Besides that, I smell the dry, smoky scent of the crushed leaves under our feet. The raw pine sap in the air, and the car exhaust from the roads surrounding the park. Even the slight tang of lake water.

I feel the cool breeze on my face, the loose curls dancing around my cheeks, and the leather jacket heavy on my shoulders.

I hear the noise of traffic, of other people walking and talking in the park, though none very close to us, and the leaves crunching as we walk, and Dante’s heavy tread.

All those things become a jumble in my brain, making it hard for me to think. I have to dissociate so I can get through this. I feel like I’m watching myself walk down the path. I feel like I’m hearing my voice speak, without any control over the words coming out of my mouth:

“When I left nine years ago . . . it’s because I was pregnant,” I say.

The words come tumbling out, so quick that they slur together.

Dante falls utterly silent. Either because he doesn’t quite understand me, or because he’s in shock.

I can’t look at him. I have to keep my eyes on the pavement, so I can finish what I have to say.

“I had the baby in London. Your baby. That was Henry. He’s not my sister’s—he never was. She helped me raise him. But he’s your son.”

Now I steal a glance at him.

The expression on his face is horrifying. It strangles the rest of the words I intended to say, cutting them off like a hand around my throat.

Dante’s eyes are black pits in a pale face. His cheeks, his lips, his jaw, are rigid with shock and fury.

I have to keep going. I have to finish while I have the chance.

“I hid him from you. And I’m so sor—”

“DON’T,” he snarls.

I skitter back from him, stumbling on my heels. It’s just one word, but it’s saturated with hatred. He doesn’t want me to apologize. He sounds like he’ll kill me if I try.

Dante stands there, shoulders hunched, fists clenched at his sides. He’s breathing slowly and deeply. He looks like he wants to pick up boulders and hurl them, uproot entire trees and break them over his knee.

I had wondered, deep down, if he suspected that Henry might be his son . . .

Now I see that he had no idea. He never even considered it.

He never imagined that I could hide something like that from him.

I’m terrified to speak another word. The silence is unbearable. The longer it goes on, the worse it feels.

“Dante . . .” I squeak.

His eyes dart up to me, his teeth bared and his nostrils flared.

“HOW COULD YOU?” he roars.

That’s it. It’s too much for me. I turn on my heel and I run away from him as fast as I can. I run back out of the park and down the sidewalk the block and a half back to the hotel.

I’m in heels and Dante is faster than me—if he wanted to catch me, he could. But he doesn’t chase after me. Probably because he knows if he did, he might rip me apart with his bare hands.

I push through the doors of the hotel, and run to the bathrooms. I lock myself in a stall and I slump down on the tile floor, sobbing into my hands.

I’ve done something that can never be put right.

I broke Dante’s heart nine years ago, and now I’ve done it all over again.

He was willing to forgive me for leaving. But this . . . he could never forgive this. I should have known from the start. I should never have let us get close all over again.

I cry and cry until my whole body aches. My eyes are swollen shut. I can hardly breathe from the mucus in my throat.

I wish I could stay in this bathroom forever. I can’t deal with the mess I’ve made. It’s too much. It’s too awful.

Unfortunately, that’s not an option.

So I pull myself up off the floor, still shaking and weak. I go over to the sink and I splash my face with cold water until the swelling goes down a little. Then I dry my eyes with one of the fancy folded hand-towels in the basket, and I try to take a deep breath that doesn’t end in another shuddering sob.

Finally, I’m ready to go back upstairs.

I take the elevator up, dreading making small talk with my parents. I have to say goodnight to them. And maybe put Henry to bed, if he hasn’t gone already.

I go into my parents’ suit, thinking they might still be playing board games with Henry.

The Ticket to Ride board is all folded up, back in the box along with all the tiny plastic pieces. Mama is drinking a mug of tea, while my father sits on the couch, a biography open on his lap.

“How was dinner?” Mama asks. “That was fast.”

“Yes,” I say, numbly. “Did Henry go to sleep already?”

“He did,” she nods, taking a sip of her tea. “He didn’t want to play anymore after you left. Said he was tired and went right to bed.”

“I hope he’s not getting sick,” Tata says, turning the page of his book.

Henry never goes to bed early if he can help it. He must have been angry that I didn’t let him come with me. I hope he wasn’t crying over in the other suite, too far away for my parents to hear him.

“I’ll go check on him,” I say. “Thank you for watching him.”

“He’s such a good boy,” Mama says, smiling up at me.

“Goodnight, little one,” Tata says.

“Goodnight.”

I go through the adjoining door to our suite. Henry and I have our own separate bedrooms—I’m trying to give him his privacy, now that he’s getting older.

Still, I tiptoe over to his room and crack the door, not wanting to wake him up if he really is sleeping, but feeling the need to check on him all the same.

His bed is a jumble of pillows and blankets. It’s hard to spot him, in all the mess. I open the door a little wider.

I don’t see his curls, or his long legs hanging out from under the blanket.

Heart in my mouth, I step all the way into the room and stride over to the bed. I pull the blanket back.

Empty. The bed is empty.

I try to hold back the panic, but it’s impossible. I run wildly through the little suite, checking my room, the bathroom, and the couch in the sitting room, in case he fell asleep somewhere odd.

Losing all control I yell, “HENRY!” several times.

My father comes into the suite, looking around in confusion.

“Simone, what—”

“Where is he? Did he come back into your suite?”

It takes too long, way too long, for my parents to understand. My mother keeps saying we should check all the rooms, even though I tell her I’ve already done that. My father says, “Maybe he was hungry? He might have gone downstairs looking for food?

“Call the front desk!” I shout at them. “Call the police!”

I run down the hall to Carly’s room, pounding on her door. Then I remember I gave her the night off—she probably went out for dinner, or to see a movie.

I try to call her just in case. No answer.

I run to the ice machine, the stairwell, the elevators. I sprint down to the main lobby, and check the commissary like my father suggested, praying I’ll find Henry perusing the chocolate bars and chips. He does love sweets.

The only person in the commissary is an exhausted-looking businessman, trying to make an unenthusiastic choice between a banana and an apple.

“Have you seen a boy?” I ask him. “Nine years old? Curly hair? Wearing pajamas?”