Noah's place in Berkeley is a single-story, California bungalow style home, the type that is so commonly found in and around San Francisco. The place was built in 1942. Of course I had it thoroughly renovated inside and out before he moved-in, and paid for the landscaping, as well. A detached garage sits just behind the house at the end of a long driveway.

When I arrive, there are no visible cars. I park on the driveway even though the curb is clear. Street parking is public, and should anyone catch wind of my arrival, I don't want them blocking the car to prevent my leaving or taking pictures of the interior. I left Drew at the airport knowing that Noah had a detail on him and January. He doesn't need to bear witness of this conversation. Hell, I don't even want to.

Palms trees of varying size line the front yard and a row of hedges surround the high steps which lead to the front porch of the yellow and white home.

The moment I knock, Nigel starts barking. I'd recognize his high-pitched racket anywhere. Gracie loved him. He was her birthday present from me. A second, markedly different joins Nigel before the third sound rages against the other two a feminine voice. January, silencing the dogs as the front door opens. She peers from the other side of the screen a little longer than necessary.

I hope my face is calm. I don't feel calm. She hesitates before unlocking the glass door to invite me inside.

Nigel, the black and white Pomapoo, wags his spiraled tail and paws up my leg. His curly fur is soft as silk. He also bears a strong floral smell, so I put my nose to his and greet him, scratching behind his ears while making the compulsory apology to January, and ignoring the second small animal tht won't top barking at me. "Sorry I didn't call ahead."

January's wearing black yoga pants and a large pink smock that covers her baby bump, with water spots down the front. "It's fine," she waves dismissively, "I was just finishing up washing the dogs." Her hair is pinned up inside a clear plastic cap. I can tell by the black goo underneath that I've caught her dying her hair.

I point to my own hair that could honestly use a good scrubbing as there are still a few parts on the sides that have held onto those grey and white streaks that were painted in for filming. "Dying your roots?"

January looks down and to the right almost blushing. "Yep. A necessary evil."

"Black isn't your natural color, then?"

January chuckles, turning towards the kitchen, and waving for me to follow. "I do my roots every two weeks." She stops in front of the refrigerator and turns back, pointing at her own face. "My lashes are blonde, see?" She blinks and flutters her lids, hiding a smile. She's trying really hard to be charming. Too hard, maybe.

My hand mindlessly pats the inside pocket of my jacket, where I've stowed my mini-tablet with the file on January, or should I say _Elise Wilkinson_.

"Is Noah about?" I ask.

She's peering inside the refrigerator. "He's supposed to be back any minute. He had the breakfast shift at work this morning, but was off at eleven."

I search for the nearest timepiece mounted on the wall of the dining area behind me. The clock is shaped like a black and white cartoon cat. The feline's giant eyes tick from right to left. A dial on the belly reads eleven-thirty-one.

"Can I offer you something to drink? Coffee, tea? Water?" She grins, "We've got ice-cold apple juice."

"Coffee would be wonderful, thank you." I answer and then swipe a seat at the dining table that separates the open living room from the kitchen.

"One coffee, coming up." January says, busying herself.

The kitchen cupboards are chocolate brown with white quartz countertops. The sink area is cluttered with used towels and a bottle of dog shampoo. There are other bottles that look like beauty products or perfumes littering the area near the table. And a purple hair dryer with diffuser attached. She did say she was in beauty school.

The kitchen smells of coffee and flowers. Nigel is now lying on my feet beside his little friend, a smaller, brown and black mottled fur ball. The little tag attached to the new additions collar has the oddest name printed on it.

January is hauling over my coffee, a sugar bowl and spoon when I ask, "What kind of name is Fatty Lumpkin? And thank you, by the way."

January maneuvers back to the refrigerator, removing a small carton of cream. Passing it off to me she asks, " _Haven't you ever read Lord of the Rings_?"

"Not since I was a boy." I take the proffered cream and begin fixing my coffee.

"When the hobbits leave the Shire, they take that shortcut through the forest, remember? They met that weird guy, Tom Bombadil? He had a pony name Fatty Lumpkin. It was the one he rode when he rescued the Hobbits from the Barrow Downs."

"Ah. Naturally, you've chosen to name that thing," I point down to the odd-little animal that's still parked at my ankles, "after his majestic steed."

The dog, Fatty, is thin and rather ugly. He looks to be part Chihuahua. He's got the ears that stand at attention but they're way too large for his tiny head and small snout. He'll take flight if gets caught in the breeze. His front legs and tail are sticks like a Chihuahua as well, but his back legs are mismatched— too thick for such a small dog. And his body is too long, kind of like a Weiner dog.

January points, "He's smiling at you."

I examine the small dog that's sitting beside a sleepy Nigel. His giant ears are pointed with attention. Honestly, they're huge. "He looks like a bat. Or a rat; 'Master Splinter' might've been a more appropriate name." And his under bite, even with his mouth closed he showing the entire row of bottom teeth. "Okay, that sort of does look like he's smiling."

Just then, Fatty stands and walks in small circles. He goes round and around, completing three full circuits before sitting back down where he started.

"What was that all about?" I ask the dog as if he'll answer.

January laughs and gently pats his back. "Fatty can't turn left."

I give her a critical look.

"Honest to goodness, I've never seen him go left. And we've had him . . ." her eyes narrow in thought, "about three weeks now."

The buzzing sound of a timer interrupts our conversation, making January jump. "Oh! That's for my hair. I gotta rinse this crud out." She stands and walks towards the living room. "Make yourself at home, Mr. Matthews," she calls back to me. "Give me twenty minutes. Noah should be back any time, now." Her eyes sparkle as she sprints off down the hall. I hear several doors close and then the high-pitched sound of water running through old pipes.

Once I'm sure she's in the shower, I walk through to the living room, taking a long look at Noah's home. He seems to have done well with it. The floors are striped bamboo. The outer walls of the living room are a subtle green with white trim around the windows and baseboards. The inner walls are white. Fixtures are stainless steel. There's a gas fireplace in the living area. Above the mantle hangs a large, mounted flat screen telly. It all blends very well together.

There's even his mothers' Steinway along the back wall. A black walnut finish reflects the rays of midday sun through the sheer window dressings, drawing my attention to a series of picture frames. Three rows deep and five wide.

Nigel and Fatty, small dogs of unequal cuteness and intelligence mirror my every move. I step, so do they, and then they sit, waiting for the next march.

"You're both very strange." I tell the dogs. Nigel sits and stares while Fatty takes another lap to the right. "Three rights to hang a Louie, eh? Seems a bit much."

Looking back at the collection of frames over the piano, I'm immediately drawn to the framed photo of baby Noah being held by his very young mother. Sixteen year-old Grace adoring her baby boy. _Too young._ Beside that is five year-old Noah sitting on his father's lap. That Solomon, he was a kid is well. The next frame showcases Noah and his mother the day the Caleb was born. Then, Noah and Caleb both sitting beside Grace; it looks like Caleb's first day of school. Then, a picture of Grace standing between Caleb and Noah with their hands on her stomach. She's got a wide grin and sad eyes. Judging by her blonde hair cut into a cute bob and that big round belly housing Ethan—I'd have to guess that this photo was taken shortly before she died.

Another frame in the very back row is a picture of the four of us: Noah, Grace, Caleb and me. We're standing in front of his pick-up, the one we gave him for his sixteenth birthday. But beyond that, lying face down, is a small framed picture. Setting it upright, I see it's a photo is of January, only it doesn't look much like the January I've just seen.

The wallet-sized photo of the girl bears the same sweet smile and she's clearly younger. It's all head and shoulders with a cloudy blue backdrop; like a school picture. Her face is thinner but younger. And her eyes ...they look dull without the contrasting black hair to draw them out. January's natural hair is not simply blonde, but platinum. There's not a spot of makeup on her face, and as she pointed out earlier, blonde eyelashes fan her eyelids. She's wearing a green tank top. Her shoulder bears no colorful tattoos. I wonder if anything might be written on the back of this picture.

But there's no time to check as the knob on the front door jiggles and then both of the damned dogs that have been tracking my every move break away to welcome Noah.

Nigel's tail wags as if it's about to fly off and poor little Fatty just spins in rightward circles. He might do alright on a hamster wheel. I wonder if he really might be legitimately mentally retarded watching how Noah leans over the dog, trying to coax the animal into turning left, but all he does is look confused.

The expression on Noah's face as he walked in was one of absolute contentment. He's happy to be coming home to his pets and his girl.

Fatty loops around Noah's feet while Nigel paws his master's knees. Noah pats each dog on the head. "You guys smell great. Did you get cleaned up?" Nigel barks as if to answer and Noah chuckles.

He holds a small, pink cardboard box in his free hand and calls toward the kitchen without eve noticing me. Or ignoring me.

"Jan, I didn't forget your donuts. You owe me five bucks!" And then he looks, finally finding me standing in his living room. The light in his eyes fades into oblivion. "Hey, Evan. You want a donut?" He holds up the pastry box.

"Maybe later." I say.

"Where's Jan?" He walks into the kitchen.

I follow after him, coming around the corner in time to see him swipe a sheet of paper from the side of the refrigerator and stuff it into the closest drawer.

"She's in the shower. I caught her dying her hair." And I wonder how much more I don't know and what Noah has yet to know about this girl he's so enamored with.

Noah sets the box on the table and then begins picking up the kitchen, winding up the cord of the hair dryer, closing the bottle of dog shampoo and placing it below the sink.

"You neglected to tell me that you two live together."

"Did I?" Noah asks and doesn't even bother to face me, but speaks from over shoulder. "I thought I mentioned it."

"You didn't."

"What brings you by, Evan?"

I want him to turn around to see me when I cross my arms; my rebuff to his aloof manner.

"Well, I would have told you I was coming, but you won't take my calls, you don't answer my messages. How else am I supposed to talk to you?"

Now he turns around. "I have never refused to talk to you."

"Not openly, no. But passively you refuse me at every turn."

"Maybe I've been busy. I am working and going to school you know. That doesn't leave much downtime."

"It has been weeks, Noah. Months of this and I am tired of it."

"I've been busy."

"So it seems. Moving your pregnant girlfriend into your house, no doubt, takes up most of your time. Did she not pass my messages, maybe?

"Don't do that." He directs—his voice like stone.

I raise my eyebrows. "Do what?"

Noah stiffens. "Act," he clarifies.

I have to hold in my laugh. This is not funny. "Act?" I repeat. "What, are you the only one allowed to pretend? Either you're ignoring me or she isn't passing my calls or text messages or emails. So which is it, Noah?"

He turns to wipe down the counter, using damp dog-towels to soak up invisible drops of water. He gathers the dirty linen and very casually he informs, "I'm going to let Jan know I'm home. Excuse me for a minute."

So damn polite.

Settling in, I take my spot back the dining table and grab a pink frosted cake donut from the pastry box to dip inside my tepid coffee. A quick rap on a door sounds from down the hall, followed by Noah's rumbling voice but I can't make out what he's saying.

Moments pass and I figure this is as good a time as any to take out my tablet and open the file John sent. It's better to rip the bandage off at once—find out who January, or Elise, really is.

When Noah comes back into the kitchen, little doggies in-tow. He takes a seat across from me, folding both hands on the table. "What did you come to talk about, Evan?"

"Will you be coming home for Christmas or have you made other plans?"

"I plan on going down and staying for a few days." He nods. "Anything else?"

"We'd like you to bring January, as well. Providing that . . ." I direct his attention to my tablet and slide the device in front of him, "...this information is not a problem."

Noah glances at the screen which shows the first page of report on January. "What is this?"

"John got it for me and I think you should read it."

"No, Evan, I don't want to." he isn't looking at the screen, but at me.

"Go on," I urge him, "Look at it. I brought it for you."

Noah's mouth turns down at the corners. A look of pure disdain washes over the blank one I've been staring at. "That might be what you told yourself, but that is not the reason. This whole visit, this is all for you. You want to make yourself feel better."

"I came here to help you and you need to listen. Elise Wilkinson—that is her real name." My voice is low, conscious of the girl that is just down the hall. "She is twenty-years old. From Reno, Nevada."

"I already know that."

"Did you know that Elise went missing from Reno last year?"

Noah closes his eyes.

"Read the background report," I whisper, tapping the tablet's sleeping screen.

He keeps his eyes closed. "She is a good person. I trust her." Noah's quiet bearing makes me want to proceed with caution.

"You may be right, Noah. She seems like a very nice girl, but this report tells me that you're most likely wrong."

He shakes head.

"I'm trying to protect you. You've pushed your entire family away and now you've got this girl _living_ in your house? That means she's got access to your personal information."

"I trust Jan."

"How long has she been here?"

Noah crosses his arms and shrugs, "A few weeks."

"And you're helping her?"

"Yes."

"Monetarily?"

He eyes me with renewed focus. "She won't take my money."

"Of course she won't." I want to add, "Because that's the quickest way to it," but that would only spark a fight.

"You've read this thing?" He asks and I nod. "Doesn't mean that you know her."

"I worry that I know her better than you."

"I doubt that."

"Has she told you that she was charged with attempted solicitation? You know that's code for prostitution."

Noah rockets from the chair, his face washed in fury. "Take that back." The order is hissed through clenched teeth.

I'm standing now as well. "What is going on with you?" I hiss back.

"Take it back or leave, Evan."

"Why are you protecting her?"

He's furiously quiet.

"Could you try to see this from my perspective? Something is wrong here, Noah. Sincerely wrong. After what's happened to this family you can't ask me to risk anything more. Don't you understand? I am protecting you!"

"Well you have a shitty way of showing it!"

It's almost funny— we're having a genuinely heated argument in whisper-shouts.

"How is that? Coming all the way here, shedding light on some questionable circumstances? I'm not judging her for her choices, Noah."

"That is exactly what you're doing and you don't know a damn thing about what she's been through!" He is sincerely pissed, beating against his chest with each word.

"Because you refuse to tell me!" It comes out at full volume.

Noah's unfazed, shouting back. "I love her, Evan. And I will do whatever I can to help her. To give her what she needs!"

Dogs are barking now, adding to the screaming match.

"If she needs a place to crash, she is staying here. If she needs clothes, I am buying them. If she needs money, it's hers. If she needs a ride, I'll buy her a car. Do you get it?" He shouts. "If she wants my heart on a freaking pike she's got it! So don't come here with some file of bullshit, because you know better than anyone that knowing facts about a person is not the same as knowing who they are. Inside. And I know who January is."

"Noah?"

Speak of the devil.

January is standing in the living room. She is fully dressed, but her hair is wet. "You need to tell him."

Noah looks back to her. "No. It's okay, Jan."

"Noah," his name is a small admonishment. "He has a right to be concerned."

"We don't owe him any explanations." Noah is talking to her but his eyes are back on me.

"You can't fight with your family over me. I'm not worth it."

"I agree." Weighty silence fills the air while Noah glare. And I realize, belatedly, what I've said, and so must amend it. "I agree with the first bit, obviously not with the addendum."

January throws her hands up. "Since I'm the problem here, I should be the one to explain it."

Noah seems to charge, taking in a deep breath he goes from angry pink to seething red.

Taking the cue, I clear my throat. "January, I apologize if I've offended you in any way. That wasn't my intention. I simply meant to say—"

January raises her hand toward me—a gesture to stop. "It's alright Mr. Matthews. Have a seat."

Though she ignored the apology, it seems to be enough for Noah, as he's no longer colored by anger. It looks like something else now—distress. "Jan, this is none of his business."

"It is, though." She says, gently taking his outstretched hand. "You're fighting about me and I can't let you."

January pours a fresh cup of coffee for each of us before settling in at the dining table beside Noah. "You remembered the donuts." She gives a small smile, staring at the pink pastry box. "I guess I owe you five dollars."

Noah shakes his head as I think this is some sort of inside joke between the two of them.

"You gotta stop betting against me," he tells her.

January looks as if she wants to argue, but instead turns to me. Staring from across the table, her eyes are filled with a strong mix of emotion.

"This isn't an easy story to tell, but I owe it to you both. This affects you Noah, so it affects your family." She takes a deep breath. "You might not like me at the end, but try to remember ... I never wanted to hurt anybody."

* * *

By the end of her account, I've gone completely still. I'm flabbergasted. I owe this woman a huge apology.

"January. I've completely misjudged you." I'm shaking my head, pleading. "Please accept my sincerest apologies and know that anything you need— it's yours."

I stand from my spot at the table and push my chair in, looking down at Noah, who's kept his eyes averted this whole time. I don't think he's actually spoken since January began. I address him now. "I understand and I won't interfere anymore. I'm sorry ... for the way I approached this and for jumping to conclusions."

"Noah?" January puts a small hand to his shoulder. To me she says, "Thank you, Mr. Matthews, for understanding."

"Thank you, for trusting me. You're a strong woman, January. Don't forget that."

She shakes her head, rolling her eyes. "Whatever." A small smile lights her face though her eyes are still glassy. "I suck at," she sighs, "you know, the whole using words thing."

Noah finally turns to her. "Well you better practice your sign language, then." He looks to me. Meeting my gaze, he says, "I have homework to do, so ...."

