"Why didn't you tell me?" Dahlia's voice cut across the parking garage like a thrown cup. Julio froze with a leather briefcase in one hand and a small boy clinging to his coat with the other. The boy's shoes squeaked on the concrete. A sedan door slammed. Conversation stopped in a radius. "Who's he?" Dahlia took three steps forward. Her sneakers scuffed an oil stain. Headlights painted everyone in cold white. Julio's mouth opened, closed, opened again. "Dahlia—" "Don't 'Dahlia' me." She held up the crumpled business card she had stolen from the visitor's kiosk. "Who is he?" The boy looked around, then hugged Julio tighter. "Daddy," he said, casual, confident. The word landed like an accusation. Julio's jaw tightened. "He's my son. I didn't— I didn't know how to tell you." "Didn't know how?" Dahlia laughed. The laugh had no humor. "You left me for ten years and then found out one day you were suddenly a father?" "I found out later," Julio said. He put a hand on the boy's shoulder. The security light skimmed his face and showed the lines Dahlia had never wanted to study. "It was complicated. I tried to—" "You tried to what, Julio? To forget me? To forget the life you left?" Dahlia stepped closer until the boy's hairbrush caught a strand between them. People in the garage slowed. Someone in a dark jacket thumbed a phone. Julio took