48

CORVO

It was midafternoon, and Sean was nearing the end of his goal—to reach the top of the Morro dos Homens. For the past hour, the peak had been shrouded in a murky mist, much like his cluttered thoughts.

They circled back to perhaps the biggest question of all—why? Why had his regal, do-no-wrong, reared-with-the-highest-morals mother fallen into an affair or chosen to have an affair? The fact she had done one or the other was irrefutable. Sean was living proof.

Heaviness descended, and dark thoughts taunted him. She was weak. Willing and ready to fall into his arms. All they needed was a time and a place. If not for that mistake, you wouldn’t be alive. You are a mistake. That’s why you’ve felt at odds with life, like you never fit.

The heaviness crushed him to his knees and shortened his breath. He closed his eyes in agony.

End the mistake, the dark voice insinuated. Step off the top of the mountain. Simple as that.

Sean grabbed his head with both hands. “No,” he whispered. “I will not.”

A quietness settled. Yes, she was weak, a gentle voice said. Fragile because she was lonely. Fragmented. Craving love.

In a flood Sean’s own loneliness in the past couple of months swept over him. I’m lonely. Feeling fragmented. Craving love. A memory of the night he met the exotic woman in the bar surfaced. She’d offered herself to him.

Would it really matter if I give in? he’d wondered. He was in a far-flung location. No one would know. He relived the two of them in the hallway. Her touch in just the right place. His craving that touch and more. Intense desire had weakened his resolve.

So what had stopped him?

The same gentle voice that spoke to him now. The voice that told him to stay on the right path.

The mist began to clear from his head.

He had been so close to doing the same thing his mother had. Only one step and a hotel room door away. Who was he to judge her? He’d almost made the same mistake . . . with a stranger.

“I’m so sorry, Mom,” he rasped, his throat clogged with emotion. “So sorry.”

Loneliness and the pain of the revelation intensified into an agonizing knot in his stomach, forcing gut-wrenching sobs. He didn’t know how long he lay on the damp ground or if he fell asleep.

When he at last had the strength, he struggled to his knees, then rose slowly. He opened his eyes and stared in wonder. He was at the top of the Morro dos Homens, surrounded by brilliant blue sky, with a panorama of green valley, rocky cliffs, and shimmering azure waters far below.

His clothing was damp, as if a light rain had misted him.

A Wilson’s storm petrel circled nearby. He’d seen them on the island in groups, but this one was solo. Small in size and seemingly a weak flyer, it was yet a bird that weathered the roughest of seas around the world but always came home to the far southern oceans to nest.

“I understand,” Sean said. He was like that bird, weathering the roughest of seas solo. It would be his choice, his determination that would take him home.

To those who are given much, much is required, the gentle voice said.

Sean nodded. His perspective was now unfettered. He knew the path ahead.

NEW YORK CITY

It wasn’t even his usual lunchtime yet, but Will had been antsy and uneasy all morning. Stepping out of the Worthington office building, he headed for Central Park. He needed a brisk walk to take the edge off the foreboding. He hadn’t been able to concentrate.

Is there something I should have done differently? He couldn’t let the question go. It tormented him.

Was Sean missing or dead because he’d gotten mixed up in the bombing somehow? Fell in with environmentalists more radical than he thought and he couldn’t extract himself? Or did he overhear something he shouldn’t have, and someone got nervous and decided it was time for Sean to disappear?

Should Will have told Sean right away about the photo of him with the Polar Bear Bomber? Should he have pulled Sean aside before mounting the platform? Given him time to explain? To figure out what happened? To extricate himself, if need be? As much as Will couldn’t stand Carson, could that photo be real and not a setup as he hoped? Perhaps Will’s reticence to anger his brother had led him into deeper trouble.

Then his mind flipped to Thomas Rich. Should Will have told his mother not to say anything to Sean about his birth father until Will could be there? So he could be by Sean’s side . . . follow him to make sure he was okay? Yes, she’d done it spontaneously, but might Will have prevented that revelation or at least controlled the damage of it by forcing a meeting once he knew the truth? Then again, would it have helped or hurt Sean that Ava had told Will first? He was well aware of the rivalry Sean felt toward him.