This send-off feels a bit rough, but after everything I've just learnt I have no desire to stick around and try to make awkward conversation. I mean, honestly, what the hell am I supposed to say? Her story's left me moderately uncomfortable to say the least. Obviously, we all are, and Noah's abrupt dismissal offers a way out.

"Well, I'm having a car delivered later this afternoon. But you'll call me, yeah?"

Noah nods and it looks mindless, but then he looks at me. Straight in the eye. "We'll talk soon."

# Chapter 26

"You wouldn't be who you are without all the difficult times. Be thankful even during the trials." —Joel Osteen

Drew meets me on the tarmac in a blue Ford Taurus and I know immediately why. He drives us out a side entrance to avoid the paparazzi at the curb. They've gathered around the usual ride and occasional decoy, the Range Rover, driven by Dean who's escorting Marcus.

Once I'm well away from the airport, I give Marcus a ring to let him know all is well. We talk for a bit, bantering back and forth until he's back at home and I'm still stuck in bloody traffic. Once we hang up, I call Caleb. He's in good spirits, still enjoying those whoopee cushions. I pass along a few ideas for hiding places and then he hurries off the line to implement them.

Traffic has come to a standstill. It's Sunday, which is to be expected. LA traffic is a bleedin' nightmare every day. The freeways are almost always jammed. I try and make a point to never venture out into it, but that's simply not reasonable. Most everything one needs to get to in this sprawling city is only accessible by freeway. I use the time to check my email.

There's a note from John. He's got the lab results of my DNA test. Naturally, I want to hesitate, to avoid opening the attachment that very well may give me life-changing news. But I've thought on this quite a bit over the last few days. I may be angry with Harry after the way he approached me, but having a lecherous bastard for a father is better than a rapist.

The scenery outside my window is crawling past as I tap the screen to open the lab results. A raucous scene from one of those glorified circuses they call daytime television plays through my head as I decipher the listed data—information that tells me, unequivocally, the identity of my biological father.

It is not Jeffery Poynter, the man named on my birth record.

* * *

As we inch near a particular section of freeway, I feel a mix of relief and confusion. Then bid Drew to take the next exit.

The Taurus skates out of vehicular bedlam while I text Eric, asking that he touch base with that reporter, Eugene Cling, whose Bronco I bought, to let him know I will be late for our meeting. If it's too much of an inconvenience he can reschedule. Eric texts back as the sedan pulls into the church parking lot, letting me know any delay is not a bother as Eugene is also stuck in traffic.

Drew shuts off the engine and catches my eye in the rearview. I wonder if I look different to him, but that's just nonsense. Drew is simply waiting for instruction. The parking lot is heavily sprinkled with cars, which is to be expected at any hour on a Sunday, I suppose.

"Come on, then." I shake my head.

I've always come to see Tony alone. The times Drew was with me, he waited outside without complaint. I'm quite sure he would this time as well, except I've this feeling of culpability over leaving him out of the loop the last few days. He's been hired to protect me and I haven't made it easy in any capacity. And since there are undoubtedly dozens of people inside, it only seems right that I bring him along.

"Remember this is a church."

His mouth stays put, but his eyes light. "Sorry to disappoint you, but this isn't my first rodeo. I grew up in church."

"Oh, I assumed you were a heathen like the rest of us. What denomination?"

"Nondenominational."

"Like this one?" I point at the fifty foot golden cross that juts up into the sky from the pinnacle of the airplane hangar sized building.

"Not at all like this one."

"Bigger?" I ask as we pass through the main doors into the wide lobby.

"The complete opposite." Drew says with all seriousness, heading to the main sanctuary. I wait while he pulls the wide wooden door open.

I don't walk through, though. The moment I get a look at the gathered mass of parishioners standing in front of their padded chairs with hands raised high and their voices lifted in song, I step away and urge Drew to close it.

There's no way to explain this uncomfortable feeling, except to just come out with it. "It's one of those happy-clappy moments."

Drew lets the door swing shut.

The scene takes me back to the few times I attended with Grace and the boys. She wasn't a regular attendee, but did offer her services through the church's many charitable groups.

Things shift into awkward as I'm standing off to one side of the entry, suddenly unsure what to do and unclear as to why I even walked toward the sanctuary to begin with. I just did it without thinking. When I come here, it's to talk with Pastor Tony and his office is in the back. I never veer to this end of the building, but Drew wouldn't know that and he was the one I followed inside.

Drew clears his throat. "Mind if I hit the head while we're waiting?" He nods toward the restroom door that is less than twenty feet away.

"We were in traffic for quite some time." I reason, waving my hand in invitation. "By all means, handle your business."

I'm sort of lost on where to wait, but settle for a spot in one of the sitting areas near the closed coffee bar in the empty foyer and rest my head on the back of the couch assuming Drew will find me easily when he's done. Since there's a service going on Tony is probably too busy to speak to me. He usually makes time when I pop-in, but I don't think that's possible if he's on the platform. When Drew comes out, we'll take an alternate route over to the beach house.

There is nothing, save the resonance of the church music muffled by the closed sanctuary. Even so, I sense a slight shift in the air. Like someone is there. I open one eye to take a peek.

There's a fella with dark wavy hair and the hearty beginnings of silver patches on each side. He wears a dark suit and a big dumb grin. I straighten up and nod in recognition of my company. Pastor Tony does likewise, taking a seat in the chair opposite me.

"How are you doing this evening?" His tone rambles slowly in his subtle southern drawl.

Most times, when I hear that twang in someone's voice, I imagine banjo music in the background but never with Tony.

"Good, I suppose, and you?"

He pauses a little too long before answering. "Pretty good. Were you planning to join us for evening worship?" He wipes his palms across his lap before reaching out to shake my hand.

I respond likewise. "Spur of the moment visit. I didn't even realize you held services so early on Sunday nights. I figured an eight o'clock start time."

"Oh, no. We run three services on Sundays. We're all sewn up by eight-thirty at night. Most folks get up early the next morning."

We make menial conversation about the traffic and then fall quiet. For some reason, I feel nervous. Is it because church is happening and I refuse to participate?

Then Tony says, "We need to talk."

And his tone—I don't like it at all. No one wants to hear a church pastor go all serious like that. I'm half-hoping he'll ask for a picture or autograph for a relative.

"About what, specifically?" I've got to sound like the world's biggest tool. I'm on his turf. I've dropped by unannounced and I'm the one asking him what he wants to talk about.

He gives an awkward smile and laughs a little. "I saw you sitting here and felt ... _prompted_ to come speak with you."

"Is that so?"

He shifts in his seat. "I should probably tell you that this sort of thing always makes me uncomfortable, but if the Lord saw fit to use a mule to deliver a message I see no reason for Him not to use me. I like to think I'm smarter than a donkey."

"And you've got opposable thumbs as well." I make a show if wriggling mine, attempting to ease the odd tension between us. It's never been there before, but Pastor Tony has never gotten all _churchy_ on my before, either. Only a matter of time, I suppose. He is after all, a reverend, first and foremost.

"There is something I have to tell you, Evan, and—fair warning—it may leave you thinking I'm a crazy person."

"If you want my autograph, all you have to do is ask." He laughs and the tension eases a bit. I wave him on. "Give it to us, then."

I have been confronted by this type of thing before. Everybody always has something to say: advice is the limelight's most plentiful resource. Too bad most of its useless. A word of 'wisdom' about my life and career from someone who thinks they know me better than anyone because they have seen some behind the scenes type of show on telly over and over and they can "totally relate." Or someone who wants to assure me, they love _me_ "for who I am," no other reason. All usually followed by some type of homemade gift. It's the exact kind of crazy bullshit I never expected from Tony _._

"I am going to tell you the way it was given to me, okay?"

"I can't wait."

"First, I should tell you that I know there are things in your life that you're struggling with, and I get the distinct impression that the time for struggle is coming to an end. But in order for that to happen you need to deal with one specific issue or the problems that stem from this issue will continue to spread to other areas of your life. Spread like an infection."

"We've talked about my addictions together."

"This has nothing to do with any issues we've discussed. This relates to something more personal, something you never told anyone, except maybe Grace."

A weird knot tightens my stomach as one hand reaches for my eyebrow. "So, what is this problem, oh great Yoda?"

He chuckles. "God didn't tell me and honestly it's none of my business. What I do see is that God has given you nearly everything you've ever asked Him for—that's more than most of us ever get—and you're still not happy." He shuffles forward in his chair. Leaning towards me, he asks, "Why do you think that is?"

"How should I know? I'm not even sure God is real, you can't ask me about His character." By this point I'm moderately entertained and mildly irritated and that—I assume—forces the lie. Because I cannot look into the faces of my children and honestly doubt the existence of a Creator. If I'm being honest, looking at them is the only time I'm sure that there is someone up there, somewhere. Their perfection had to come from some place and it certainly wasn't from me.

"Evan, you use pride to reject people, or circumstances you don't like. It's automatic, without even thinking, but that's okay. I knew you'd write me off before I sat down.

"You are the hotheaded type, in temperament and lifestyle." He rubs his hand across his chin as if he has given this a great deal of thought.

"Is that the whole of your divine message for me—that I'm an arrogant hothead?"

"That part was a personal observation. But let me ask you this: is that pride based in self-worth or are you pretending it is?"

My first thought: who the hell does this guy think he is?

After a deep breath I find that, surprisingly, I'm not angry. For some reason I have no desire to dismiss him. I'm intrigued at this frank discussion, so I say the second thing to pop into my head. "How does one measure their own value? Isn't that a parents' job—to teach their children how valuable they are?"

Tony nods.

"My life is crazy right now and you're right in that you don't know the half of it."

"The more you've got, the more that's expected from you. I like the phrase, 'With great power comes great responsibility.'" He says with all seriousness.

"You're quoting _Spiderman_? Seriously?" I scoff and laugh at once.

"Technically, it was Uncle Ben's line. He said it to Peter right before he was killed. But yes, it is from the _Spiderman_ movie with Toby McGuire. The source of the quote does not detract from the truth of the message. Truth is truth, no matter where you find it."

He shrugs and grins. "But I've delayed long enough, so here's the last of your message: Walk softly and carry a big stick."

"Okay... what's that supposed to mean?"

"That's for you to figure out." He moves his hands as if dusting them off, shaking off the responsibility. "I'm just a messenger."

"God Almighty has told you pass along two utterly vague and unoriginal phrases? I could easily apply either one to any given situation."

Tony's eyes smile though his expression remains serious. "His ways are not our ways. He doesn't promise understanding, only that He's got our back when we need Him." He stands from his chair. "I better get moving. That sermon won't preach itself."

I thank him for the advice and watch as he goes. He tips his head to Drew standing a ways off. I wonder how long he's been there and if he overheard. And if he did hear the conversation, what does he think about it?

It's literally confusing. But Tony's "message" carries a strange sense of something I can't put my finger on.

To have more means more responsibility. This is undoubtedly true, but in what way am I to take it? Don't I spend every minute of every day dealing with my responsibilities?

And then there's the gem: Walk softly and carry a big stick. A fortune cookie phrase. How is this supposed to help me?

Walk softly. Carry a big stick.

I know what the phrase implies, but what is it supposed to mean to me? How does it apply to my life, if it even applies at all?

Pushing the confusion to the back of my mind, I follow in Tony's path and meet Drew in the middle of the foyer. If he overheard anything he's good at hiding it.

# Chapter 27

"Confidence is 10% hard work and 90% delusions." —Tina Fey

"I don't know, my lad."

I'm trying not to think on my own dilemma. I'd rather concentrate on Caleb's, which is actually solvable. "If I think of any more creative places to hide the whoopee cushion, I'll text you."

Caleb is laughing and the sound relaxes me. "Okay."

"Perhaps it's wiser to lay-off a while, let your aunt relax. Then, when her guard's down, you'll get her good."

Caleb fervently agrees to the plan. We say our goodbyes after I reassure him that I will be going home after this next meeting. I've only got to wait for Eugene to get here. Then inspect the car, take formal possession, and be on my way.

We haven't got the same level of security here as at home—just the one camera at the front gate and another pair at the front and rear doors. After making sure the house is secure, Drew's goes out front to stand at the gate. I'm in the sitting area near the glass wall, watching the waves roll and crash against the shoreline.

My phone vibrates with a text from Drew.

—Eugene Cling to see you.

After texting Drew to let him pass, I open the front door and wait.

From the corner of my eye I catch the tall figure of a man at the foot of the driveway and scoff, wondering why there's a damned reporter parked outside the gate. But it doesn't matter, the Bronco is already inside. Eugene is parking it as I phone Drew.

His line rings through my Bluetooth and also echoes from the yard. I can't place the exact location, only that it's close. His voicemail answers, I hang up and immediately redial.

This is the moment, I think, recalling a portion of the training I received when I first hired John's security firm. "If there is a credible threat," John warned, "and you lose contact with your guard for any reason, no matter how ordinary it seems, you call me directly."

"What if he just misses the phone call?" I had asked. "People do that."

"If you can't reach him, he isn't doing his job. My guys always do their job."

I haven't moved from the porch. I've still got my eyes on the tall figure cloaked in the early evening shadows, standing at the end of my driveway. I thought it was a reporter, then the light shifted.

"Marshall." John answers in his usual clipped way.

"There's a strange man; very tall, light complexion, wearing a gray hoodie at the end of my beach house driveway." John knows what I'm saying. The man in the videos from around the property, the man who left the note on the front door of my family home was nimble, large in stature and wearing a hoodie.

"Where's Drew?" He asks and then directs orders to pull up mine and Drew's location at whomever he's standing with.

"He texted me just a minute moment ago from the front gate, but I've just phoned him and he isn't picking up."

"Clarify, Matthews. Is the man _inside_ the gate?"

"Yes."

"And you are . . ?"

"On the front porch."

"Visible?"

"Very."

"Distance?"

"Maybe twenty yards? He's not moving. He's watching me." Just then, the sound of a car door closing reminds me. "Eugene is here to deliver the Bronco. I think the man must have gotten by the gate when he drove through."

"Get inside. Lock all outer doors and windows. Stay low and out of sight. My guys are on the way and local PD has been dispatched."

"What about Drew?"

"He'll be fine. You're the target. Get out of sight. Get secure and stay on the line."

Through all of this conversation, I hear the background noises around John changing. Doors are closing, wind is blowing, scanners and radios are blaring. He's talking to at least one other person while he listens to me, not missing a bit of information. Adrenaline is like crack, and he's addicted.

By contrast, I'm not moving. It's irritating the way the man is just standing there watching me watch him. If I knew for sure he wasn't armed I'd go over there and invite him to dance.

Not until Eugene and his passenger walk up—both casual and completely unaware of the situation, ignorant that they're in the crosshairs— do I nod for them to go inside and then follow behind without turning away from my watcher. I briefly recall Eugene mentioning his wife at our first meeting, but only because I was surprised he used the word. I pegged him as gay from the minute we met.

After closing and locking the door, I turn to face them and speak into the phone. "We're inside. The door is locked. Eugene Cling and his wife are with me."

"Check. Are there any unlocked windows or doors?"

Eugene begins to talk, but I raise a hand to stop him. "Give me a moment. And don't dare open that door for any reason." Then, tell John, "I'm looking."

I walk in a circle around the ground floor, checking each window in every room. All are closed, locked, and doubly-secured with a wooden dowel. If anyone wants to come in through one, they'll have to break the dual pane glass and set off the burglar alarm.

I relay the information to John and then head back into the living room, asking Eugene, "Did you see that man outside?"

"What man?" The wife says, looking out the front window. She's got long blonde hair and half her face is swallowed by oversized sunglasses.

"The guard?" Eugene asks. "Or the other guy?"

"The other guy."

"Yeah, I saw him."

"Did you see him come through the gate?" I'm impressed with how calm I sound, though my mind is racing. Every window in the common area is closed and neither myself nor Drew has been upstairs since arriving. Everything on the second story should be tied nice and tight.

"Yes," Eugene nods, a casual look painting his features into the picture of relaxed conversation. "The guard let him through. I think they're friends, they were talking together when I pulled up."

"That man talking, is that Eugene Cling?" John asks over the sound of sirens.

"Yes."

"He's in the house with you?"

"Yes," I answer, trying to absorb what Eugene has said. _They were talking? They're friends?_ Have I trusted the wrong person _again_? Is that how this strange man got to my front door? To me and my family? Because one of Johns guys is not who he seems?

The phone is slightly dropped away from my ear, so I almost miss John's low command. "Remain calm and listen. Make an excuse and get upstairs. Now. Go alone. Lock yourself into a room with a window."

"That doesn't seem right." I say, noting that my guests have not moved since coming inside. They haven't asked any worried questions either. The woman is still looking out the window, but Eugene is watching me closely.

Pulling the phone from my ear, I wave a hand, bidding my peculiar guests, "Make yourselves at home. There should be water in the fridge. I'll just be a moment."

Heading into the hallway, I make for the back staircase because there is no mistaking John's seriousness. Still, I'm compelled to ask, "Why?" Why alone? Why not bring Eugene and his wife?

