Prologue

Nice, France

February

Electric guitar reverberated from a cellphone in the dirt: a hard-rock riff looping on itself with sonic stabs. A drum and power chord punched the air. Axl Rose's voice croaked from the speaker, low and bestial but rising louder like a banshee crawling up from the ancient tomb of 1988.

Decades before Molly's cancer.

Decades before Cal MacIntyre found himself across the globe and looking down at the red rooftops of Nice, France—alone—save for the stale odor of cigarettes and the grunting of three angry men holding him over a cliff.

Cal shouldn't even be there.

He should have enjoyed early retirement in Florida. He should still be coaching baseball. He should have listened to his lawyer instead of skipping off to France like some silver-haired outlaw. He should have been happy at home, haunting the empty rooms and hallways. It would have been a good retirement.

Instead, he chose Nice. He chose escape.

He'd chosen Frank.

The Guns N' Roses ringtone from his phone howled out of reach in the gravel at his feet. Not his favorite band, but it was their band. His walk-up song when she first watched him play ball in college. Their first concert. Their first dance as husband and wife.

Cal took a panicked look over the iron railing.

They had him fully over then, headfirst with his feet in the air, angled downward like a sled about to rocket downhill. He was going to smash his head, break his neck, and tumble lifelessly into the streets of Nice.

Someday, Moll'. But not like this.

Not before he could say goodbye to their daughter. Not as a headline in some French newspaper about a splattered tourist. Blood rushed to Cal's head as he struggled upside down, his bad knee flaring under a thug's grip. His vision dimmed. It was three against one since Frank was nowhere to be seen.

Cal and Molly, Frank and Lilith. For thirty-five years it had been the four of them, and now it was just him and Frank with an ocean between them and their past.

Cal roared and pulled an arm loose, his hand pawing at the iron railing but slipping away. A hard fist answered to his ribs.

Fuck!

He always knew Frank would get him killed one day. Cal just never expected such a view.\

 

Part One

Paradise City

Chapter One

Nice, France

January

It wasn't Paris and thank God for that.

But the memories came anyway, happy and seasoned with regret. He'd delivered on his promise, at least. Molly always dreamed of a European vacation; someplace romantic and filled with art, a place she could feel and paint first-hand. She'd packed an extra suitcase for her easel, paints, and brushes and spent a precious afternoon on a bridge looking over the Seine waiting for the light to be just right. Meanwhile, he and Frank had drunk too much wine while Lilith went off on her own in search of the perfect purse. And that is where Cal MacIntyre remembered Paris with regret.

If he had known, he'd have spent that afternoon with Molly just watching her paint.

Four years later he was back in France, alone so far, waiting on the promise that his luggage would eventually appear on Carousel 3.

Luggage of all varieties paraded past on the conveyer belt and languages, too, as varied as the luggage. Cal recognized the man next to him from the flight and tried a joke about slow service, but the man replied in rapid French and then turned away.

Six months practice on a language app hadn't prepared Cal for French apathy.

Cal's cellphone buzzed and Welcome to the Jungle wailed from his pocket, but it wasn't Frank—it was his lawyer back in Florida.

Not today, Art.

Cal thumb-tapped a message to Frank, instead, just as his red suitcase fell onto the conveyer belt with a cough from the baggage port. He stepped through the glass doors of Nice Côte d'Azur and plunged into a room like a giant conservatory with high windows and a riot of languages, hugs, and tearful reunions. It was hot and the sunlight glaring through the glass sent Cal fishing for his sunglasses. Frank was nowhere to be seen.

Was Cal early? Not according to his wristwatch, a Bell & Ross built for scuba diving that was now his most expensive possession after he'd sold everything that he'd spent a lifetime collecting. House? Gone. Truck? Gone. Cal literally had nothing except what he could wear on his person or stuff in his luggage, and he wondered then if he hadn't made a big mistake.

Then Frank was there in front of him, unfolding a large, handwritten sign that read: SUNDANCE.

Cal shook his head, smiling, and made his way forward. It had been years since anyone had called him Sundance, a private joke between friends.

