One reporter, who I vaguely recognize from various events, steps forward. “Mr. Stark, do you want to make a comment addressing Ashton Stone’s paternity claim now?”
Damien shakes his head, but then he says, “Actually, yes. You can print that I was stunned. That this has come completely out of the blue. And that I intend to discover whether or not what Mr. Stone has said is true. If it’s true, I want to know why I never knew of his existence. If it’s fabricated, I want to know who took the time and trouble to put such a lie in his head. Because the one thing that I am sure of is that Ashton Stone believes he’s telling the truth. Whether his truth lines up with reality remains to be seen.”
He takes a moment to make eye contact with all of them. “Other than that, no comment. Thank you for your understanding.” He turns and takes my arm, his other hand going to brush the backs of our daughters.
As we head for the house, we pass Jackson and Sylvia along with Ryan and Jamie, all of whom are working to get everyone moving towards the exit. Damien and I accept words of sympathy and shock and small smiles of support as we head inside.
Right before we cross the threshold, I catch Dallas’s eye. He lifts his hand, miming a phone call. I interpret that as an offer for Damien to call if he needs to talk, and I nod a thank you before disappearing into the relative sanity of the house.
The kids come with me, but Damien lingers behind me to speak to Jackson. I glance back at him once, and he gives me a small smile, which loosens some of the knot that has tied itself around my heart. I know this is hell for him, but at least he’s handling it. Then again, what can’t my husband handle?
Inside, the kids race to Evelyn and Frank, who are already in the first floor living area. I head to my dad, and he folds me into his arms.
“How’s he doing?” Evelyn asks.
I pull back from Frank, but don’t break contact as I say, “I don’t know. Not good. Surviving. Angry. Confused.” I meet her eyes and just shrug.
“Yes, I suppose that is how he would be. How are you doing?”
I manage a small smile and a shake of my head. “The same, I guess. Just on a smaller scale.”
The truth is, I haven’t thought much about me. I feel removed from all of this, like a spectator. But, of course, I’m not. I’m in the thick of it with Damien, and he will need me. And if what Ashton Stone says is true, I have another son as well. Sofia’s son.
“You’ll be fine,” Evelyn says, reaching out to squeeze my hand. “And so will Damien. The hammer fell. That’s always the hardest part. Now we pick up the pieces.” She presses her fingers to her temples and shakes her head as she releases a deep sigh. “Still, would have been easier if any of us had a damn clue any of this was coming. But I suppose we should have from all those horrible texts.”
I blink, realizing that I’ve been in such shock that I hadn’t even put two and two together. Of course he’s behind those horrible texts. He’s resentful for never being acknowledged, and I’m not sure if I feel sorry for him, or desperately angry.
I’m about to move to the sofa to sit down, when Bree hurries in from the back. She kneels in front of the kids and gives them both big hugs. “Hey, you guys, let’s go to the playroom and let the grownups do their thing, okay?”
“You are a grownup,” Anne says.
“I know,” Bree says. “But let’s not tell anyone, okay?”
Anne giggles and Bree takes her hand and Bradley’s. She glances at Lara who says, “I’ll be right there. I promise.”
Bree meets my eyes, and I nod as Lara comes to my side and takes my hand. As Bree leads my other kids into the playroom, Lara drags me away from Evelyn and Frank. We stand by the stairs, and she whispers, “How can Daddy be that man’s daddy? He’s all grown up.”
I feel a knot start to form in my stomach. “Well, we don’t actually know that he is. But when we know, you’ll know, okay?”
Her brow furrows. “Doesn’t Daddy already know?”
The knot turns into a giant, thorny clump, and I have absolutely no idea how to answer that question, so instead I pull her close and give her a tight hug. “It’s complicated,” I say. “Can I explain why when things are less crazy?”
She pulls back and looks at me with those big dark eyes. “Okay, Mommy. I love you, Mommy.”
My heart swells a little, then almost bursts when she gives me the sweetest, softest kiss on the cheek. Then she takes off running to the playroom to find Bree and her siblings, and I think how nice it must be to simply run away from this.
It takes about an hour, but slowly the house empties out. Sylvia and Jackson come in to say goodbye, and I’m surprised that Damien isn’t with them, since Jackson was the last person I saw him talking to when I’d gone in search of him over forty minutes ago.
“We talked for about twenty minutes,” he says when I ask. “Damien’s upset, no doubt. But I thought he would come to you.”
“I haven’t seen him,” I say. “Any idea where he could be?”
Jackson shakes his head. “My next guess would be Ryan but that’s apparently not the case,” he says, nodding toward the glass doors where I can see Ryan and Jamie headed our way.
I grimace, then I start to pull out my phone, only to realize that I don’t have it because I was standing at an altar about to renew my vows. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to go get my phone and see if I can track him.”
“I can do that,” Jackson says.
He opens his phone and it takes only a moment before it finds his signal. “It looks like he’s driving.”
Since the kidnapping, everyone in the family can track everyone else, and in our world family includes our close friends. It’s not a perfect system, but it’s one defense against the craziness that lurks in the world.
I take Jackson’s phone and look at the small dot moving through the canyons. I wait for the tinge of frustration, but it doesn’t come, because I know he’s not running from me. He’s just running. Moving.
I’m certain I know why: Damien has finally done the math, and he realizes what I’ve already concluded—that Ashton Stone really is Damien’s son.
I give him time, but when he hasn’t returned home by nine, I look at the tracking app again, and I’m shocked to find him at the Richter Tennis Center. Or what is now called the West Hollywood Tennis Center, the name having been changed after Damien spoke publicly about what Richter had done to him.
I know he needs time to process, and I consider letting him stay there, periodically watching my phone until he decides to find his way home, but I can’t do it.
Instead, I get into Coop and head toward my husband. Even after I’ve arrived, it takes me a while to find him. I check all the courts, both inside and out, then finally walk the stairs and comb the five floors, peering into all the workout rooms, handball courts, spa areas, and miscellaneous amenities.
The place is mostly empty this late, and the few people I speak with haven’t seen him either, though the app assures me that he’s still on site.
I’m about at my wit’s end, when I realize where I should have gone all along. After all, Richter fell from a roof back in Germany. And wasn’t his death a major link in this chain that has been forged around us?