"Move, Matthews. I've already contacted Drew. He was hit over the head by a man that got out of that Bronco."

I'm moving double-time. Up the stairs, down the corridor that connects all the bedrooms. Remembering my instructions, I close all the bedroom doors along the way to the furthest one, at the back of the house.

"Where are you?" John asks.

Something inside me wells up. Defiance. Anger and frustration. Who the hell do I trust? The man I pay to protect me—who is currently failing—or the seemingly clueless stranger downstairs? That question is answered when I hear a banging noise and several voices float up from downstairs. It sounds like the front door opening and closing. One of the voices is a man and it doesn't sound like Eugene.

"The back left bedroom with the balcony that overlooks the beach. There's a trellis covered in ivy that I should be able to climb down, if need be."

"Find a pocket." John instructs, meaning a place to hide, but not one that's barricaded. I have to be able to slip in and out. "Stay put. My team should be there in a few. The police are en route, too. You say nothing unless you hear the password, got it?"

"Got it." I whisper, slinking into the dark space behind an open doorway to the bathroom that joins this bedroom with the one beside it with a door on each end.

"What's the passphrase?" John quizzes.

"Flash."

"And how do you respond when you hear it?"

"Thunder," I whisper, trying to listen for other noises in the house.

"Good." John reiterates, "I'm staying on the line. We're recording this conversation, too. Anything you hear me say from now on, don't respond. Don't move unless you need to. If they find you, hide the phone. Go hands free, but don't hang up."

He keeps talking, offering knowledge and encouragement. The house is very quiet. Too quiet. My breath sounds loud. I make a conscious effort to breathe more quietly and listen.

There's the slightest ruffle of noise. Is it feet pressing into the carpet or just my imagination? I can't be sure. Keeping absolutely still, I focus on staring through the crack at the hinge of the open doorframe I'm hiding behind.

"I'm here." John whispers as a shadow passes before my slim view of the bathroom. The shadow enters the restroom from the other bedroom.

"The police are at the gate. They see Eugene through the front window. The perp and the woman are unaccounted for."

I want to scream into the phone, "No, she isn't! She's lurking right in front of me and she doesn't see me." But that's exactly why I can't say anything. She can't see me yet and I know this shadowy form making its' way through my darkened bathroom is too short to be the hooded watcher.

When her shadow passes the door I'm hiding behind, I have to turn my head to keep an eye on her as she enters the bedroom. I see her long blonde hair with loose curls, the type that ladies call beach waves. Her sunglasses are mounted on her head.

When she turns around, she spots me right away, our eyes locking.

My heart drops from my chest. The shock of recognition rolls through me. "It's you."

John is shooting instructions from the Bluetooth still mounted at my ear, but I ignore him, looking directly at the girl from the café, the nameless girl who subversively coaxed me into the bathroom. The one I disappointed with my brusque dismissal after getting what I wanted.

Footsteps clamor into the hallway as I move from the bathroom doorway toward the bedroom window.

"What's the matter Rhys? Aren't you happy to see me?"

I can't take my eyes off her. Is it the dim lighting or has she always looked so reptilian? She smiles and the hard planes of her face go soft. She looks young and sweet again.

"Don't you remember me?"

Her smile vaporizes when I don' respond and two figures come through the bedroom door.

With my back against the wall, I place my phone in my back pocket and slowly move toward the edge of the window. The girl is talking to the tall man who pulls back his hood as he approaches. When Eugene flips the light switch, I expect enlightenment, but there isn't any. The tall stranger is just that: a very tall man in his early fifties that I have never seen before. His features are rough, as if he's spent too much time in the sun over the years. His features hold no kindness whatsoever. He is a complete stranger. Though, by his initial reaction to seeing me up close, I can tell he thinks we know each other.

"I know who you are." He speaks as if reading the notes he's been sending. "I know what you did." He looks to the girl and then back to me.

Eugene is still standing by the door. He nervously asks, "What are you talking about?"

The window at my back is large, the sill is low and so I easily reach the wooden dowel. It also provides a view to anyone outside who might be looking for me.

The girl is talking to the strange man. "He doesn't remember."

"We'll refresh his memory, Destiny."

The girl, Destiny, flashes a smile but says nothing.

I've got the stick in my hand, holding it along the length of my forearm. It has not escaped my attention that if something happens to me, my family would be destroyed.

"Anyways, he doesn't need to remember," The man says. "He just needs to pay."

"What are you two talking about?" Eugene asks, now laughing nervously. "He already paid for the car." He looks to me, as if assessing me for the first time. "Mr. Matthews, are you alright, you look a little pale."

"He's fine. Aren't you, Mr. Matthews?" The stranger says, obviously not expecting an answer. "Gene, go back downstairs."

Eugene steps toward Destiny. "Why are you in here?"

The stranger takes Eugene by the arm and shoves him towards the door. "I said. Down stairs. Now!"

When he shouts I hear it, the subtle edge of Cockney in his voice. And it isn't a subtle slip, like when Harry shouts at a footy match and his accent thickens on a phrase. His accent comes out full force on the first two words. And I know that he isn't losing his accent, but rather that he's trying to hide it altogether.

Eugene yanks his arm away from the man's grasp. "Whatever is going on here, Destiny and I want no part of it."

Destiny's face pales as she looks to the floor.

"Is that right?" The stranger laughs at Eugene and my grip on the dowel behind my back tightens at the dark sound. "Why don't you tell your big brother how much of a part you don't have?"

At that he takes a phone from his back pocket, unlocks the screen and then tosses it to me. I catch it with my free hand.

"Have a look there, Money Bags, and then we'll discuss how much your reputation is worth."

A video file is cued up and from the first frame, I know exactly what I'm going to find if I play it. "I have no desire to relive the moment."

"So you do remember?" The stranger asks. "But you don't know who I am, do you?"

I examine his features—the strong English jaw, the dark but graying hair, the obvious crow's feet around his mischievous eyes, the dangerous curl to his thin-lipped mouth and leathery skin—and shake my head.

"That's because we never met. But you know the name Jeff Poynter. Don't you?"

Eugene gives up and backs out of the room, but not before he casts a pitiful glance at me and offers parting advice. "Just do whatever he says."

I wish I would have chosen a room at the front of the house. A room on the lower level with a view of the front yard so I could time throwing myself through the glass, because there is no way that these people intend to leave me unharmed. I'm not a small man. I don't mind a fight either. But I've got to play this smart. Help is on the way and I need to buy time.

"Jeff Poynter." I repeat the name. "I've seen that name somewhere ...Oh, on my birth record. Is that what you want me to pay for? Or are you trying to blackmail me with this supposed information?" I hold up the phone with the grainy video and look at the pair of them. "Because either scenario turns out making you two look far worse than me."

"Arrogant bastard." Jeffrey mutters. "You would think that, wouldn't you?"

I shrug, putting out all the confidence I can. "It wouldn't be my first sex tape. It may not go over well, but I'd survive. And all this video really proves is that I was a willing recipient of the lady's services." I glance quickly to a red-faced Destiny and back to my wannabe extortionist. "She made the offer and chose the space. There was no coercion involved, as I'm sure you're accustomed to."

His eyes flicker at the accusation.

"As for who I am; I'll just say you don't have a clue."

My mind is spinning with possible scenarios. Most of them are violent but one is expensive. I have no idea what kind of reaction I should expect as Jeff takes a step towards me.

Destiny puts a hand to his stomach. "Jeff, we came here for money." She looks to me. "Give it to us and we'll leave."

I straighten, feeling my fears strengthen as the sound of Eugene's warning bursts from the hallway. "And if I refuse?"

I don't see him cock his fist back and release. But damn, do I feel it. Like a wall smashing from the front and back simultaneously. Well, there is a wall at my back, so I'm half-right.

Grabbing his collar, I take him with me as I go down and smash my forearm into the shit-eating grin he's wearing. The wooden dowel tucked across my arm knocks out at least one tooth. Blood spews across my chest as his knee connects with my stomach. I make sure to fall into him, trying not to fold over at the massive pain. Bringing my forearm down again, I knock him onto his back and pounce. Pinning his shoulders under my knees I make quick work of two more teeth before the room explodes with color.

# Chapter 28

"If you're thinking about hugging me, don't." —Danny Reagan, Blue Bloods, CBS

One of John's guys is standing with a police officer and my head is in a fog I can't shake. But I know it's one of John's guys. They all wear the same style of dark suit and pencil tie like he does. They're both towering over the small blonde girl, Destiny.

I'm lying on my back with a stranger's hand holding a gauze pad over part of my head while a woman in a blue jumpsuit flashes her pen light into my eyes and bids me to watch her finger. I refuse the collar she wants me to wear and force myself to get up. Taking my time because she recommends I stay down.

Across the room, Destiny throws a fit when an officer puts her in handcuffs. When she sees me, she freezes, then begins talking calm and friendly, asking what is happening and how can she help, like this is any normal conversation, like she wasn't just skulking through my home, searching for me, trying to extort money for God-knows-what.

John's call went out over the police scanner, so of course, there are news trucks out front. Once again the incidents of my life become a story to sell. To spin.

"I don't understand." Eugene is parked on the living room sofa, shaking his head. And I thought I was the actor: he looks genuinely confused as he's placed in handcuffs. "We were invited. We had an appointment. Why are you arresting me?" He makes a frustrated sound when his questions go unanswered. His eyes briefly lock on mine as he's pushed toward the front door. "Don't say anything, Destiny. Not until you talk to a lawyer."

The girl is escorted out ahead of him.

Eric arrived with an open box holding containers of Greek food and flatware. He was supposed to meet us here and must've thought dinner with the deal would be a nice idea. The food remains undisturbed after he sets the box on the kitchen counter, looking worried and confused.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." He's about the tenth person to ask. "I'm going straight to hospital once everything is taken care of here."

"Have you called your lawyer yet?" He offers to do it for me when I respond with a negative.

An officer that's been tucked away in a corner getting the facts from John is now approaching me. He introduces himself with a name I immediately forget, then offers his apologies for our meeting under these particular circumstances.

While giving my side of the events, Marcus arrives. Rather than bursting into the conversation the way Lily would, he hovers in the background, listening to the statement I give the officer.

"How do you know someone let him in the house?" The officer asks, casting a glance at the unmarred doorframe.

"I didn't see who did it, but heard the door open after I locked it. Eugene and that girl, Destiny, were sitting on the couch when I went upstairs. The door's not been busted in, so naturally I assume."

"But you didn't see him move from the end of the driveway?" The officer asks. He's only doing his job but I am bleedin' irritated.

"How could I see him when I was doing what John told me to do?" I gesture to John. "He said go upstairs, alone. Stay out of sight. Stay quiet. So I did."

"But you invited Mr. Cling and his sister over today?"

_His sister ...that's right._ I nod. "Yes, er no, actually. I invited Eugene. He didn't say he was bringing company. My manager, Eric, set up the meeting." I look to Eric who's got a worried expression. John's is calm and unreadable, as always. Marcus seems relieved.

I cross my arms and lower my gaze as I think; my stomach knotting over the possibilities. Will everyone's opinion of me change when they see the video? "How old is the girl, Destiny?"

"Quite young, I'd say." Marcus answers and I'd like to throttle him.

He knows about the bathroom incident. We frequented that café on many occasions. When I initially told of my idiocy, he simply nodded because he knew exactly which girl. He witnessed a half-dozen propositions.

Thankfully, the attending officer looks to the pad in his hand and not me. After flipping back a few pages, he states her birth date and then mutters. "According to Destiny, she turned eighteen a few months back."

_A few months_. I want to know exactly how many months. Four months? Eight? I'm full-on bummed if it's less than six.

"Where is the other guy?" My jaw feels swollen. I pat at it, searching for other tender spots. I don't remember getting hit, but I don't reacall the Calvary bursting down the corridor, either.

John informs me that Poynter's already been taken into custody and I want to ask if they know who he is to me, or who Poynter thinks he is.

I am so bloody grateful for that paternity test.

Marcus leans in. "We should be getting on. Let the lawyers handle this mess. You can't give any more fuel to the possible fire."

"Only me?" I'm not the asshole making leading remarks.

Still, he's right. I don't know if the cops have seen the video, but they've bagged the phone as evidence so it's only a matter of time. I'll need my lawyers to answer questions from now on.

"Destiny. That's a nice name." Eric remarks and then he and _Officer Friendly_ begin nattering back and forth about the difficulties of raising girls. Apparently they both have daughters and neither of them was allowed to participate in choosing a name.

I literally could not care less.

Marcus pats my shoulder. "Ev, John is taking you to a physician. I'll be checking-in with Drew, see how he's getting on."

Nodding to John, I agree. "Yeah, let's go."

"I'll wait for the lawyer and then join you at the hospital." Eric says and then Marcus offers to wait with him.

The moment the door of the car closes, John is asking, "You knew her?" He's driving by the time I answer, his gaze cutting between the road and my reflection in the rearview mirror.

"Yes." I lean further into the seat and sigh at the headache building from the lump on my noggin.

"How?"

"It will be in the police report, I'm sure."

He catches my eye in the mirror but says nothing.

A myriad of curses flows through my head. It frustrates me to no end having to admit the danger I've put myself in. But I do it anyway, offering all the sordid details in short form since the hospital's not far off and John deserves to know the truth about the kind of man he's protecting.

We park in the back and enter through an unmarked doorway that John somehow has a key and a code for, then enter the first elevator we find. "Did you ask if she was legal?"

"I assumed she was; she made the offer every time she saw me over a period of months."

The elevator pings. As the doors open to the tenth floor, John mutters. "Well, damn, Matthews. But don't worry, I've got your back."

I'm relieved, thanking him with a nod as we walk into the waiting area of the doctor's office where my personal physician is standing.

* * *

"Doctor says I'm fine." My announcement is aimed at the worried expressions of Eric and Marcus. "I knew I was fine."

"Eddie and Moira are watching the residence. They'll be relieved at midnight by Rutledge and the new hire." John says into his Bluetooth as our mass moves up the corridor toward Drew's room.

Eric, John, Marcus, and myself are all gathered around the doorway as John relays the news of Drew's concussion. "They're keeping him overnight for observation." We're all staring through the door, watching him sleep.

"I don't know about you lot, but I could use a strong drink." Marcus says, looking into Drew's room.

"That's sounds good, doesn't it?" Eric sighs, looking down at the bags of the cold Greek food he brought.

They all look to me. "What? You want to drag me to a bar? No, thank you."

John chuckles, "That's a good sign."

"Wanker," Marcus elbows me, "Spoiling things for the rest of us."

"You may imbibe all you like. I'll stay with Drew." I walk into the room and take the chair beside his bed.

John grabs the chair by the door, moving it to the opposite side where he can stare at the lopsided bandage on Drew's head. "There's no family in the immediate area."

"They can go have their drinks. We'll be here when he wakes up."

# Chapter 29

"My father didn't tell me how to live. He lived, and let me watch him do it." — Clarence Budington Kelland

Nurses made us leave when visiting hours ended.

They said if we were immediate family, we could stay. I started to tell the night nurse Drew was my lover, but Eric's insistent denial gave it away. He was convinced the news would leak. "When you hire a PR firm, you can say whatever you want to whomever."

Not long after we moved to the nearest waiting room, Caleb started texting, asking when I was coming home. That was all it took to talk me and Marcus into leaving.

It's been an unreasonably long day. I'm exhausted. Still, there's a smile on my face at the sight of Caleb and Ethan together on my bed.

The lights are off. The television is on. Fluorescent puppets dance and sing about primary colors as Ethan bounces along to the beat, rapt in the kiddy program. Caleb finds the show too elementary for his attentions. He's looking quite bored with his hands resting behind his head, leaning up against the headboard, his eyes looking past the telly.

A blistering wind booms from under the covers when I collapse onto the mattress and Caleb bursts with laughter. The whoopee cushion strikes again and I laugh along, appreciating how clever he's become.

Cuddling up beside my boys is the best part of the day. The week.

I adjust the pillows and lay down, lower the volume of the television show, reveling in the peace of coming home to my family. The complex simplicity that is being a father washes over me. It's a peace that never existed until I first held my boys. For this, I'll always be thankful.

The problems we face, the issues yet to be resolved, they fade into the background. Still there, but in this moment with Ethan in my lap and Caleb tucked into my side I feel as if I've got the world at my feet instead of on my shoulders. I don't mind the trouble at all if it means I get to keep them.

Ethan shifts and babbles in short bossy sentences at Caleb and I, even at the cartoony characters on telly while Caleb regales me with the play-by-play of torturing his aunt with fake farts.

My sides ache with laughter watching Ethan climb all over Caleb and me, trying to tickle us—which of course he isn't, but it's such a privilege to watch him grow and try new things like this. It's encouraging.

Ethan finally rests his head on my chest, his little legs sprawling down my stomach. Caleb tucks himself under my arm. In that moment I am convinced that being a dad is the meaning of life, the fountain of youth, and the secret to the universe all rolled up in one. Having moments like these filled with love and hope and promises of a future, it's as if I've been waiting my whole life for them. And I know beyond all reason and doubt that this is worth every shitty moment I had to go through to get here.