Frank looked damned good for a man pushing sixty—trim, European in his chinos and sweater, that ridiculous salt-and-pepper mustache still flying above his grin like a pirate's flag.

Paris.

Moll's funeral.

Now, Nice.

Frank hadn't aged a day.

"Butch," Cal said with a nod before Frank pulled him into a fierce hug.

"Great to see you, Cal."

They pulled apart and gave each other a once over.

"But you look like shit!" Frank added.

Brutal honesty. Cal could take it.

"Wow, thanks!" he said. "I've only been awake for twenty-four hours, hit three airports and flew over an ocean."

"No, I meant your outfit. Old sweatshirt and dad jeans. Really?"

"We got old," Cal protested.

"You dress old. There's a difference." Frank grabbed Cal's suitcase. "Come on. I'll follow."

Cal blinked.

"You'll follow? Where am I leading?"

"Out of the airport first," Frank answered, walking past him to the exit, "and then to your new home away from home. You have the address on your phone. Sink or swim, buddy. How are we getting there?"

Frank stepped into the Mediterranean sunshine baking the curb outside the airport before Cal caught up, desperately wheeling the little carry-on behind him.

"Seriously, Frank? I'm too exhausted for this."

Nevertheless, a list of options scrolled through Cal's mind like a starting lineup and infield positions—who bats first, who's on second. While Cal studied his mental list of options, Frank studied him.

"Come on, Sundance, what's your play?"

"Uber."

That was the wrong answer according to the shake of Frank's head.

"You Americans are obsessed with personal vehicle transportation, aren't you?"

"You were born and raised in Florida—"

"It's like you're allergic to public transit. We'll take the tram and then walk the last few blocks. You're not allergic to walking, too, are you?" Frank's eyes flashed just briefly to the soft middle section barely hidden beneath Cal's sweatshirt. Before Cal could protest, Frank cut him off. "Don't worry! You'll drop five pounds in the first week just like I did!"

And then he was off again, pulling Cal's suitcase down the sidewalk towards a bright red tram that slowed to a stop nearby like a giant mechanical snake. Trams. Palm trees. Sunny winter sky. For a moment, it was hard to tell France from Orlando, save for the biggest clue of all, Frank Fumagalli walking carefree through the crowd.

"You coming?" Frank called from the tram's entrance.

Although the tram was bright red, the route into the city was called the blue line. Cal settled across the narrow aisle from Frank, with his luggage wedged by his feet. The blue line accelerated with an electric whir, the afternoon sun keeping pace as it reflected off the glass cityscape. It was a different impression of the city than what Cal had seen from the airplane, where hills the color of green olives were dotted by red-roofed buildings that crowded the coast, right up to the sea. From the air, Nice looked like a city out of time.

 The image of a WWII postcard came to mind, safely tucked away in Cal's carry-on luggage beside him. Cal tapped the carry-on once and smiled at the thought of Grandpa Mac and bringing his postcard back to Nice, full circle. Frank had to have known about Grandpa Mac when he'd chosen Nice, but he hadn't brought it up and Cal hadn't yet asked. Sometimes knowing ruined the spell.

The tram angled downward, and they plunged underground.

"Oh, it's like a subway, too," Cal said.

"From here through the center of the city," said Frank. "We'll get off soon and walk up to the street level."

Their stop was approaching: an underground terminal called Alsace-Lorraine. Cal might be a tourist still, but he was a history major, and he never went anywhere without first researching local maps. A quick check of the phone and Cal knew exactly where he was, even as he'd never been there. The tram slowed to a stop and Cal shifted in his seat but before he could stand, Frank caught his eye from across the aisle and made a subtle gesture with his hand to stay seated.

"Not our stop," he said.

Yes, it was. Cal knew it from the map. Still, Frank remained leaning against the tram window, watching passengers exit and board before the tram continued into the darkness under Nice.

"What are we doing, Frank?"

Frank scooted across the aisle and sat at the empty seat beside Cal, his legs straddling Cal's larger suitcase in the narrow foot space.

