I drive up to the billboard right as it flips from the ad for Cola to the one for perfume.

Simone’s face hits me like a slap.

She’s beautiful. Dreamy. And sad. Yes, she’s sad, I know it. Because all those years she longed for me, just like I did for her. We were two halves of a heart, torn apart, bleeding and aching to be stitched back together again.

She loves me. And I love her. I can’t stop loving her.

No matter what she’s done to me, no matter what she might do in the future, I can never stop. I would cut off my hands for this woman. Strip the flesh off my bones for her. I can’t live without her, and I don’t want to try.

Forgiving her isn’t optional. I have to do it. I can’t exist without it.

Because I can’t exist without her. I tried and I tried. It will never work. I’ll get down on my fucking knees and crawl across glass for her.

As soon as I realize this, the anger seeps out of me. My chest is burning, but not with fury.

It’s just love. I fucking love her. I always have and I always will.

I’m parked in front of the billboard. The dark night is silent all around me.

Until someone sits up in my backseat.

I shout and spin around, reaching automatically for the gun under the seat.

Then I see it’s a boy.

My boy.

It’s Henry.

He looks at me nervously, trying to flatten his curls with one hand. He bites his bottom lip, with the unmistakable appearance of a kid who knows he’s in trouble.

He’s wearing flannel pajamas, navy blue with red piping. I can’t stop staring at him.

I must have been fucking blind before. He’s got Simone’s smooth, bronze, luminescent skin. His curls are a little looser and a little lighter. His face is longer, not square like hers.

In fact, it’s just the shape that Seb’s was at that age. He’s got long lashes like Nero had, and Aida. But the actual color of his eyes . . . they’re dark, dark brown. Almost black.

Just like mine.

I’m frozen in place, looking at him. Silent. Totally unable to speak.

“I . . . I hid in the backseat,” he explains, unnecessarily. “Sorry,” he adds, wincing.

“It’s okay,” I tell him.

Those are the first words I’ve spoken to my son.

His eyes dart away from me and back again. I can tell he’s as curious to look at me as I am him, but he’s scared.

“It’s alright,” I say again, trying to reassure him. I don’t really know how to talk to a kid. I had younger siblings, but that was different, and it was a long time ago.

“I wanted to meet you,” he says.

“Me too,” I assure him. Then, as gently as I can, I say, “Does your mom know where you are?”

He shakes his head, looking more guilty than ever.

“I snuck out,” he admits.

He’s honest. I’m glad to see that.

“We should call her,” I say.

I hit the number on my phone. It rings several times, then switches over to voicemail. No response from Simone.

She’s still upset over the way I reacted. She must not have noticed that Henry’s missing. She’s probably crying somewhere.

I’m about to text her, but Henry interrupts me.

“How come you never came to visit me?” he says.

I hesitate. I don’t know what Simone told him. I could have discussed this with her, if I’d stayed calm, instead of losing my temper.

“What did your mom say?” I ask Henry.

“She said you were far away.”

“That’s true. I was in the army for a while—did you she tell you that?”

Henry shakes his head.

“I went to Iraq. You know where that is?”

“Yes,” he says. “I like geography. I learned a song about the hundred and ninety-five countries.”

“They eat kebabs in Iraq. You know, meat skewered on a stick. Lamb or beef, sometimes fish or chicken. That was good, better than the barracks food. They had this stew called Qeema, too.”

“I don’t like soup,” Henry says, wrinkling his nose.

“I don’t like soup, either,” I tell him. “But stew, if it’s good and thick, that can be a real meal. I bet you get hungry, a big kid like you.”

“Yeah, all the time.”

“I was that way, too. Always growing. Are you hungry now?”

Henry nods, eyes bright.

“What’s your favorite food?”

“Ice cream.”

I start the car engine again.

“I bet there’s someplace open that serves ice cream . . .”

Right then, my phone starts buzzing next to me. I see Simone’s name, and I pick it up, thinking that she noticed my call, or saw that Henry was missing. I’m planning to tell her that he’s with me, he’s safe.

“Simone—” I start.

A male voice replies instead.

“Dante Gallo.”

It’s a smooth voice. Almost pleasant. Still, it sends a sick electric pulse across my skin.

I know who it is, though I’ve never heard his voice before.

“Christian Du Pont,” I say.

He lets a little hiss of air, halfway between annoyance and a laugh.

“Very good.”

He already knows I’ve figured out his name, because he saw me in his little cabin.

It’s me who’s flooded with a nasty sense of shock.

Du Pont called me on Simone’s phone. That means he has her phone. And he probably has Simone as well.

“Where’s Simone?” I demand.

“Right here with me,” he says, softly.

“Let me talk to her.”

“No . . . I don’t think so . . .” he replies, lazily.

My brain is racing, and so is my heart. I’m trying to stay calm, trying not to antagonize him. My voice is like a steel cable, stretched to the breaking point.

“Don’t you hurt her,” I growl.

Du Pont gives that huffing laugh again, louder this time.

“She’s a true beauty,” he says. “Even more than her pictures. That surprised me.”

I’m gripping the phone so hard I’m afraid I’m going to shatter it in my hand. Henry is watching me, wide-eyed. He can’t hear the other side of the conversation, but my expression is enough to terrify him.

“What do you want?” I demand.

“That’s an interesting question,” Du Pont says. I can’t see him, but he sounds pensive, like he’s leaning back in a chair, smoking a cigar, or just looking up at the ceiling. “What I actually want is impossible. You can’t bring someone back from the dead, after all. So then I have to look at other options. Other things that might make me feel just a little bit better . . .”

“Simone has nothing to do with this!” I snap.

Du Pont doesn’t respond to my anger. He stays perfectly calm.

“I don’t think that’s true, Dante. You know, when I came here, I had a simple and specific purpose. Revenge. I planned to do it cleanly. Callum Griffin, Mikolaj Wilk, and Marcel Jankowski. Kolya Kristoff deserved to die as well, of course, but Fergus Griffin had already taken care of that. So I intended to work my way down the list and be done with it. But you got in my way.”