Every single one.

There is nothing I would not do to keep this—to protect these souls I hold in my hands. My boys. Our family. They are so much more than what's left over. They are everything.

* * *

I wake to the uncomfortable poke of a tiny hand being jammed in unnatural places. Ethan crawling down my legs.

"Do you need the toilet?"

He nods sleepily and I'm so bloody proud. He's woken up all by himself in the middle of the night. It's a milestone that means no more nighttime nappy.

"Let's get you to the loo, my boy."

Once he's settled back in bed, I wait for him to fall back to sleep and then head to the kitchen for a glass of water. I find my cell phone on the kitchen counter. A flashing light on the screen tells I've missed at least one call. Without checking the missed call log, I dial my voicemail and listen.

"Hey," the familiar voice of Harry fills the line. Hanging up crosses my mind, but I just sit there, listening.

"I know you don't want to talk to me. I don't blame you, lad. I'm trying to ... well, there's been police cars down the way at your place and the rabble hanging about are saying there was some type of attack on you? I just need to know that you're alright. I don't have the number for your manager so I have to ask you. Are you alright, Evan? I know I've no right to worry, but I do all the same. You know where to reach me."

I've no desire to talk to him, but just as he acknowledged he has no right to worry ... I'm already ringing his line.

He picks up straight away. "Evan, are you alright?"

No use in wondering if I've woken him. He sounds wide awake. "I'm fine." I clear my throat, "I got your message and wanted you to know that I'm well. I've got a bump on the head, but no cause for worry."

We share blood. For the first time in my adult life, I am talking to the only other person with whom I share blood. Well, the first time I'm aware of it.

"I can't help but notice the time. Were you hoping I wouldn't answer?"

"If I didn't want to talk, I wouldn't have called." I collapse onto the Davenport and take a long swig of water.

"So you don't mind a talk, then." He assumes, rather irritatingly, but I find that I am not as cross with him as I have been over the last few days.

"I got the test results in the email," Harry says. "I assume you did, as well."

"I did."

"So you know that—"

"Don't say it."

"—that I was telling the truth, that's all I meant to say."

"Yes," I admit, "you were telling the truth."

"Evan—"

"I've got to go."

"I don't want anything from you. No money or sympathy, or even forgiveness. But more than that, I don't want to end up a blip on your radar in the long run. I want you to know who I am."

"Well that's really wonderful for you. Isn't it? Finally, _you_ have absolution. Let me ask you this: did you disrupt my life just to clear your conscience?"

"That's not what I meant."

"Right. Because other than putting a face to the blame, this news changes nothing on my end, but I'm so glad _you_ feel better now that _you_ got what _you_ wanted."

"Alright, I may want one more thing."

"I should throttle you."

"I want to go back to whatever road we were on before I told you."

"Right." The audacity is infuriating.

"I want to put this whole debacle behind us, forget I said anything and pretend it never happened."

Fury has me bolting upright. "You'd rather I go back to believing I was an undesirable side-effect? Not that I wasn't in either scenario. Sorry to disappoint you, Harold, but as much as I don't want to believe that we are actually related, I'd rather have that than go on believing myself to be the by-product of coerced, violent relations."

There's a maddening note of humor in his voice as he responds. "Not to be an arsehole, but you did just say that you choose to be related to me."

"Did you catch the other bit?"

"Don't need to," he says, sounding moderately contrite. "Even if you weren't my son, that wouldn't change how good you are—how well your mother raised you."

"My mother is not a topic I will broach with you. I'm hanging up."

"You call when you're ready. I'll be here."

Phone goes back on the countertop. Glass goes in the sink. My head hits the pillow. But I'm too worked up. I don't feel tired at all.

The clock says it's nearly four.

I'm up for the day. Feet back on the floor, trudging toward the kitchen. There, I take an apple from the fruit basket and rinse it off. When I grab the hand towel to dry, my fingers find a sort of yuck. Three crusty, green smears. It looks like some kind of sauce, but chances are it's boogers.

Dishrag goes into the nearest laundry hamper, then I rewash the apple and my hands as well.

After, I message Rutledge to let him know that I'm up and about so he don't freak out and bust in here. After what happened, I wouldn't blame him. Though the trouble-makers are in custody, I'm edgy and assume he is, as well.

Morning exercises consist of stretching and a walk on the treadmill. And that's about it. I'd like spar, but with the lump on my head, the doctor wants me to wait a few days.

Even exercise and music cannot block the thoughts of what happened. I can't stop coming back 'round to the girl, Destiny. Eugene seemed unaware of the ploy yet he did nothing to stop it either. The ringleader was definitely Poynter.

But I keep wondering, _what did she hope to gain from all this?_ Was it really all about money? I mean, if the bathroom incident was the beginning of the scheme, then Destiny was the only person working me.

There's a euphemism in there, I realize, but don't feel much like laughing. The fact that I cannot even recall the last time I made a genuine joke (not a sarcastic rebuttal or stupid pun as is part of my job to preserve my reputation as the delightful Englishman) makes me think that my private life is way too much like a Greek tragedy. _Et tu_ , insert-name-here?

Actually, there's a scene in the first _Austin Powers_ movie that's a better fit: the part where Austin and Vanessa break into a building in search of Doctor Evil. When trying to escape they jump onto a steamroller that moves slower than they could walk. Then there's this guard in front of them. At something like fifty feet away, he's in no eminent danger, but the pair yells at him to move, as if he's in grave danger. And the man stands there until he's slowly run down.

Anyone who's ever watched that movie probably laughed through the whole sequence. I know I did.

But right now, I feel like the guy in front of the steamroller. It's strange because I've always felt strong. For all the shit I went through as a kid—the poverty and bullies, never feeling like I belonged, my mother's death. That fucked me up in ways I'm still finding out—and still came out the other side. I found success beyond anything I ever imagined.

Yet here I am, utterly rundown. I barely holding my shit together, and then losing Gracie flattened me. It brought out all those same feelings of losing my mother. She took my home and security. She gave me a family and then disappeared.

Pastor Tony was exactly right. I'm buried in the responsibilities she's left me with. Like that song, _Words in the Water_ , I heard the other day. Most of the time, I feel as if I'm drowning in icy water. Missing something and at a loss to explain to anyone what it might be.

One thing I know for sure is that I can't stop searching. Another thing I know: something has got to give. I can't keep going on hollowed out like this. My children deserve more than just part of me. Hell, I deserve more.

Don't I?

Chapter 30

"Liars are not all psychopaths, but all psychopaths are liars." —Unknown

John texts me as I'm pouring a cuppa coffee. It's only five in the morning and he's already at the front gate. I text him back:

—Come on up. I'm awake.

Next, I text Lily to let her know she can sleep in. I've got the morning shift covered.

John arrives, a messenger bag hanging off one shoulder. I lead him into the dining room where I've laid out a variety of fruit with cheeses. There's also Danish and coffee. He's quiet, his demeanor more serious than usual and so I turn down the _Sad Violin Canon_ that's playing on the stereo before joining him at the table.

John dives in as he fixes his coffee. "We have a problem."

"Another one?"

"A deeper one." John has medium brown hair, but his eyebrows are like two black caterpillars jutting down. His lips thinned as he opens the messenger bag he's brought and draws out a folder.

He opens a manila folder and sets it in front of me. "Do you recognize this?"

The topmost page is a photocopy of an arrest record. I skim the underlying pages. "Looks familiar," I say, but then come across the small photograph printed in the left hand corner on the second page. The photograph that identifies the subject's record. And confusion set in.

"Jeffrey Poynter?" John asks.

"The arrest record, yes, but the picture—I've never seen him before."

"It's accurate." John nods firmly. "I double-checked. Twice."

"But this isn't ... it's not him." _What the hell?_

"This is not the man you identified as Poynter yesterday."

"He said that his name was ..." My voice trails off as I think back to that stranger standing out in the garden near the end of the driveway, the same man who tried to climb over the outer wall once and succeeded in taping a threatening letter to the front door. Probably the same man who called the radio station to verbally deliver the same message.

I know who you are.

I was too stupid to realize I was bringing his cohorts into my residence. Protection was forefront in my mind, yet I never considered the people in the house with me were the ones I needed protection from.

Inside the upstairs bedroom, he did his best to scare me. He whipped out that name, Jeff Poynter, like I should quail with fear.

Eugene began to walk out, but not before he cast a pitiful glance at me and said I should, "Just do whatever he says."

"He asked if I knew the Jeff Poynter," I tell John, remembering the exact words. "He said it in a way that made me think he was introducing himself, but he actually never said who he was."

"This is Jeffrey Poynter." John fingers the mug shot of an obviously dark-skinned, middle-eastern man in the folder.

Examining the date the picture was taken rattles me further. "This photo is over ten years-old."

"It's the most recent one we have. Yesterday, you became acquainted with an associate of his, Allen Pierce."

I'm shaking my head. "John. How does this man—or anyone—know about me? My birth records were made private the day I turned eighteen, before I got into acting. To keep this very thing from happening."

John nods and points to the photograph again. "He was Elizabeth Poynter's husband and he is the father listed on your birth certificate."

I've had knot in between my shoulder blades since waking. Right now it's growing. Tightening. "He's got legal access to those records, then?"

"Anything with his name on it is legally his information and you cannot deny him access."

"He must see that my complexion is too _germane_ to be of any obvious relation."

John almost smiles. "Personally, I don't see the resemblance. But you've got a lot of money and he wants it."

I'm scoffing, filled with too many emotions, too much vitriol, to pinpoint a singular absurdity in this monstrous scheme.

"It is my belief that this whole plan, with the girl, the car, the notes, all of it was them trying to draw you their long con. The perps take their time, infiltrate your circle, orchestrate meetings, gain your trust, and then convince you to do things their way."

"That makes no sense. If that's the case, why wasn't I approached until yesterday?"

"I don't think Poynter was able to get anyone close enough to you to execute his plan. You're well-protected and remain socially closed-off. You move in tight circles."

"But the girl; she propositioned me for months, long before any of this started."

"Maybe it's supposed to look that way. Or maybe she wasn't a part of their original plan. Poynter could have coerced her, probably offered a share of the profits."

Unbelievable. And yet so predictable, the ways people twist themselves into knots over money.

"I'm bloody cursed." Raking my hands through my hair, I ask John, "Do you mind if I call Eric in on this?"

John shrugs. "That's your call, Mr. Matthews."

Chapter 31

"You only live once, but if you do it right once is enough." —Mae West

Eric arrives a short time later, bursting through the front door with his arms full of paper. Scripts, to be accurate. A mountain of them.

"I've highlighted the ones I hate." Eric smirks, plopping a stacked portion of the pile onto the table near my elbow and grabs a Strawberry Danish from the community plate on the dining table.

This is our system. He points out the stories he hates and then I flip through those first since our taste in film differs so widely. He prefers the cookie-cutter box office "hits" and I ...well I like anything that resonates.

"You shouldn't have," I say as he places the index cards he's brought for me to peruse. There are twenty-two titles listed and summarized. Over half are smeared in fluorescent orange and four others in green. "What's with the color-coding?"

Eric finishes his bite of Danish before answering. "Those are the ones I think might have something."

I don't know why Eric bothers to bring any scripts when he knows damn well I'm not going to read beyond the summaries his assistant compiled.

* * *

Caleb is dressed when Lily shows up to take Ethan. But I assure her that I can handle an afternoon with my children. "Besides, Caleb is off to school in a while."

"He's babysitting." Eric jokes, knowing how it irritates me when people use that description.

"It's called _parenting_."

John and Eric chuckle from their respective places at the dining table.

Lily kisses each kid on the head—Ethan's in his high chair and Caleb's just finishing his breakfast—before announcing that she's leaving to get her hair done instead.

"I'm treating myself," she smiles.

That smile grows when I hand her my credit card. "Any spa you want. Take a friend or two. Make a day of it if you like. With security, though."

"Oh, big mistake," Lily jokes, pocketing the card.

"What's Marcus up to?" Eric asks.

Lily turns to Eric. "He's on his way to the studio. Probably for the day."

She turns back to me and plants a quick kiss in my hair. "Thank you," she says.

"Lily, you've gone above and beyond ever since I've known you. You deserve this much at least."

I clear my throat at the sight of Lily's sparkling eyes. She may not have been blood-related to Grace, but the two of them were friends long enough to share traits like sisters, and right now she has the most beautiful look in her eyes. It's lighting up her whole face.

"Let's go for dinner tonight," I say. "The whole family. What do you think?"

"As long as I get to pick the place."

"Yeah."

She nods, "Someplace family-friendly and casual. Ooh!" She snaps her fingers. "I know—that Italian joint near the pier."

"Sounds good."

Lily turns to leave, but then stops. "I'm hiding those whoopee cushions while everyone's gone," She warns.

I give her a sad pout. "Aw, nuts."

"You'll live. Leave around seven-ish?"

"Fine with me." I shrug.

She snatches a Danish and dismisses herself.

I turn to John, asking, "You can handle that, right? The lot of us out for dinner together?"

"Not a problem."

Although I had planned on spending the day alone with Ethan, Eric and John tag along as we hop on the Ranger Rover to take Caleb to school.

John is driving again. Eric's got shotgun and I'm in back with the kids as we make our way down the hill toward the outer gate, where waits what I can only describe as an enormous crowd.

"I knew this would happen," John says and punches his Bluetooth to make a phone call.

"Do you want to stop and sign a few autographs?" Eric is twisted in his seat to face me.

I definitely don't want to. Not right now, not after what happened yesterday, but perhaps that is exactly why I should. Irritating as I sometimes find them, the fans are always supportive. Much more so than I deserve.

"I'll be late," Caleb warns, essentially shutting down my internal monologue.

"He can't be late," I say.

The crowd gets louder when the car stops at the gate.

"We've got a second unit on the way," John states, nodding at me through the mirror. "It should be fine."

I wave through the windows on either side—nudging Caleb to do the same. Ethan is already waving, it's practically one of his favorite things to do. There are audible _ooh's_ and _ahh's_ as the car rolls toward the road on the other side of the gate, to pull into traffic.

Just then the chattering crowd reaches crescendo. There's applause mixed with disappointed groans and I find myself telling John to hold on a second. Getting to my feet on the backseat, I hit the console to open the sunroof and then poke my head out while Eric grins ear to ear.

"They just want to know that you're alright."

I hear John mutter something as my head clears the roof of the SUV. The door to the guard hut swings open and two more men appear.

I'm fully visible now, well my top half anyways. The crowd that was near booing is all cheers.

"Well, you're a moody lot, aren't you?" I say to the crowd of at least fifty females; women and girls that are being ordered to keep away from my car by the extra security. The crowd laughs. Some answer back. I follow with a broad smile and large wave.

They cheer and offer well-wishes amid shouts of my name and inappropriate offers to further my lineage. A few giggles and whistles follow one particularly lewd offer from an older woman just a few feet away and I can only chuckle, flushing crimson.

The looks on the fans collective faces, it's as if I am a fascinating object. A highly trained and rare animal performing for them.

"I can't visit with you all, as I'd like."

The crowd gets louder. But I go on. "I've got to get my son to school on time." I feel the yank of a little hand on my leg and know it's Ethan getting impatient.

More cooing at my fatherly situation.

"Are you okay?" One girl shouts and others join in, echoing her question.

I wave my hand, a gesture asking them to pause so I may answer. "I've seen a doctor who says I'm perfectly healthy. It was a minor incident blown out of proportion."

The crowd applauds as if they understand that this is an achievement. Maybe it is but it's not entirely true. Their noise is threatening to bring on another headache.

"I've got a full day ahead of me, but I wanted to at least take a moment to thank you all for your unwavering support for me and for my family. I really do appreciate it. So, thank you."

Two stuffed bears fly at the car. One is batted down by security, while the second sails just over my head, plopping behind me on the roof and skimming down the windscreen. The crowd seems torn. Half is irritated at the party favors, and the other half thinks that my ducking is hilarious.

I continue thanking them for their admiration as I tuck back into the SUV. Just because I don't understand their appreciation and sometimes find it draining or irritating, doesn't meant I can't be grateful.

"Thank you!" I shout, giving a final wave. "Now, go get some hot drinks and food. I shan't be back for hours."

Finally down inside my seat, I buckle up and the car is rolling. "Eric, can you make sure they're all compensated?" He's got several assistants just for handing out gift cards in these situations.

Caleb waves and blows kisses at the girls through his tinted window.

"Already on it. Hey, how did she get out so fast?" Eric asks.

I turn to see that he's pointing out the back window and then the side as the SUV glides into traffic. Following his finger, I spot Destiny. She's in the middle of the throng of girls. Half of them, including her, are chasing after our car. Their efforts are useless of course, since John's driving like a demon.

No one answers Eric. The topic is off-limits for the duration of the car ride.

As a distraction, I turn on the radio and bid Caleb to teach me the words to the song that's playing, essentially keeping him occupied until we reach the school parking lot.