"Alright, my friend, it's time for a little education," Frank said. "Rule Number One when traveling to a foreign country: never travel straight to your destination . . . not unless you want to pick up bad actors and lead them straight to your hotel, or in this case, our apartment."

Here we go, Cal thought but didn't voice. Let the Frank Games begin.

"Bad actors?"

Frank shrugged.

"You know, bad guys."

Cal groaned, "You're kidding me, right?"

Frank wasn't.

A palm came up to Cal's face before he could stop it and tried to rub away the exhaustion. It didn't work.

"Just rest up and enjoy the scenery," Frank said. "We'll double back soon."

Enjoy the scenery, Cal mumbled as he stared out his window and watched the lights zoom past in the dark tunnel. Cal closed his eyes and tried to focus on the low vibration of the tram and the chuck-chuck, chuck-chuck of the tracks beneath him. The last time he'd been in an underground tram was in Washington, D.C., doing the tourist thing around the capital–an absolute must for any history teacher with the means to travel. Molly had, of course, loved the National Gallery of Art with its collection of Monets, whereas little MJ had been obsessed with the zoo–

Sunlight filled the cabin and Cal pulled himself out of the dream he hadn't realized he'd fallen into. The tram slowed and then stopped, and the robotic voice announced the end of the line: the Port of Nice. Frank had brought them way past their apartment and now they'd have to waste time doubling back.

But maybe the view was worth it.

The tram window looked down onto a narrow marina that stretched south in a long rectangle of water before it angled away and opened into the Mediterranean. Dozens of small boats filled the piers and crowded several luxury yachts anchored along the seawall. Multi-floor buildings in coral, ochre, and sunshine yellow hugged the marina like the frame of one of Molly's watercolors. The colors matched, too, oversaturated like a dream. Cal looked up instead at the large green hill towering over the western shore like a castle. God, what she could have painted with such a view.

Frank nodded at the marina. "You won't catch me on one of those, but I wanted to show you what's waiting for you when you're ready."

Cal shrugged. "Your loss. There's some killer dive spots here. We need to get you scuba certified."

"Fuck no. I'll watch from shore."

Cal shook his head in disbelief. "You move to the Mediterranean and won't get in the water."

"I'm just here for wine and sunshine," said Frank with a big grin.

After an exchange of passengers, the tram zoomed back into the tunnel with Cal and Frank still onboard. Frank explained they were headed back west towards their apartment in the neighborhood called Le Carré d’Or, or the Golden Square, close to fine dining and the beach. He'd scouted the city the previous year and signed the lease a few weeks back—or so Frank said. There was a real possibility that Frank had jumped straight from government service to real estate and that Cal had been conned into a timeshare.

He trusted Frank with his life, but not always with the details.

But thoughts of Frank vanished when a woman entered the tram at the next stop. She was tall, with feathery blonde hair that trailed down her neck, and looked like she had stepped out of a Van Halen music video—or the memory of one. She met his gaze as she passed and took the seat behind him, the turquoise purse on her hip almost hitting him as she did.

She was beautiful, no doubt, but she was also worried. Something in her face put Cal on alert. Thousands of students had passed through Cal's classroom door over the decades of his career, enough that he'd learned to spot when someone was nervous. Cal glanced at Frank across the aisle from him. Frank didn't seem to notice the woman, his eyes fixed instead on the pair of men who followed behind her onto the tram.

One man had a wiry build and wore a long-sleeved sweater with the hood pulled up despite the winter heat, nearly obscuring a mean face peppered with dark stubble. The other man was short and stocky, with thick eyeglasses that magnified his dark eyes to a comical degree. Those bugeyes leered at the blonde woman before both men passed by with a laugh to sit at the back of the tram.

Bingo.

Frank met Cal's gaze with one eyebrow raised. Cal tilted his head to the woman seated behind him and Frank nodded.

Cal turned in his seat.

"Excuse me, ma'am?" he said. The woman looked at him with eyes like blue glaciers. "Are you alright?"

It was an easy question, and it had always been easy for Cal to ask some version of it. Regret always came later, but it had never once stopped him from asking.