Business decisions were easy—black-and-white. It was the emotional ones Will struggled with because they never seemed to be reasonable. So he did what he always did in these situations. He phoned Laura as he strolled the pathways of Central Park.

“Can’t settle, huh?” she said as soon as she picked up the call.

“You noticed.”

“Of course. You tossed and turned until 4:00 this morning, when you finally got out of bed and went to your office.”

He winced. “Sorry I kept you up.”

“You second-guessing yourself?”

Laura knew.

“Yeah.”

“Hmm.”

That “hmm” meant one thing. A lecture was coming. His wife was a softie when it came to those she loved, but she didn’t have a lot of patience with people who beat themselves up over what they couldn’t control or change.

“Will, you can’t go back,” she said. “But you can act now. Do what you can with Drew to figure out what happened to Sean. We may find out. We may never know. But either way, your father, mother, and sister need you. Your sister most of all, since she doesn’t know about the photo or Thomas Rich.”

“You’re right,” he murmured.

“I always am,” she fired back. Then, in a softer voice, she added, “Will, you know that photo will come to light sometime. The Jason Carsons of the world like to have and use such leverage. If Sean isn’t here to speak for himself, you’ll be that steadying force for your family as they try to make sense of it. But in the meanwhile . . .”

He knew the one-two punch was coming, and he braced himself for it.

“Life is much easier if you ride along for some of it, instead of trying to control every aspect of it.”

“No way could Michael have had any role in the bombing,” Jon reported to Sarah. “He’s the real deal. Came out of a tough background sunny-side up because of good people in his court. He’s actually become deeply religious. He’s driven to help other kids like him. I caught up with him right before he boarded a flight from Heathrow to Dublin. Said Mrs. Chesterton had told a friend of mine about him and what he did.” Jon chuckled. “That’s all I had to say, and he was off running, excited to talk about the theater program and how it had impacted the lives of students.”

“So how did you work your way around to asking about Justin Eliot?” she prompted.

“Oh, ye of little faith! Doubting my abilities,” he teased. “I simply asked what the inspiration for the program was. He told me about going to St. Mark’s school at a rough time in his life. Said acting helped him process what had happened. I asked if any friend was there for him, and he named Justin. Then he paused.”

“What kind of pause?” she asked. “A pause like, ‘Oh no, you caught me at something,’ or like, ‘We went separate ways,’ or like—”

“Whoa there, missy.” He laughed. “All he said with a sad tone was, ‘Change is much easier for some people than others.’ I asked what he meant. ‘Justin’s always been troubled,’ he told me. ‘Here I am, helping lots of people on a different continent, but I can’t figure out how to help my best friend. I’ve tried for years. After his mom died, he felt like God and everybody else was against him. The meds he was on didn’t help the paranoia either.’ After that, Michael’s flight was announced, and he had to go. He said he’d be happy to answer any follow-up questions, though.”

“So he said Justin was paranoid,” Sarah mused. “Did you ask when he got to see him last?”

“Yes. Said he hadn’t seen him in person for a couple of years, but they usually talk on the phone at least once a month. But now it’s been a long time since they talked. He admitted he’s worried.” Jon’s voice grew quieter. “I asked him when they’d talked the last time. The date he gave was two days before the bombing.”

“He remembered the exact date they talked last?” Sarah asked. “Isn’t that a little too—”

“It was Justin’s birthday. That’s why Michael remembered.” He chuckled. “And yes, I verified it against the paperwork we have even before I called you.”

“Oh.” Sarah deflated. Still, it irked her a bit that Jon could read her mind.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he said smoothly. “But that’s why he could be so specific. Justin had called, excited, saying he got a gig. ‘Maybe things will turn around for me,’ he told Michael.”

“And Michael hasn’t heard from him since?”

“No. He says he hopes things did turn around for Justin and that he’s been too busy to call. He just wants his friend to be happy.”

“Wow. So sad. He has no idea. You didn’t tell him, did you?”

“No. I called him for a story. And since the name hasn’t been released, I couldn’t tell him,” Jon said.

“Well, sounds like we just found the closest thing to a next of kin. You’ll let Darcy know?” Sarah asked.

“I will.”