John gets out and walks with me as I escort Caleb to class. After, I stop by the office to speak with the assistant principle, Mrs. Landry, since she's the one that handles campus security (and Mr. Harper, the principal, is a blow hard). I tell Mrs. Landry that I'm sure it's nothing; that Caleb is safer on campus than any other place in the world, but I have to be honest about the incident yesterday since she's most assuredly heard, and then inform her about the girl we spotted this morning on the way here. She and John work out a deal to have two of his guys, both retired officers, posted on campus until further notice, just to be sure. My condition is that one of them must stay within spitting distance of Caleb.

"His presence would not facilitate a calm learning environment." Mrs. Landry complains.

"He can stay outside the door, then." I concede, "But he's got to have easy access to Caleb at all times."

The vice principle looks like she's not entirely comfortable with the situation, but agrees that it's a good idea, especially since I'm footing the bill. The promised guards show up before we leave the office and Mrs. Landry's mood lightens.

Back inside the car with Ethan, I see that Eric has made good use of his time. He's spoken with my lawyer, who informed him that the girl, Destiny, was released late last night. She told the police that she was threatened with bodily injury if she didn't cooperate with the plot against me and I guess they believed her.

John seems to feel that she is not a real threat either. "She doesn't fit the profile, but I alerted security before we left."

"You think she'll still be there when I get home?" I ask.

"She's already gone." John informs me. "We've got a tail on her, too. We'll see where she goes and who she talks to."

Chapter 32

"The best way to maintain a career in show business is to just keep your mouth shut, because everyone's an idiot when it comes down to it." —Robert Pattinson

Petra Silver kept the same name after she transitioned. I'd only ever heard of Petra referenced as a female, but a lot has changed in six months.

He does odd work, cinematically speaking, and I have loved every frame I've seen, though admittedly that isn't much. I also didn't know (but should have guessed) he's a vegan. Everyone is these days.

I watch him steeple his fingers over the half-eaten fruit plate, as if in deep thought. I'm across from him politely choking down beet salad, trying to appear amenable though I'd like to hack the lunch into my napkin and order a steak.

"It's a period piece, which you've never done before. Working title is, _The Philistine_."

"Which period?"

"Biblical," he answers, leaning forward with what looks like pure enthusiasm.

"No offense, but haven't Bible movies been overdone?"

Silver laughs lightly. "The usual ones, definitely, but I guarantee you no one has covered this angle or this story before."

"Which story?" Eric asks.

These two better understand there is no way I'm playing Jesus. He wasn't white, he didn't have blue eyes. He was dark-skinned and Israeli, not English.

Silver's smile seems plastered on as he explains. "A Philistine soldier is captured by the Israeli army. Well, the man and his entire unit. They're all forcibly circumcised—their foreskins taken under the order of a young general, soon to be known as King David."

Two men simultaneously cross their legs. Silver's have been crossed since he sat down.

"I've never heard that one." I think for a second, becoming more sure. Nope. Never.

"Well, it's not really a story, more of an expansion of a verse or two." Silver adjusts himself in the chair. "After David defeats Goliath, King Solomon offers the young warrior his daughters hand in marriage. The foreskins of a thousand Philistines are her dowry."

"So morbid," Eric shudders.

"As is life," Silver counters. "The film will focus on one man in particular—how he copes with the physical and emotional trauma. The shame it brings in a time when death was preferable to humiliation. The affects that has on his family in a time when your honor was all you had. Think about it." Silver orders and then promptly excuses himself to the restroom.

Unusual idea for sure; which I find intriguing, but I'm not right for the part. Staring down at my beet salad, all I can think is how much I'd rather be playing _Uno_ with my boys.

Eric and I are sitting in the mild afternoon sun on the open patio, at a table much larger than we need. John is covertly watching from somewhere nearby.

Lily has already come and gone. She met us for an early lunch, knowing how I hate to eat at meetings, and then took Ethan with her when she left. I had to let her because he was very fussy. He sneezed and a green snot bubble came out his nose. Lily decided he should leave with her because it was too late to cancel this meeting.

Ethan cried as she carried him off. He always does.

He's coming down with a cold and I'm stuck here, waiting, staring at a dry beet salad while my child is festering with green snot.

"Is it really worth all this?" I ask Eric.

"That depends on what 'it' is."

"Making movies. Is it really worth the continual sacrifice?"

Eric shakes his head, "You're asking the wrong guy. No one can answer that but you, Rhys. You make the sacrifices. You decide what they're worth."

The heels of each palm dig into my eyes.

"Is this your way of asking for time off?"

"I'm seriously considering quitting altogether."

Of course that tidbit is met with absolute silence. I turn to Eric, finding him staring at me. Analyzing.

"You have a few more commitments."

"I know, and I'll keep them. But no new ones, not right now."

"Why'd you agree to meet with Silver?" Eric whispers as the clomping sound of the man himself approaches. "This information would have been useful last week. Shit, even yesterday."

"What did I miss?" Silver's voice booms as he sits back down at the table.

"I tried to talk the server into a bringing us sushi. It was a no-go," Eric smiles.

"Well, you can't win them all." Silver gracefully takes his seat and waves a server over, asking her to clear the table. Once she's gone, he locks me in his sights.

I wait for him to say something.

And wait a little more...

And a little while longer...

"I can't." I say, totally caving in to the pressure of his stare. Good-God, what a brilliant director—to simply pull that out of me. "I cannot express how appreciative I am for the offer, but I can't do it."

Silver shifts his weight and I can tell that he's re-crossing his legs. "We haven't even talked money yet."

"Money's not an issue," I shake my head. "The plot sounds bloody brilliant, but don't you think a minority actor would better suit the part?"

Petra Silver, with his salt and pepper hair, stares at me. It's a hard look, but the crinkles at the corners of his eyes soften. "We're on the same page here, Rhys."

His eyes stray to Eric, "Why did he agree to take this meeting if I had no shot?"

Eric pushes back from the table and stands, "Would you excuse us a minute, Mr. Silver?"

I stand as well, nodding as I walk away, like this is normal for all my meetings. The moment we're out of earshot Eric is schooling me. "Petra Silver is not trying to cast you for the lead."

"He's not?"

Eric shakes his head. "No, Mister Ego. He needs investors. Names with money attached. Producing, isn't that the direction you want to go?"

I'm a moron. "Yeah, of course it is."

We're back at the table in less than thirty seconds; me, apologizing to Silver for the misunderstanding. He thinks it's funny that I've been caught pretending to listen when my manager speaks.

With red cheeks, I agree to consider the offer. Eric promises we'll look at the proposal tonight and get back to him.

"You know, you might be making a huge mistake." Silver warns, grabbing his bag and handing it off to an assistant he summoned.

"It's possible," I agree, "But no rewards without risk."

Silver laughs. "I like you, Rhys. Like your style."

I feel like a tool, watching Silver walk to his car.

"He stuck us with the bill." Eric mutters, waving at Silver with a plastic smile.

Half-joking, I turn to him. "That's a good sign. A way to stay relevant but out of the spotlight. We'll start small; do the HBO thing and _The Philistine_."

"Mr. Matthews?" John's voice interrupts. Eric and I turn to face him, seeing straight away the lanky young man beside him.

"Noah," I breathe, surprised and happy to see him again so soon. "Where did you come from?"

Chapter 33

"Forgive and forget so you can move on." —Grace Zuniga-Matthews

Noah steps closer, both hands tucked into pants pockets. He's wearing faded blue jeans and a denim jacket. "It's good to see you." It seems like he wants to say more, but doesn't. Instead, he reaches out and grasps me in an awkward, one-armed hug.

"Bloody good," I mumble, hugging him back with both arms, not caring if it makes him uncomfortable.

He's come to see me, even after our argument.

After tossing a few bills on the table, the four of us fall into step on the open sidewalk; Noah and I in front, John and Eric behind us. I don't often walk for leisure, but it's just the thing I need right now.

Hearing the faint electronic tap of Eric texting, I toss a glance over my shoulder to see what John is doing. Of course he's mumbling into the Bluetooth on his ear and keeping an eye on everything around us.

"Tia Lily told me where to find you. How are you?" Noah asks.

He's got deep bags under his young eyes. "I'm rock solid, mate. What about you, why do you look like you haven't slept in a week?" Was it only two days ago that I was in San Francisco, at Noah's house?

Noah shrugs and looks away. "It'll be alright."

"What will?"

He pauses like he'd rather not say, but starts talking. "I came to say I'm sorry, for how I've been towards you. I've been blaming you for things that aren't your fault."

"It's fine, Noah. I told you to."

"No, it was wrong and stupid and about a million other idiotic things that I can't even—" he stops and shakes his head, frustrated. His gaze wanders out to the traffic on the boulevard.

"I get it." I tell him, because I do. "You were angry and needed to get it out of your system."

"That's what you think—that it was just exorcising?" Noah shakes his head. Again. "That I had no other options but to take my frustrations out on you?"

"Well, yeah." I say, stopping at the corner. "That's what we do. Implode or explode. Right?"

Eric presses the giant metal button for the walk signal and leans up between us. "Where are we headed?"

"Just a walk," I shrug.

"Where to?" John asks.

"I don't know. Can't I walk around for a little while? Waste some time until Caleb's out of school?" There's a tad more heat than there should be in these questions. It's not John's fault my life is a three ring circus filled with rabid animals.

"Not a problem," John nods stiffly and makes another phone call.

Noah's staring at me.

"What?"

"Why are you pissed at John?" Noah asks.

I'm about to answer that I'm not, but am interrupted by Eric. "He's mad at himself for passing on a really great part."

"What part?" Noah asks, shifting his gaze from Eric back to me.

"There was no part. He's joking."

The walk signal blinks and our group shoves off across the street.

Eric responds with more misleads, telling Noah that I'm quitting acting.

Noah's reaction catches me off guard. He's surprised of course, but he also grins like a banshee. There's light in his face as he leans in, asking, "Is that true?"

There's a group of people on the sidewalk ahead. A group of friends, it looks like.

"I'm not planning on quitting, but I'm also not taking anything in front of the camera for a bit." I say, gesturing to storefront of a nearly empty sandwich shop. "What do you think?"

Noah considers a moment. "I could eat."

That's not exactly the answer I was aiming for. Nonetheless, we walk inside and take the largest table in the back.

The waitress recognizes me so we pause our conversation and make nice with the girl; I take a few pictures and sign a napkin. She takes everyone's order and promises to keep my presence quiet. That's one of the nice things about being in West Hollywood. The paparazzi are relentless once they find you, but most of the time, the staff is accommodating, other patrons with camera phones notwithstanding.

John won't sit down until more backup arrives. The second car he called left with Lily and Ethan. Now he wants two more guards since we're out in the open and the streets are busy.

While we wait for our desserts to arrive, my phone rings. The call ID says it's Harry and I should ignore it, but pick up anyway since I'm feeling ambivalent.

He greets me warmly, says he's over at the international cinema and wants to know if I'd join him in watching a foreign documentary I've never heard of. Oddly, it doesn't sound like the worst idea.

At that thought, my gaze drifts to Noah. He and John are both standing, smack-talking about an American football game. I still don't know why he's come to see me. I'm glad for it, but he's not come to shoot the proverbial shit.

I explain to Harry that I'm not far away, but am not alone, either. "I can't just now ... but you're welcome to join us for coffee or whatever."

"I know that place. Be there in a tic."

Several patrons have come and gone in the short time we've been here and John is growing more uncomfortable. So, I flag the waitress, asking her to call the manager out.

This request makes her nervous, but Eric gets up to take the girl aside, to reassure her that the chat will have nothing to do with her exemplary services. The girl's mood lightens and she traipses off.

A moment later, the manager arrives. He manager looks about my age, but with a bigger build and smaller head. When he shakes my hand and introduces himself, I point to John, seeking his help in explaining my security request to have the restaurant closed off.

"Of course we'll compensate you for the loss of any patronage," I say.

"That won't be necessary." The manager, Craig (so says his name tag), insists. Then he goes into this long spiel about how he aims to make my dining experience as pleasant as possible. Meanwhile, a family of five waltzes in. While he's rattling on, John takes initiative and heads over to the glass door and turns the sign over to read 'Closed' and shuts the blinds covering the plate glass door and half of the front windows.

I thank the manager again and ask if he might be so inclined to check on our order. I don't really care about the food at the moment; I just want the guy to leave. Craig seems to sense this and stalks toward the kitchen.

Noah has taken the spot nearest me in the booth. He and Eric have been exchanging more football predictions.

"Now for the interesting part," I say, staring at the plates of pie and ice cream sundaes being served.

The one thing I ordered—a hot pastrami sandwich—is missing and when I ask the waitress about it, she assures me it's coming out right now.

Noah leans in. "Evan, can we talk?"

"Privately?" I ask, setting my tea aside to make room for my plate.

He sighs at the interruption of the waitress, waiting until she's gone to respond. "Here's fine."

"Shoot." I say, thinking that was the same way he invited me to start when we fought at Ethan's party.

Noah begins, stuttering a little at the start. "Thanks for the trip to Hawaii that you gave for my birthday. It was really great, but I don't think I'll be taking it."

"You can change the departure dates, Noah. The tickets are good for a year."

"It's not about the dates, Evan. It's that there's two tickets and only one of me."

"Does that mean...?"

"Jan and me broke up." His shoulders rise and fall.

"What? But you seemed fine." They were practically a united front when I showed up at his house the other day, demanding to know more about her.

Noah shifts, moving in closer and lowering his already low voice to a whisper. "We were."

"So, what happened?" I question, "What changed?"

Noah's solemn gaze shifts from his lap up to me. "I tried talking to her for months, tried prying information out of her. Told her no matter what she needed that I would support her, wouldn't judge her. Still, she never said a word. You ask her one time," he shakes his head, "and she just can't wait to spill this intensely personal secret. What's that about?"

Straight out of the gate, I do not like the curve this conversation is taking. "You "pried," does that mean you asked her directly?"

Noah's eyes fall back to the table to stare at his untouched hot fudge sundae. I sneak a bite of my pastrami while he contemplates.

"Maybe not directly, but I hinted all the time. She would clam up or get jumpy and she just—" Noah stops himself and scoffs. "She's so damn frustrating."

"Most women are. The good ones, anyway."

Noah's scowl lasers in on me and just as I am about to ask what I did this time, I change it up. "Most relationships are incredibly frustrating, but you have to see how silly it is that you would insinuate that January used you to gain some sort of favor with me."

"Everyone else does," he says, and I can tell that he doesn't mean it as a jab. It's simply the truth, a part of life that he's had to deal with since coming into contact with me. It' the infection of fame.

"You said she wasn't like anyone else. Noah, you have to trust your own opinions on this—we both know mine leads to the gallows. You doubt yourself because you're in uncharted territory with this girl. Until you get your bearings, let me assure you that you were right about her. It's bonkers to think she's using you."

"It wouldn't be the first time," he offers, sourly.

"No, but January is obviously crazy about you, Noah."

"Why would she wait to tell me in front of you?"

"Think about what she's told you, Noah. Then, tell me if you still think you're the one taking the biggest gamble."

Noah's eyes gloss over and he shuts them. "Why wouldn't she tell me when we were alone?"

"Maybe she felt too ashamed."

Noah looks quizzically at his hands. "But that's stupid. She has nothing to be ashamed of."

"Is it possible that she was still trying to protect herself from rejection? Maybe it felt less like a risk since you'd curb your reaction in front of me."

"Shame is common with people in her situation, and Jan did seem embarrassed. She choked up a few times during..." Noah mutters.

In the silence that follows, we both become keenly aware of the other people at the table: John standing silent behind me, Eric on his phone, and then there are the other patrons in the restaurant. None seem to be listening.

Noah groans, raking his hands over his head.

"Give her the benefit of the doubt. Just this once. Love deserves that much."

John leans over the back of the booth setting as head between me and Noah. "Diaz and West are stuck in traffic." John's eyes are on the crowd in the dining area so I think maybe he's not aware of how awkwardly close his proximity is.

"Oh, John, you smell so good." Noah says in a whispery voice, smiling and making a show of sniffing at John's neck.

John responds deadpan, "Its Dior," and then straightens to stare at the store front where the door is swinging open.

Chapter 34

"If you do not seek out allies and helpers, you will be isolated and weak." —Sun Tzu The Art Of War

It isn't the rest of my security detail walking in, ignoring the closed sign. Nor is it Harry.

It's a tall, brawny, and slightly familiar fella with neat black hair and deep brown skin. His nose is long and crooked like it was broken and didn't properly heal. The man stops just inside the door. His eyes scan the small dining area; back and forth over the dozen or so other customers, then my table and company. The probing stops when his gaze meets mine.

It's something that happens a lot. The gawking; I'm used to it. But this man's look is not the greedy type that I'm familiar with, the one that says, 'I know that face'. There is greed in the way he measures me but there's also avarice, sharp and discerning. It's the look of jungle cat about to pounce.

His eyes flash to Noah and John.

John is still standing behind me. I hear him mutter, "That's him," and stiffen. Because John is right.

