Page 95 of The Sculptor

“And I’ll burn a path through Texas to get to you both,” Vance assures them. “If I were you, I would stay and work this out, Remington. Only cowards run.”

Remington smirks, looking down at me. “Guess it skipped a generation.”

I can see it now if I really look hard. He has my nose. My jaw. Even my hair. And while his eyes are wholly his own, his mother knew them before I did.

She drew them without ever seeing a picture. She knew in her soul what her child looked like, and I’d stared at him for a year and never realized he was the missing piece.

A violent sob tears through me. I can’t speak. I can’t even apologize.

All I can do is stare at my son through watery tears.

Jude.

Our Jude has been here all along, loving my brother like he was his father.

If I thought I had been punished enough, I would have been wrong.

There was always a chance we would find him.

But I never thought he was here this whole time.

A hand comes down on my shoulder. “I need to take him home.” Vance’s words are clinical, not comforting, but I guess I don’t deserve his comfort anymore. I’m a father who couldn’t even recognize his own son while his brother cared for him the last year.

“Astor is on his way.”

I don’t nod or even acknowledge him. All that’s going through my head is that my son hates me, and more than likely, so will his mother as soon as she finds out he’s been with Vance and Halle this whole time.

Vance claps me on the shoulder, and I watch as he takes my son with him.

I have nothing to say—no excuse I could give would be acceptable. I’ve spent my life declaring I would never be the kind of father Harrison was. Yet, here I am, on the floor in Vance’s office. Alone.

I’ve lost my son for good.

And possibly his mother.

Nothing I can do will save this.

Especially when my phone buzzes with a text from Ray, solidifying that fact.

You can have your heart. I don’t want it anymore.

This time, I let the screams take me under.

Duke

Idon’t know how much time passes before I feel a hand come down on my shoulder. “Hey,” Astor says, shoving a glass into my hand. “Drink this.”

I can smell the bourbon before I even put it to my lips and tip it back, letting the alcohol burn down my throat. “Did Vance tell you what happened?”

“Yep,” he clips out, taking the cup from my hand. “And I’m not here to throw you a pity party.” He grabs me by the upper arm and hauls me to my feet as if I were still his little brother. “When you’re a parent, you have to put your emotions aside for the sake of your child.”

I laugh, finally meeting his eyes as I stumble back. “Remington is no child.” Getting my bearings, I find the bourbon on Vance’s desk and drink straight from the decanter. “I’m no parent, either.”

Astor has always had ample patience, but I realize a minute too late, when he snatches the bourbon from my hands and chucks it across the office, that his ample patience is gone. “You. Are. A. Parent,” he grits out, enunciating each word separately as if I’ll digest them better that way. “Whether you think you are a deserving parent is a whole different matter.” He pushes me down into the chair. “But you are still a parent, and parents do what they need to for their children.”

“Newsflash, Astor, my child wants nothing to do with me. He’s happy with our brother.” Clearly, Remington gets his immaturity honestly.

Astor lets out this long-suffering sigh that makes me feel guilty for adding more to his plate. “Go home to your daughter,” I say, trying for a lighter tone. “I’ll call an Uber.” Where I can self-destruct and drown myself in bourbon in private.

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