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The madman spun on his heel, kicking up loose stones as he sprinted to the edge of the cliff and, without a moment’s hesitation, flung himself from the precipice.
Quint skidded to a halt at the jagged edge, dropping to his hands and knees to peer down at the riotous crowd and the roaring fire below.
Amara walked slowly toward the cliff before Quint looked back at her and shook his head. “Don’t …” He was taken with a heavy, nauseous shudder, head hung low. “He’s gone.”
The scene pressed in on Amara, and she found her hands at the sides of her head as she collapsed to her knees, body doubling in on itself as terror and grief overwhelmed her. She heard screams from far away, filtered through the humming that droned in her ears. She wondered if the screams were her own.
More shouts soon joined them, a shrieking panic that surrounded her even as she covered her ears tightly.
Frederik was dead, and he took the knowledge of Hampton’s whereabouts to the bottom of that cliff with him.
Surely now, the wails swirling around Amara must be her own.
QUINT KNELT BESIDE AMARA, A hand on her back. “We’re going to find Hampton. I’m sure he’s okay. Frederik was wrong. I don’t care about money. I only care about you and our son. He was wrong about everything, so he’ll be wrong about Hampton, too. We’ll find him.”
Amara’s body shook with the heavy sobs that overtook her, Quint’s words hardly reaching her ears. As they began to sink in, she brought her head up from the ground, her gaze immediately drawn back to the cliff.
Amara saw a woman kneeling at the edge, dressed in black, a hunched shadow outlined against the moonlit sky. She seemed rooted to the edge of the cliff and from the sounds, was wailing as if in mourning. For who? Frederik? How could that be? Who was this woman weeping for a madman?
A long while passed before any of them moved from their places. The weeping woman was the first to move. She stood shakily, turning and approaching them with faltering steps, her hand still at her mouth, tears streaming freely down her cheeks.
It was Gabriela Orlando.
Amara managed to place a hand at Quint’s knee, choking back her sobs long enough to ask him to help her stand, leaning against him once she had. She could hardly bear to look at Gabriela, her mind spinning in a tumult of emotion — her mourning for Hampton, her conflicted grief and anger o
ver Frederik’s fate and Gabriela’s possible complicity in the kidnapping.
As she opened her mouth, ready to confront the only one left to blame, Amara was struck by the overwhelming remorse on the desolate features of the woman standing in front of her.
Gabriela took a few sharp, short breaths. “I-I’m so sorry.” Her voice was small, weak — a far cry from the confident, proud woman they’d met at the villa. “I should have — I loved Federico. He was my brother, but he was not well. He hadn’t referred to himself as Federico for a long time, and I see why now. He was trying to be someone else, but he must have known he was cursed as many Orlandos before him have been cursed.”
“Cursed?” Amara asked.
“I thought he was going to be all right,” Gabriela said. “We all did. He was so bright and respected. Maybe he had some troubles when he was young, but then he moved to America to attend school, and it seemed all was good. I awaited his letters with such excitement. He said so many things about how well he was, how fine he was doing in his studies, how much he enjoyed living in America, and how respected he was there. It was all good, I thought. To this day. All good.”
Amara struggled to see the woman through her own tears. “He never mentioned anything about troubles in his youth to me.”
Gabriela held up a hand, the other coming up to wipe away the mascara-darkened tears from her cheeks. “I am sorry. About before at the villa. If I told you about him, about where he was, what he said … Federico said that the baby was his son, that you were pursuing him unfairly, and that he feared for the child’s safety. He seemed stable, and he’d never given me reason to think he wasn’t, so I believed him. I should not have.”
“I thought he was acting strangely at the villa today,” Gabriela continued, “so I followed him when he left. He walked here, and it was easy enough to stay hidden behind him on the winding roads. He didn’t seem concerned about being followed. I slipped into the grove there when I heard him come out and begin talking. I’m a coward. I’m so sorry. When he began pointing the weapon, I didn’t know what to do. I was afraid I might make it worse. I could not accept that he might actually hurt anyone. I didn’t think he’d hurt himself, either … I thought, there’d be time.”
Amara was surprised to find herself feeling some sympathy for the grieving woman. “You couldn’t have known any of it.” Hearing the words come out of her mouth surprised her. Only moments ago, she was ready to lay the blame squarely at Gabriela’s feet.
She followed quickly with, “Do you know where my son is?”
Gabriela looked even more desolate. “I do not. Federico did not tell me.”
“Do you think,” Quint said. His voice cracked, and he had to clear his throat before continuing. “Do you think Frederik may have … do you think my son lives?”
Amara held her breath and clutched her hands to her chest.
Gabriela inhaled sharply. “I cannot imagine my brother harming a child. I have to believe your son lives. Without that belief, I too would go mad from regret and guilt.”
It wasn’t the answer Amara had wanted to hear, yet it would have to do.
“Can you think of anyone who might know where Hampton is?” Quint asked. “Anyone Frederik might have entrusted with his location?”
“I do not know for certain. Our parents perhaps.”