The man who was married to my birth mother was also arrested for raping her. He's an older, bulkier version of the mug shot John provided this morning.

Jeffrey Poynter's living eyes look every bit as dead as they did in that picture.

"Who?" Noah asks.

Noah. _Shit_.

"Listen carefully," I say keeping my eyes trained on the man across the dining area. "It's important that you do exactly as I say." I touch his hand so he looks at me and I know he's paying attention. "Get up. Walk into the kitchen and—"

"Not a good idea," John interrupts. "I need everyone to stay right where they are."

"I can't have him in the middle of this."

"All due respect, Matthews, he already is. I cannot do my job if you separate. We know Poynter doesn't work alone. He could have guys outside." John taps his Bluetooth and then changes tones obviously answering a phone call.

The act is fluid and so very typical of this man who is on top of everything all at once. It's hard to catch what he's saying but the gist of the conversation is that the guy John has following Destiny is reporting that she's getting closer to us.

Does she know where we are? Security would have known if we were being followed. But... I told the crowd outside the security gate where I was headed, didn't I?

Like a bat to the back of the head, I realize that this is my fault. John just said that he doesn't know how many people Poynter is working with. We could have been followed by more than one person.

Noah sits beside me with a confused look on his face. "What is happening?"

"The man,—don't look—is trying to blackmail me." Noah's eyes widen as I explain, "He knows about the girl in the restroom."

John adds, "We don't know how far he'll go to get what he wants."

Noah's brow furrows. "He wants to hurt you."

I shake my head, watching Poynter just stand there, staring at our whispered conversation. "The threats were very broad."

Eric adds, "It's got to be money."

"This is the first time he's sought me out, face-to-face."

"So, the stuff at the beach house—was that him?"

"Yes, and the one leaving the notes and climbing over the wall, the phone call to the radio station—John thinks they were all him. But we didn't know for sure until earlier this morning." I say it all very quick and as soft as I can.

John interjects. "There was no plan to be here today. We had ample security until an hour ago. Now he's here."

Poynter is just standing on the other side of the restaurant. Eric makes sure of it before he swivels toward John to whisper-shout. "Tell him to leave."

"Act normal and you'll be just fine."

Somehow, I missed Harry walking in. He passes Poynter without a glance, making a beeline for our table.

I'm trying to do as John instructed, staying calm and cool while making the introductions between Noah, Eric, John, and Harry—telling them all that he's a friend.

Harry gives each a handshake before making a group announcement to excuse himself. "I've got to see a man about a dog." He winks and heads round the corner toward the hallway with the restrooms, never taking note of our mood or the uninvited guest loitering near the door.

In the same moment, John sweeps around the table, coming to stand between the three of us as Poynter begins his approach. There's an irritating swagger in each step.

"This is a private party. You need to leave." John says, calm and commanding, looking up at Poynter who looks a full head taller.

"I'm obliged to stay." Poynter dismisses John just as calmly, an obvious Cockney burr in his tone. He steps to one side as he answers, directing his comment to me.

"I'm obliged to personally escort you from the premises." John matches him, step for step and thrusts one arm out to block his path.

"We have no business." I wave, dismissing him.

Poynter's dark eyes slowly scrape past John to me, brushing passed Noah along the way. "You don't know why I'm here 'cause I ain't said."

Eric is in the seat nearest to Poynter. He fidgets like he wants to get up, but probably doesn't want to risk drawing attention. I watch from the corner of my eye as he slides to the opposite edge of his chair.

John said to remain calm and do as he instructed. But he didn't give any specific directives. Still, I know from past experiences that removing ourselves from the threat is the course to take.

"We'll leave, then." I start to get up, remembering as I do that there is no car waiting outside and want to kick myself.

Poynter ignores my comment, tossing a thumb drive on the table. It slides into a spin as well stare down at it.

John moves the front of his coat to one side, showing Poynter that he's armed. "Keep your hands where I can see them."

Slowly, the chair directly across from me—the one Harry designated and quickly vacated for a bathroom break—scrapes over the smooth tile floor. Poynter is pulling it out to sit.

"Is that supposed to mean something?" Noah interjects, pointing at the flash drive and I want to clamp his mouth shut.

"Quiet." John admonishes.

Poynter doesn't look at him. Only me. The contrast of deep crow's feet and black hair reeks of a bad dye job.

"How much is your reputation worth?"

I crack a scathing smile, "Not nearly as much as you hope."

Poynter counters. "You're lying."

John leans down, standing between Eric and Poynter's chair. "We're in a public place, surrounded by witnesses. We've seen the video. You're grasping and digging yourself in deeper."

Noah shifts beside me and I catch the quick glance he tosses me. In that short span of a half-second look, I mouth the name of the girl in the video. Noah shakes his head almost imperceptibly.

"That girl was underage." Poynter's accent is thick with undeserved derision as he asks, "Like'm young, don't you _son_?"

The last word puts me on full alert. " _Don't_ call me that."

"She's at least nineteen." Noah has opened his mouth again, but this argument grabs my attention.

Noah leans forward, ever so slightly, speaking directly to Poynter. "I know Destiny. She was a year ahead of me, but we had a date once. I said no to a second, though. You want to know why?" He asks rhetorically, obviously, we all want to know!

"Her senior year Destiny and a friend were busted for threatening a civics teacher. He was tutoring the two girls. Some of the conversations made him uncomfortable so he started recording their interactions. When he was accused of fondling minors, he gave evidence to the authorities."

"Interesting," John says. "I look forward to reading the official findings."

Noah has the most derisive look in his eyes and the widest smile on his face as he continues. "Well, John, if your investigator were to dig a little deeper, I'm sure he'd also find out that Destiny also sued her last boss for sexual harassment. And lost. That was before she propositioned Rhys, here," Noah tosses a glance my way, "for several months, in front of dozens of witnesses."

Throughout Noah's little spiel, Poynters become stone-like.

"I told you, we have no business," I wave him away again and the stone façade cracks with rage.

"We're done here." John raises a hand to his holster.

"I could just break his neck." Poynter stares with emphasis at Noah.

"Not if I break yours first." I counter but most of the threat is blocked out by a high-pitched noise; the sound of sneakers on a smooth floor.

A giant blur shoots from the hallway half-way across the dining room and smashes into Poynter, knocking him from his chair.

John jumps over the chair. He's in the middle of the scuffle before I can even make sense of it.

"Who's that?" Noah points at the man wailing on Poynter.

Eric sputters the name, "Harry!" And then Noah and me are on our feet. He's trying to clear the restaurant while John and me pull at Harry, who's pounding Poynter's face.

The dining area nearly is empty. Still, it's teeming with noise. Shock and awe and motion as three straggling patrons pull out their phones.

It takes some wrangling. Harry is not a small man; shorter than both Noah and myself, but solid and enraged.

We grab him by the shoulders and he manages to toss us off, while rolling Poynter under a nearby table into prone position. His knees thrash into the man's back. Poynter curses in a wail, reaching uselessly behind, swiping the air.

John yells for the manager to call the police, then draws his weapon to point it at the three of us. He yells something at Poynter. The remaining customers squeal and scramble, toppling chairs en route to the door.

"Matthews, get back!"

Ignoring John, I peel Harry's fingers from the man's throat. Harry gives way, letting me pull him away. His nose is bleeding and his grey sweatshirt's torn but he seems fine, aside from the red-rage shooting fire from his eyes. He's shouting and promising end-of-days violence to Poynter if he ever comes near me again.

"Cameras," Eric warns, stepping closer. I check the restaurant windows, and sure enough, the one set of blinds that was left open is filled with handheld cameras and phones. Fucking internet.

I keep hold of Harry's arm while Noah grabs his other side.

John takes three measured steps, grabs Poynter by the collar and hoists him up. He waivers, stumbling to one side to land in an errant chair.

It's easy to spot the second Poynter notices the gun. The dark-skinned man straightens. His eyes widen, then shrink. He's breathing heavily. One side of his face is already swelling. His lip is bleeding. But his hair is still slicked down.

John steps in, barrel first, laying out terms: "You are not to come near Mr. Matthews, his family, his friends, or business acquaintances. You will not communicate with him in any form. Not you, not your associates. If you attempt to confront or threaten him in any way," He raises a black nine millimeter, aiming at Poynter's snout. "You won't live long enough to regret it."

Poynter spits on the floor between his feet. "Not sure why everyone's so worked up, mate. I'm the one who's just been attacked."

Harrys rushes forward. It takes all my strength not to let him loose on Poynter.

At that moment, two uniformed officers barrel through the door.

* * *

Eric is settling our tab with the owner—making arrangements to pay for the damages plus a tidy sum on top of that. He's got a digital copy of a standard NDA on his iPad, which he raises for a signature while repeating the settlement terms. Craig keeping his job is part of the arrangement, which pleases me. None of this was his fault.

Noah is fine—physically, at least. I watch him trying not to shake as he makes a number of calls. Apparently whomever he's trying to reach isn't answering. He mumbles what sounds like messages into the phone.

Harry's nose has doubled in size. He's sitting at the front counter with an icepack, angrier than I've ever seen him. Which, really isn't saying much since I've never seen him angry.

John has the flash drive. He keeps trying to assure me that everything and everyone is alright while a driver I've never met before waits with the car outside. There's a second detail parked behind it and a new guy on a motorcycle.

All this security, it feels like a noose around my neck sometimes.

"Keeping the tail on Destiny is paying off," John says. He tells me how his guys watched her arrive outside, just in time to watch Poynter being taken away in a squad car. Apparently, she's followed him to the station, "probably with the intention of bailing him out. But we'll wait and see."

I don't care about any of this.

I was supposed to pick-up Caleb from school. But of course, my fucked-up crazy life got in the way and Lily had to cover for me. Again.

Chapter 35

"This is the first step in making amends for what has taken place."—Anton Valukas

"Do dogs really wish they can fly?" Caleb scratches the golden skin of his forehead as he stares up at Noah.

"Do you speak canine, Doctor Doolittle? How many dogs have told you they want to fly?" Noah hides a chortle behind his cough. It's surprisingly good-natured of him to talk nonsense with his little brother, considering.

He didn't want to leave, but I talked him into it. He doesn't need to worry about me. Then, his flight back to San Francisco was delayed due to fog.

Caleb tilts his head as if it will help him think. "When dogs ride in cars, they always stick their head out the windows."

Noah takes an orange from the fruit bowl on the counter and starts peeling. "So?"

"Mom said the dogs do that so they can pretend to fly."

Noah chuckles, "That's right. I forgot about that."

Caleb snatches his own orange and follows his big brother to the kitchen table. Sitting across from Noah, Caleb tries to peel his own orange, but can't get it started. He sets the fruit down, frowning.

"Well, do they, Noah?"

Noah pick up his brother's orange and tears out a section of peel. "Do they what?"

"Do dogs want to fly?"

"Remember when Arnold used to stand on the backseat? Mom would freak when he put his paws over the window sill." Noah grins at the memory. "He looked like he was just gonna sit there and think, but Mom would make us keep them up halfway."

"'He'll fall out,'" Caleb says, with a high-pitched voice that I guess is supposed to be his mother.

"If the whole head-out-the-window-thing is your indicator, then yes, Arnold probably wanted to fly more than any dog in the world."

"I miss him." Caleb's expression darkens as he remembers the gigantic Pit Bull-Staffordshire-mix that died a few months before his mother. "Is he is in heaven?"

"Yes," Noah says matter of factly. "Don't you know? All dogs go to heaven."

"What about cats?"

"No, they're not allowed," Noah jokes. He's allergic to cats.

"Is he with Mom and Dad?"

"Of course he is." After Noah answers his little brother, he spots me at the far end of the kitchen, listening.

"I'm taking a walk. Evan, you feel like coming with?"

* * *

The air is thick with moisture. The warmth of an incoming storm presses in from the North West. Plumes of gray clouds invade on a tepid breeze. Clapping thunder in the distance promises I'll see little rest tonight.

Noah and I cut a path through the well-trimmed grass until we hit the paving stones that start at the edge of the back yard and carry down the westward-leaning hillside, a winding guide for mindless travels. Noah is contemplative, staring at a distant grouping of trees as we make our way through the property.

I wonder if he's spoken to January.

"How did that Poynter guy know where to find you?"

"Not sure, but we're safe inside the compound."

Noah shakes his head. "Yeah, seems he wasn't as clever as he thought."

"He's got the rap-sheet to prove it." I stuff my hands into the pouch of my sweatshirt. "Years and years of getting caught."

"How the hell does somebody with a record like his get into the country anyway?"

"Probably the same way I did. Through Canada."

Noah gives a quick surprised chuckle and I feel much better about including him in the situation.

"So, you were adopted, huh?"

I nod but say nothing.

"And that Poynter guy, is he your biological father?"

I explained a minimal amount of my past to him several months ago, but now it's time to explain some more. "No, he's the man whose name was printed in the 'father' bracket on my birth record, but we are not related."

"Thank God." Noah mutters. "Then I'd have to feel sorry for you."

It's nice that Noah can keep a light attitude about these dark things. Makes it much easier to say this next bit. "You've already met my biological father." I wait for Noah to tear his eyes from the path and look at me. Then I say, "It's Harry."

It's odd the way this talk is going—the way Noah doesn't react as I expect. In fact he barely reacts at all. "Oh. I like Harry. He's got a wicked left hook."

His reminder forms a picture in my head of Harry rushing Poynter, knocking him to the ground.

"This land has changed a lot in the last few years." Noah surmises, staring at the play equipment at the bottom of our hillside. "It was a weed infested gopher's playground. But you've really turned it into something."

I stare at him as he stares at the pirate ship playhouse I had custom built for the boys that sits just beyond the swings and sand pit. He's changed the subject before we got to any awkward pauses and I want to ask why, but don't.

"It was your mother's plan for the compound. I just carried it out." The plan we developed together after I surprised her with my purchasing the five neighboring lots as well as the house next door to hers.

"No." Noah shakes his head. "You did a lot more than that. You found something that was forgotten and gave it purpose."

I don't know what to say to that, "Alright."

Gaze still averted, Noah presses. "Evan, acknowledgement does not an egomaniac make."

I don't know how to take that either, so I force a smile and ask a question. "Have you spoken to January yet?"

Noah stops walking. We're between a cluster of balding trees and the playground. "I'm sorry for the way I've been treating you."

"Hey," I set a hand to his shoulder. "You've already said that. Once is enough."

"It doesn't feel like it, not for the way I acted." He shakes his head. "I disrespected your position in our family."

Our family.

My throat pinches because all I have ever wanted from this life is to have people to share it with; to have a family. I try and clear my throat, but it stays locked. Too damn tight. A nod is manageable.

"You stuck by me and kept things together after I left. So many other people would've just walked away."

My response is strangled, "I know what it feels like to be left behind. I'd never wish it on anyone."

"I know." He turns to continue walking up the path. "So, thanks."

We continue walking around the bend in the path, around the edge of the pond. The long wall that surrounds the compound stands blunt and lonely, half-hidden by vegetation.

"Caleb wants a duck." Noah says, plucking a flat stone from the dirt. He flings the rock out, failing to skip it across the water.

"He's going through a farmer-in-the-dell phase, I think. He asked for chickens last week."

"He told Marcus he wants a horse for Christmas."

"Speaking of, will you and January be joining us for Christmas?"

Noah stares at the rippling pond. "Me for sure, but I don't know about Jan."

Without a single drop of warning, it starts to rain. A sudden deluge. Noah and I run for the cover of the house, cutting a straight line across the inclining path that led us here. It's a few minutes to reach the top gate and back patios, where we find Marcus watching and laughing.

We're sufficiently soaked, so I take it upon myself to shake as much water as I can onto Marcus. Which puts an end to his snickering.

"Where have you been all day?" I ask, making sure to wring another few drops from my sweatshirt on Marcus's back.

"Hey!" He arches forward and turns to face me. "Enough of that," he wipes at the stream of droplets Noah flung on his head. "I've just dropped the kids off at the pool."

Noah titters at the crude expression. "Boundaries, Marcus."

"What?" Marcus asks, oblivious to Noah's aversion to the most basic humor.

He saunters past us both, muttering about calling January.

"What's with him?"

"Lady problems." I tell Marcus, understanding for the first time in a long while that Noah's bother isn't because he's fighting with me. That's a change I'm glad for—that I'm not the cause. I'd consider grinning if not for the sting of sympathy over Noah's heartache.

# Chapter 36

"Be sure to taste your words before you spit them out."—Unknown

Marcus is still clean shaven and I don't know why when every other knob-bearing citizen of the western world wants to sport the look he's held onto for the past decade. Or maybe that's the reason he's let Lily talk him into changing it. It's too hip.

He's wearing a plain long-sleeved black tee shirt with an old pair of jeans. They look so familiar, I think they used to be mine. Or maybe still are. It's nothing for Marcus to go in my closet whenever he wants. Makes sense, even. He and Noah both are constantly taking my clothes. They both hate doing the washing as much as I do.

That reminds me, we need to gather our _dingies_ for the laundry lady. She'll come by for pick-up soon.

