“Carlos made it very clear Hector didn’t want to be disturbed,” Bella went on. “And when he says that, he means it.”

Paige shot a pointed look at me. Bella’s nervousness had nothing to do with the late-night arrival of strangers—she was afraid of upsetting Hector. Very afraid from the way her hands trembled.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Cortez,” Paige said. “We know this is an inconvenience to both you and your husband, and we wouldn’t have come without calling again if his father hadn’t insisted. If you’d like to phone Mr. Cortez…”

Paige intended to calm Bella with the assurance that we had my father’s blessing, but the fear in the woman’s eyes only grew. Afraid of arousing Hector’s anger by calling my father? Or fear of my father himself? Because my father refused to name Hector heir, Hector insisted he was robbing his grandchildren of their birthright and therefore deserved to play no significant role in their lives. So they had little contact with him. A decision that hurt my father like nothing else Hector could have done. As for Bella’s fear, I could only imagine what stories he told them to keep his sons from wanting to know their grandfather better.

“Mom?”

Stockinged feet appeared on the steps, then a stocky youth dressed in jeans and a T-shirt.

“Emilio,” the butler mouthed to me.

My sixteen-year-old nephew.

“What’s wrong, Mom?” Emilio said as he came down.

“I’ll call Hope,” Paige murmured, and backed away.

Emilio stopped at the bottom of the stairs. He looked at me, then the guards, then back to me, his face registering not an iota of recognition.

“They need to speak to your father,” the butler said. “They’re from the office and they’ll be gone just as soon as they can.”

I fought to hide my growing frustration. Hector was probably less than fifty feet away. We could check on him and be gone in five minutes.

“Who’s this?” Emilio said, jutting his chin at me.

“He works with your father.”

“Yeah, you said that.” He looked at me. “I’ve never seen you before.”

“No,” I said softly. “You haven’t. I work in the Pacific Northwest. I’m sorry, Emilio, but I need to speak—”

“How do you know my name?”

“He works for the company, sir,” the butler said, now openly struggling with his exasperation.

Emilio looked at me. “Then it’s not Emilio to you. It’s Mr. Cortez.”

I felt a flicker of true impatience, and maybe something more, but said, calmly, “As you wish.” I turned to the butler. “Now, the office is—”

“I really don’t think—” Bella began.

“I’ve got it, Mom,” Emilio said, with a snap in his voice that, at his age, would have earned me a five-hundred-word essay on the nature of respect for one’s parents.