Marcus stands with both hands tucked down into his pockets. As he looks at his feet, I note that his hair is a tad shorter and neatly combed to one side. Bringing his head up, he stares from over the dark circles resting beneath his eyes.

"Want to talk about what happened earlier?"

Automatically, I want to say 'no.' I want to say that it isn't worth discussing, that it doesn't matter, that Poynter's threats are a joke. That he bit of more than he could ever chew when he decided to mess with me, that he's obviously much better with the head games than intimidation.

But Marcus has been in the dark long enough. I owe him an explanation. More than one, actually.

So instead of doing what comes naturally, I remember that for most of my life Marcus was the one who knew me best. I can count the number of people I call friend on one hand, but there was a time not long ago when Marcus was my only friend in the world. He's still my best and he deserves some answers because he's so out of touch with my goings-on that he couldn't form the proper questions to ask.

"Yeah, mate. I've been meaning to talk with you about some things."

His eyebrows go up. "The plot thickens, eh?"

I nod and bid him to walk with me next door, into his house. We park in the kitchen over there since my place is full of family and my conference room—aka the master bedroom—is currently occupied by a napping Ethan and his worn-out Auntie.

It's a long conversation which I begin by reminding Marcus of a night many years ago, the night he helped me ransack my mother's house. We were searching for anything we could sell to buy our plane tickets out of England.

"That was the night I found out I was adopted."

He has questions, of course, but I ask him to hold off and go on explaining how it made me feel—as if it were all my fault, which made no sense to anyone but me—as if I were the reason my father left and my mother was dying.

Because something as wrong with me. I was the cancer.

Marcus shakes his head, but doesn't interrupt the way Grace did when I told her. He simply listens as I explain how I found my birth mother and the police reports that seemed to reinforce my own self-loathing. To justify it.

I believed, for years, that I was a product of rape—a long-term side effect destined to bring pain to the people stupid enough to care for me.

"The first person I ever told was Grace."

At that, Marcus hangs his head seeming to understand, though he's obviously disappointed. Understanding burns him further when I explain her reaction: how she accepted me, made me feel like I could do anything because she loved me anyways.

Then, we fell apart. I killed her with my deadly proximity. My affection was like a target. I had no idea what my stalker-slash-ex-manager was up to when she hit that bloody bulls-eye two years ago.

Now for the other shitty part ... Poynter and his games. I'm convinced he knows I'm not his son, yet he used the word as ammunition.

Then there's my acquaintance and possible friend, Harry, whom Marcus has met on a few occasions.

"I've just learnt had an affair with my biological mother."

All at once Marcus's eyes go wide, his chest heaves forward, and hot tea spews over the table between us. " _What_?"

Normally I'd laugh, but can barely muster a smile. "Turns out he's my father. I've got the DNA results to prove it."

There's a long silence before Marcus mutters. "Ain't that a kick in the biscuits?"

"It is." It really is.

It's another long beat before Marcus speaks again. "Ev, you've been in this, all this time?"

I shake my head. "I couldn't bring myself to tell you, Marcus."

"You should have told me. It's done my head in watching you these last three years. I thought you blamed me."

At that, I nearly choke. "Blamed you? For what?" Everything that has happened has been my fault. Mine alone.

My mistakes. My misdeeds and lies. My secretly psychopathic employees. All me.

"When my dad was sick and I went back to England—"

"No—"

Marcus cuts me off, "You wanted to go. I forced you to stay. It all went to shit after that. Don't think I didn't notice you distancing yourself ever since."

"Is that what you think?"

Between the two of us, Marcus has always been the most domestic. He chooses this moment to prove it by stacking the plates of untouched bread and jam on the table and carrying them to the sink.

I follow behind with the used napkins, tossing them onto the counter because I have no idea where Lily keeps the bin for used linens.

Marcus leans over the counter, looking down at the gray marble.

"It's not true, you know."

He nods his head. "Okay ... but I've got another question."

"Go on, then."

"Do you think you'll see that wanker, Poynter, again?"

His question catches me off guard. Makes me think...

John said he doubted Poynter would want another face-to-face. He was basically beat up by my dad. Not Dad—Harry. And assuming he gets bail, or isn't deported, if he has any common sense, he'll remember that I'm protected by armed guards.

"I don't think so. He's a bit of a bumbling idiot as it turns out."

"It's the _idiot_ part that worries me. Nations crumble at the mercy of morons."

The back door swings open and Lily breezes in. The wind billows her long curly hair into tufts under the black cap she's wearing. She's also sporting one of my favorite jackets. A black trench coat fresh from _my_ closet.

"Marcus, I know what you can get Lily for Christmas." I point accusingly at the jacket and turn to my sister-in-law. "It's bad enough your husband and nephew can't keep out of my things and now you're squirreling my jackets, too." I don't really care. Not too much.

Lily runs a hand over one of the lapels and smiles. "It's vintage."

"I know. That's why I bought it."

Giving Marcus a nod, I make my way to the back door.

"Hey!" Lily calls. When I turn back, my face is suddenly full of wet, vintage raincoat. "You still owe me a spa day. And the keys are in the pocket."

"You're welcome." I mutter and slip it on.

* * *

It's just past four in the afternoon and it's already dark. Black-billow clouds run across the sky overhead, streaking rain and thunder in their wake.

The storm is moving in fast.

I rush through the adjoining gate, over the already soaking grass, and under the protection of the patio. Stomping the excess water off my lace-up boots, I head inside the house.

As expected, Ethan is wide awake sitting on the floor in the family room near Caleb. His hair is a proper mess, sticking out in every direction and notably moist at the root. The sweaty head.

Caleb is holding an old _Dr. Suess_ book over his lap, reading aloud to his little brother. He forms the words slowly. The book is all about houses with people and the many things they keep inside. Caleb points to each picture and says the name. After Ethan repeats the words and points in kind, my chest tightens with a warm feeling. _My boys._ They are fantastic.

I recall Grace saying that Noah used to do this very thing for Caleb and I wish that I could have been there to see it. Now, Noah sits on a couch nearby, his attention buried in his phone.

Lightning flickers outside and through the windows across the long room. Noah's head snaps up and he begins counting. "One, one-thousand. Two, one-thousand. Three, one-thousand."

Thunder claps and the boys all look up at the same time, stilled by the sudden noise that booms so loud the windows shake.

Noah's watchful eyes land on Caleb. "How far off is the storm?"

"Three miles away." Caleb answers, but it sounds like a question.

Noah's eyes gleam with expectation. "It's getting closer."

Ethan tears the book from Caleb's hands. It lands at my feet. I lean down to pick it up and feel his little hands wrangle me around the neck. "Hullo, my lad."

"Pick me up, up!" Ethan stomps his demanding little feet.

I oblige and take him with me to prepare for an evening in.

It isn't long before we're all nestled on the davenport in the family room, munching on a warm bowl of popcorn. The movie is queued up and we're all ready to get lost in a cartoon dinosaur fantasy as soon as the tea kettle works up a whistle.

That's when Lily and Marcus tromp through the front door with dinner.

"Alright! Pizza!" Caleb shouts and hops off the couch.

Ethan shouts his version of the same sentiment and crawls down my legs to waddle after his big brother.

I stretch my legs on the way to the kitchen, noticing a black case that Noah keeps his baseball cards in is sitting out on the far end table. Caleb's either been getting into Noah's things or Noah has dragged it out.

Looking back on the sofa, Noah still has his face buried in his phone. "Hey." I wait until he looks up. "Did you dig that out?"

Noah sets his phone down and nods, leaning forward. "Yes. I thought Caleb and me could toss the ball around in the garage."

I look back to the end table against the small couch to take another inventory since I hadn't noticed a baseball. Sure enough, tucked behind the open case of baseball cards are two gloves and ball. A bat leans against the back wall, as well. I point at it. "You can't swing that bat around in the garage." There's space for catch, but that's it.

Noah's up, passing me to head into the kitchen. "It was packed with the gloves. Caleb wanted to look at it once he saw it was the same height as Ethan."

Everyone is sitting around the kitchen table. We've got gluten-free pizza, caffeine-free soda, and endless conversation. It's almost like old times. Almost.

Unreserved laughter drowns out the thunder. Tears of joy wash out the rain. Lily is telling bilingual dirty jokes. It sounds like she's speaking in code. Everyone's sides are aching.

We all lose it though when Noah relays how a few weeks ago, January threw up on a cop at work.

Conversation drifts to Lily, bragging about Marcus and the latest band he's discovered. "They're really good," She practically squeals and pats his arm. "He's going to make them famous and I'm going to get all-access passes for life."

Marcus snickers. "Yes, love. What's mine is yours and what's yours in also yours."

Caleb has taken the pepperoni off each slice on his plate and saved it for last. I watch him eat the whole stack in one bite the moment Ethan expresses interest.

Little Ethan, covered in red sauce and tears, he cries when he realizes he can't get what he wants from his brother.

I take him from his high chair and over to the sink as a distraction tactic. He loves to wash his hands under the running water so I let him play in it for a little longer than I should.

"Are you really quitting?"

Turning from the sink, I grab a hand towel. Ethan kicks at me, both frustrated that I'm drying his hands for him and demanding to get down.

My boy toddles past his uncle Marcus and through the swinging kitchen door where I hear his Aunt call his name like she hasn't seen him in years. When he giggles loudly in response, I know he is running away from her and most assuredly, she's chasing.

"Mm, I think so. For a little while."

Marcus nods his head. "How's that feel?"

I shrug, not knowing how to verbalize the strange sense of calm that's come over me, except to say, "Better. It just feels better."

* * *

The planned game of garage baseball is officially called once Noah and Caleb learn that Lily stowed Alvin and Chipmunk over home plate to get them out of the windy rain. So we resume our original plan for family movie night.

After the cartoon dinosaurs are saved and all is right once more in the kingdom of _Disney_ , I shut off the telly. I can't believe I watched the whole thing. The kids, and even Marcus, were passed out before the second act.

Noah yawns and stretches, muttering, "good night," as he heads off to bed.

Lily and Marcus leave next, promising to return first thing in the morning, to which I kindly inform them that they're not welcome. Lily looks as if she might object, but Marcus tucks her beneath his arm and whispers something in her ear. I've no idea what he says to her, but the sudden pink in her cheeks gives a clue. He gives her this disgusting smile that promises all manner of things I choose not to think about in connection with my sister-in-law.

Tossing them out becomes inevitable. They're both laughing as I lock the glass door behind them.

After, it's the usual safety checklist: double-check all doors and windows. All are properly closed and locked. Check the kids one last time and then the panic buttons near their doors. A green light blinks from each small switch mounted on the wall of each bedroom just like it's supposed to.

Set the alarm.

The quiet of the house magnifies the raging storm outside. The thunder isn't as loud but still noisy. Every time it rolls I find myself checking the baby monitor for sounds that Ethan has been scared awake and so I go back to the panel in the hallway just outside my bedroom door and punch in the code that disarms the bedroom doors, but keeps the outside entries and windows armed, and then I open the bedrooms, restoring a smidgen of peace to my mind. It does little to block out the sounds of weather, though.

On the wall in the formal living room is the control panel for the rarely used intercom system. In fact, tonight will be the first time I've used it in months. Grace used it all the time to play music in all the rooms while she was picking up and sometimes at night when I had trouble sleeping. Taking a page from her playbook, I set the volume far down and select the program called 'Deep Sleep.' Instantly, the slow stroke of electronic instruments fills the night and I already feel them loosening the knot between my shoulders.

# Chapter 37

"Everything that's happened has been my fault." –Evan Matthews

Intermittent lightning flashes through the French doors, but other than that my room is black. It's quiet, only the sounds of wind and rain on the roof.

The music playing over the intercom shut-off.

Pulling back my bed curtain, I can't see the time. My clumsy fingers search the nightstand, bumping the clock that's not working then fumble for the cordless phone that's docked nearby. Feeling the familiar shape, I grab the handset from the cradle and speed dial the guard hut downhill.

But there's no dial tone and no telling how long the powers been off. The handset might've run out of juice, or maybe it doesn't work if the base isn't plugged in.

Sitting up, I pull the bed curtain back all the way and set my feet to the floor in search of the desk across the room, where I left my cell phone.

There are no flashing green lights to indicate the security monitors mounted over the desk are in stand-by mode. If they're not turned on, then the feeds aren't working, which means all the security cameras around the property could be down, as well.

Finding the familiar shape of my cell phone, I set a finger over the pad to bring up the screen. The battery is less than half, but it keeps a charge for five days so that's plenty.

The time on the home screen says it's just passed three a.m.

Why hasn't the back-up generator kicked on?

Heading to the alarm panel in the hallway, I press the call button on the panel and wait for my cell to ring.

That's the way it's supposed to go: someone presses the call button on the alarm and the phone is supposed to ring within seconds. But by the time I've double-checked every room and person inside, I still haven't gotten that promised call back.

There's a cold feeling crawling up my spine as I decide to check the dogs in the garage.

Slowly, I open the doorway to the laundry room, pass the bins and machines, over to the inner garage door.

The dogs are whining. I feel more than see the animals slip past my legs and into the house. They stink of wet fur. I cover my nose and follow after them, hearing their snuffles as they investigate every inch of the hall.

I've just barely gotten to the great room when there's a noise coming from the back of the house.

Walking slowly toward the large glass door that leads out to the back garden, it's too dark to see how the dogs are reacting to whomever is lingering out there, so I use my phone's flashlight function to light up the space.

Both dogs are standing in front of me, not across the room as I thought. They've also got new collars on. Chipmunk is wearing a pink collar with her name on it. Alvin's is green. Each animal has their stubby tail pointed straight up, like their ears, as they march towards the back door. Their noses stop at the glass, watching a dripping Marcus and Lily slip inside.

"What are you two doing here?"

"Storm knocked the power out," Marcus announces.

"Really? I hadn't noticed," I say, wiggling the flashlight.

"I can't reach the guards," Lily sounds more worried than I expect.

"Hey, Ev, shouldn't one of the generators have kicked on by now?"

"Maybe you two should take a look," Lily proposes. "They're in the shed at the back of the driveway."

"I know where they are." I'm the one who had the damned things installed.

"While you're out, you can walk down the hill and tell the night guards they're not earning their paychecks. One of them should've been up here the moment the power went out."

She's right. "I'll get my boots."

"And an umbrella, if you've got one handy," Marcus adds as I slip passed the hallway and into my room.

As I pull my boots on, Lily's voice drifts from the doorway. "It's too windy for an umbrella. And I'm gathering the kids in Caleb's room."

"Don't wake them," I beg. The last thing we need right now is crying.

"I won't," Lily soothes, "don't worry."

That last bit makes me wonder if she knows who she's talking to.

Back in the living room, Marcus is talking. "Yeah, but no one's answered... He's right here." "Yes, everyone... Not yet, but we will." He pauses again, listening. "And if you don't hear back, all's well... oh, a call then."

He hangs up, and tells me, "John wants us to do bed-checks. Make sure everyone's accounted for and call him back."

"Why did you call him? There's no emergency, Marcus."

"He's out, Ev. Poynter was granted bail."

"Regardless. John needs his downtime. He can't control the weather."

"So you don't think there's even the slimmest possibility that Poynter could take advantage of the situation?" The question is filled with incredulity.

"It's a storm. The rain probably flooded the shed with the generators." As I say it, I realize that's a slim possibility. The outbuilding is set up above the ground on a concrete foundation. "Anyways, he'd be a fool to try again." The torch light of my phone moves to where the guard dogs are curled together on the carpet. "Besides, we're very well protected."

"I'll do bed-checks and call him back, tell him not to come."

"While you do that I'll check the generator and try the guard's again. If the power lines are down, the landline might be down as well."

Marcus agrees, so long as I take the dogs with me. I don't like leaving the house unguarded though so we compromise. Chipmunk will come with me, Alvin stays.

"Don't you go down that hill without me," Marcus warns.

"I'll be right back." I promise, and head out the back door.

* * *

It's bloody cold outside. I'm wearing a jacket, but the wind's cutting straight through it. The most irritating part is the wet. Lily was right, I can't use the umbrella because of the wind and rain is getting in my eyes.

One hand is planked against my forehead, and the other holds my cellphone with the flashlight function turned on. Rain cuts through both, my vision and the weak torch. The shed isn't too far from the house. Keeping to the tree line helps cut the wind somewhat.

It's difficult to see my way around the decorative rocks lining the pool house, and I stumble a few times, vowing that when I go back for Marcus, to get a real flashlight as well.

Chipmunk stays at my side, sitting to wait for me when I slip and fall in a patch of mud between walkways. She whimpers and licks my face as I work to get up. Her tongue is wide and rough with breath that smells like dog food, but the gesture is sweet.

"Maybe I won't get rid of you."

She barks, as if answering. I pat her side. "Good girl."

The outbuilding where the generators are housed appears through the dark. I make my way up the single step and try the door, but it doesn't budge. "Are you kidding?"

Chipmunk barks again.

Turning to her, I ask the guard dog, "When did we get padlocks?" A large u-shaped lock is wrapped around the metal handles of the double doors.

Chipmunk stares at me, her ears flipped back and pasted down. But then they perk up, jut forward. Her stance widens and her head turns. In under a second she's jumping behind me, darting around the side of the outbuilding. My eyes follow , but she disappears into the dark.

I shine the light from my phone into the space between the building and nearby trees. She barks at something that I assume is running since she keeps moving around the other side, but I can't tell what it is. The phone light is bright but shitty for distance.

Instinct has me shifting to see what comes out on the other side, since the shed is set close against a fence that's lined by evergreen trees and flowering shrubbery; all meant to keep the outbuilding aesthetically masked to the surrounding property.

I'm expecting a squirrel or raccoon, not a hooded glob in a black coat. My light briefly flashes his dark eyes and skin.

Poynter is running, Chipmunk right behind him. She lunges after him, growling. I run after the dog, noticing the back gate that opens our yard to the rest of the grounds is swinging in the wind. Poynter runs through, yelling as Chipmunk's jaw comes down on his calf.

Relentless Poynter passes through the gate and out of sight.

Amid the rain and swirling wind, I hear a yelp. Coming through the gate, I find the dog on her side, working onto her feet. Poynter is invisible to me, but Chipmunk has his scent as she shakes off and darts back into the night.

I turn off my phone light and call the guard hut. The line just keeps ringing. I call right back and get nothing. My next call is to John. Seems he is the only one taking calls at this hour.

He answers on the first ring. I hear him, but can't make out what he's saying, so I start talking. "Poynter's on the property. My dog chased him away, but I can't get hold of any guards and the power's still out."

John says something, but the wind takes it away. "I can't hear you! I'm heading down to the hill to make contact. Everyone else is secure inside the house."

Ending the call, I flip the light back on and head downhill.

Chapter 38

"Betrayal doesn't always scream. Sometimes it whispers. Be sure you're listening." —Unknown

One person's reason is another's madness.

For me, it's perfectly reasonable to run my ass down the property to contact security. To John, it's madness. I know this because he's blowing up my phone, text after call after text.

But I can't worry about him right now. I can't concern myself with what he wants me to do—which, according to his messages, is to go back inside the house and do nothing.

He should know by now that patience is not my virtue. Asking me to do nothing is like asking me to worry. Like asking me to stop breathing until he gets here; it's impossible.

Usually there is safety in numbers, but if John would just think about it, he'd understand that I'm Poynter's target. So if I'm up there with them, where's he gonna go? If I'm out here, then everyone inside is safe.

Grace flashes through my mind. Not really a memory, but a still frame; like a one-second slice from her life. She standing with her arms wrapped around her middle, chewing her bottom lip. The set of her eyebrows and downturned expression say she's worried. The image leaves as quickly as it appeared when my phone buzzes.

I'm on the path that goes towards the playground, coming through a grouping of trees. The wind has blown them to bits. Leaves and branches are scattered all over. I pick up a good sized branch and break it in half, removing extra twigs and leaves.

When the guard hut comes into view, my jog halts.

I'm about halfway down the property and have just come through the trees. On any normal day I'd be able to see the gate down at the main road. The guards would be visible from here. But right now, in the middle of the night, in the pouring rain, during a power outage, I shouldn't be able to see lights inside the hut's office and outside the main door. The blinds are open, but the office looks empty.

That can't be. With my camera phone, I zoom in on the structure. The office blinds are hiked up wide open, but there's no one in the office. The pair of guards that should be in there are ghosted. Glancing back up at the houses, I note the lights up there are still out. But the neighborhood is lit up. It's only the compound that's blacked out.

While I debate what to do (continue to the guard hut or go back to the house), the wind dies down. The rain let's up a little as well, still coming down, but lighter.

An odd noise catches my attention. A garbled bark. _Chipmunk_.

Sounds like it's coming from the direction of the playground. The lights that line the path beside it are solar powered, so they're still on.

My phone screen blinks with text messages. More from John and Marcus, even Lily.

Chipmunk whimpers as I shoot Marcus a text to say what I've found, that I'm okay, and as soon as I track down the dog, I'll head back.

Following the noise, I make my way towards the pirate ship in the center of the playground. As I get closer, I hear scratching and imagine Chipmunk chased Poynter back over the wall and is trying to climb it herself to continue the hunt. Because Poynter runs, he always runs.

Reaching the pirate ship, I glance up at the main deck for shapes that don't belong. Seeing nothing, I continue around the other side, towards the perimeter wall and Chipmunk's racket.

The dog is closer than I expect because she's not pawing the outer wall. She's propped against the side of the pirate ship, squeaking and scratching. Getting closer, I see a dark line stretching from the high railing of the ship, down to the dog's neck. Chipmunk twists and jerks as my mind makes the connection.

I lunge up the six foot ladder and onto the deck. There's a rope tied to the main mast, stretched taught over the side. I grab and start pulling as fast as I can.

Chipmunk is a big dog. Tall, thin, and soaking wet. The damned rope is soaked, too. Though it feels like she weighs next to nothing, my hands keep slipping on the nylon cord. The second her orange and black muzzle appears, I step on the rope, loop it around my shoe to keep it in place, and reach through the bars of the ship's railing.

Lifting her is more difficult. Her short hair is so slick. But Chipmunk gets her paws under her and jumps from my grasp, over the railing and onto the deck. She flops forward and I go to work on loosening the rope around her neck.

"Chipmunk! Stay!" She's scared and wheezing, she can't stay still. She tries to shake the rope free but stops when I yell at her again. "Stay!" The dog stills and I tell her what a good girl she is for chasing the bad man, for protecting me.

But her keeping still isn't helping me untie the knot that's pressing a line into her flesh. I can't loosen the damned thing. It's too tight.

Reaching into my rain jacket, I pull out my keys. Grace kept a pocketknife on her keychain. I adopted it when I moved back in. I take it with me everywhere.

Unfolding the small blade, I work it under the cord of rope around Chipmunk's neck and make a sawing motion with the blade tilting upward to keep from cutting her.

The rope springs away. Relief courses through me as Chipmunk takes gasping breaths. I pat her head, trying to soothe her when something shoves me sideways.

My face smacks the deck. Understanding creeps in. Not something, but _someone_ hit me.

Chipmunk goes crazy.

The taste of blood fills my mouth.

I slide back and get to my feet.

The dog is locked on Poynter's arm. He's yelling, trying to pull away from her, but she's got him.

The stick. _What did I do with it?_

Though the solar lights around the playground are enough to see, they aren't enough for the details. My makeshift club is the same color as the wooden deck and the sand covering the playground.

Poynter's leg wheels back and charges forward into the dog's chest. Chipmunk yelps and goes flying against the railing. I charge before he can gain his balance, spearing my head into his gut.

We both fall. Poynter grabs me and then the raincoat swallows my head—I can't see!

Blow after blow knocks me around. I swing back, hitting nothing. When my hands find one of his arms, I hang on as my back smacks against the deck, my head banging against the mast.

His hands come around my neck—I can't breathe.

I try to roll him off, to kick him over, but he won't budge. I start punching in the area where I assume his face is and find resistance, but the vise doesn't relent. My face feels like a balloon about to pop.

Searching the area beside me, my hand happens on a chunk of rough wood—my club! I'm blindly hammering any part of him I can.

The dog barks and Poynter's hands finally relent. My breath returns. Then his weight is suddenly gone.

I scrape the wet coat from my face and look around.

The rain stopped.

Chipmunk is standing by my head, tail pointed. I've got a clear view of her back-end and nothing else. She's standing strong, guarding me.

Sitting up, I find Poynter standing a few feet in front of her, facing east. His hands are raised.

"Matthews!" John calls

I answer in a strained voice.

"Don't move." John orders and I can't tell who he's talking to so I stay hunched behind Chipmunk's butthole.

Poynter takes a step backward.

John yells, "Don't do it!" But whatever he's telling Poynter not to do, he's doing it anyway. His frame shifts toward me and there are three loud pops.

One-two-three. Bang-bang-bang.

Poynter's whole body sags. He tips back, pauses and then falls ass-over-end from the deck and out of sight. Chipmunk bolts to the railing and pokes her head through, barking.

Scrambling to my feet, I look over the side, half-expecting to find Poynter running away. But he's in a heap on the dark sand. John appears beside him, gun still trained on his target.

John is a man of his word. The last time John saw Poynter he warned that if they met a second time, he'd shoot to kill.

And so he did.

Chapter 39

"Death may be the greatest of all human blessings." –Socrates

"Matthews?" John touches my shoulder. When I look up from my steaming cup of tea, I notice everyone is staring at me, "You alright?"

I nod my head, not sure if it's true yet, but it will be. Doctor Haven is on his way over to make sure of it.

"As I was saying," John continues, "Rutledge confessed to everything."

"Wait, who's Rutledge again?" Marcus asks.

Noah answers, "The main night-time security guy; the one who's always there."

"How is it that Noah knows more than you do? Rutledge is mid-thirties, has short brown hair, light eyes. You've spoken to him several times." Lily explains, staring at Marcus like he's an alien creature.

"Is he the one you said was cute?" Marcus asks.

Lily scoffs, "I never said that. I said he didn't look threatening."

"Same thing," Marcus chuckles.

I've had it. "Right. Now if we can get back on topic, John?"

Marcus removes his elbows from the table. "I'm just glad it's over."

John clears his throat. "He gave the new guy, Leeds, the night off—"

"Why?" Noah interrupts and I want to scream for everyone to shut their porky faces.

John keeps going with his explanation. "Via instant message," John lays a paper down on the table. It's a page of text conversations between Leeds and Rutledge. "Then, Rutledge showed show for his usual shift, stayed just long enough to punch his and Leed's time cards, then disconnect the circuit camera feeds, and disable the generators."

"He _planned_ this?" Noah sounds incredulous.

"Looks that way," John lays a stack of papers on the table. Looks like emails. "This came from a laptop that was seized when local PD executed a warrant against one Eugene A. Cling."

"Eugene, Destiny, Rutledge, and Leeds? Who else was working with that bastard? What was he offering?" Marcus asks. My head starts pounding when he bangs the table.

Lily shushes him, but her warning comes too late. Ethan's whimpers sound through the baby monitor. She gives Marcus a shriveling glare as she excuses herself from the kitchen dining room.

"I'll get him," I whisper, throwing off the blanket. My throat vibrates with pain.

"No you don't. Not until the doctor looks at you. For now, drink your tea." The look she gives me is much softer than the one she gave her husband.

"Why you being so nice to him? He almost got himself killed."

"That's one way to look at it," Lily agrees on her way out of the kitchen.

Marcus mutters, "Only way, if you ask me."

John goes on explaining his findings. "We're still looking into Leeds's role in the attack, even though Rutledge insists he was the only one of the guards working with Poynter."

"But why?" Noah asks, moving around the table to sit in the chair next to mine. He looks at me, asking with his eyes if I'm alright. I give a small nod and he looks back to John.

John can't seem to stop staring at me. He's got the most terrible guilty face: eyes squinted from stress, brows turned down, and shoulders hunched. His jacket is also askew, higher on one side. "According to the girl, Destiny, Poynter offered her and her brother half of whatever he extorted from you. She says he made the same deal with Allen Pierce, and Rutledge, too."

"But Rutledge and Leeds are your guys, John. How could this happen?" Noah's question doesn't sound like the burning accusation that it is. It sounds like mere curiosity. The way Noah apologizes when John's head goes down, I know that's all it was.

John admits, "I used to work with the guys Dad. He was a stand-up guy. His son had a few problems, but nothing that led me to believe he was capable of this." He raises his eyes to meet mine. "I understand what this means, Mr. Matthews. You don't have to say it."

"Wait until the investigation is concluded. Police reports and your findings." I don't want to fire John and he knows it.

"Evan," Lily's voice calls from the other side of the kitchen. "You have a visitor."

#

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# Chapter 40

"Sometimes life really sucks. And sometimes it doesn't." –A.R. Rivera

When I walk into the living room, expecting to find my personal physician, Dr. Richard Haven, he isn't there.

Lily is standing in the entry way next to Pastor Tony. He's patting her back and she's nodding. I'm too far off to hear what they're saying.

I'm wondering what the hell he's doing here when Pastor Tony turns and answers the unspoken question. "Lily told me what happened last night. I thought I should stop over, make sure everything's alright, and see if I can help in any way."

"Evan can't really talk right now," Lily says.

Pastor Tony's eyes widen. "I can come back."

"Oh, no. Not like "it's a bad time," more than his throat was injured and we're waiting for Doctor Haven to examine him."

Tony makes a beeline over to me and sets his palms on either side of my throat. His eye tightly close as his head lowers, but he doesn't say anything. I stand there, frozen, until he's done.

"Amen," Tony whispers and then releases me. "You ought to be feeling better soon."

I nod, thanking him for the awkward moment.

When Doctor Haven knocks on the front door a few minutes later, Pastor Tony dismisses himself, assuring Lily that he'll stop by again, tomorrow.

* * *

After a thorough examination, Dr. Haven concluded that I appear to be fine. He wants to meet at his office later on for an MRI, but it's only a precaution. My throat will be sore for a few more days. The bruising will darken, and I might experience frequent headaches and ear pain.

But I am alright.

I stand in the shower, thinking over all that has happened. Not just last night, because truly, I'd rather not think about it. So I focus on Pastor Tony and the conversation we had last time I visited his office.

He had said something about there being certain things I've never talked about—which is true, of course, but mainly because I never gave myself time to consider them. Like, I purposely kept busy so as not to think about being adopted—being unwanted. Since my mother was taken into hospital, I've practiced the skill of focusing on the moment I'm in, barely thinking long range outside of my career. My solution was to pare away all desire to talk about anything meaningful. All I had to do was keep myself from thinking about any of it. Because I won't usually have a deep conversation if I haven't thought it through, first.

Even with the kids, we are together in the moment, savoring each day as it happens. There isn't anything wrong with that. That part is actually important, but how often do I think on what type of future they'd like to make for themselves? What lessons are they learning by watching me live my life? I have no way of knowing the impact my decisions will have on them in the long term because I haven't considered it.

Tony also mentioned something about Spiderman; h _aving_ more _means bearing more responsibility._ Thinking about the future and taking meaningful steps to create it.

Walking softly or considerately... and carrying a big stick. (What did he mean by that?) There's a euphemism I haven't got the headspace for as answers come flooding in. They form the walls that frame of my life, supporting me and my family.

The fact that I am unhappy is undeniably clear. I've sort of accepted it as the way things were going to be after Grace. Made sense, since it's the way things were before I met her. But I know that she wouldn't want that for me or the children. Not if our unhappy circumstances are something that I can resolve.

Something I can change.

I can do what's within my power to change my circumstances. Or I can keep on as I have been, puttering about and worrying and complaining over everything. I know where that road leads—back to lying in my own vomit. Rehab. Or worse. That's no kind of life for our boys to learn from.

So I've got to do something different.

The reason I felt such a draw to Grace, why I was instantly sucked into her life—it wasn't her beauty, though she was beautiful—it was a peaceful, hopeful something inside of her. She thought her life was small, but it was bigger than mine, better in all the ways that mattered.

Of all the things I have, of everything I have ever had, the snippet of time I lived with Gracie was the most important. What I wanted and who I was apart from her meant nothing after we met. Nothing could compare.

Gracie opened her heart and home to me. We began building something meaningful. She gave me Noah, Caleb, and Ethan because she understood something that is only now occurring to me—that having relationships and keeping them are two very different animals.

This revelation occurs to me as I step out of the shower, hands and fingers pruned by the water. Understanding has me feeling exposed. Repentant. But there is also a strong sense of absolution. It's clarity. Sustainability.

And I get what Pastor Tony meant: knowledge equals responsibility and now that I know, I am responsible for teaching it by life as well as word. But I must be gentle, walk softly. And to keep that big stick nearby so that anyone who wants to screw with this family will think twice about it.

* * *

After dressing in a set sweats, I crawl into my bed where Ethan and Caleb are still, thankfully, asleep. Drawing the dark canopy curtains around us, I lie down beside my boys for some much needed sleep.

Not long after closing my eyes, the curtain on the other side of the bed stirs. It's Noah crawling onto the king-sized mattress. He's sleep-eyed, making himself comfortable beside Caleb. He yawns and shuts his eyes.

The contentment of having all three of them here safe and together, it threatens to rip a wonderful hole in my chest.

Being a father is the toughest role I have ever taken. It's also the only one that really matters. Because the world might think well of me, but at the end of the day, the people out there who say they love me do not know me. They love me because of who they think I am. But family, those are the people who love me _because_ of who I am. Actually, they know me, so the more likely scenario is that they love me _despite_ who I am.

Thank God for that. Thank God for them all.

# About The Author

A .R. Rivera is a firm believer in the run-on sentence, and is well-known for her deep devotion to the use of commas. And she loves starting sentences with coordinating conjunctions. She blogs at authorarrivera.com, tweets as @girlnxtdr2u, and has a facebook page that's just begging for more likes.

She's currently back at school, working on a BA in English to become a better writer.

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