Charles Friedman sat alone on the Emberglow, which was now moored offshore near Gavin’s Cay. The night was quiet. His legs rested up on the gunnels, and he was halfway through a bottle of Pyrat xo Reserve rum that was trying to help him make up his mind.

He should just take off. Tonight. What Karen had told him, about people on his tail, worried him. He had a house he’d bought, on Bocas del Toro, up in Panama. No one knew about that. No one would trace him there. Then from there maybe on to the Pacific if he had to…

The way she had looked at him. What are you going to do, Charles, run the rest of your life….

He shouldn’t involve them now.

Yet a new stirring rose up in him. The stirring of who he was, who he’d been. Seeing Karen had awakened it. Not for her—that part was over. He’d never again regain her trust. And didn’t deserve it. That, he knew.

But for the children. Alex and Sam.

Her words echoed: They’ll forgive you, Charles…

Would they?

He thought back to the sight of them leaving the graduation. How hard it was just to look, aching, and then drive on. How deeply the sight of them burned in his memory, and the longing in his blood. It would be nice to reclaim his life. Was that a fantasy? Was it just a drunken hope? To seize it back, no matter what the cost. Who he was. From these people.

Why do they get to win?

What had he done? He hadn’t killed anyone. He could explain. Serve time. Pay back his debt. Steal back his life.

Seeing what he’d lost made Charles realize just how sorry he was to have let it go.

Neville was on shore. At a sailors’ party. In the morning they were supposed to head to Barbados. There he would leave the boat, fly to Panama.

Seeing her had suddenly made things hard.

A year ago he’d had a similar choice to make. He had watched the boy get killed. Run over in front of his eyes. Watched in horror as the black SUV drove away. Something inside told him there that he could never turn back. That that world was closed to him. The grave already dug. So why not use it? For a moment he’d given some thought to calling a car. Directing the driver to head up the Post Road. To his town—Old Greenwich. Then down Soundview onto Shore—in the direction of the water. Home… Karen would be there. She’d be worried, panicked, hearing word of the bombing. After he hadn’t called. He would say he’d been confused. Confess everything to her. Dolphin. Falcon. No one would have to know where he’d been. That was where he belonged.

Instead he had run.

The question continued to stab at him. Why do they get to win?

The image of Sam and Alex shone in Charles’s mind with the answer: They don’t. He thought of the joy he’d felt with Karen, just hearing her speak the sound of his own name.

They don’t. Charles put down the rum. The answer suddenly clear in his head.

He ran below. He found his cell phone in his cabin and left a detailed message for Neville, telling him just what he needed him to do. The words kept ringing: They don’t. He went to the small pull-out counter he used as a desk, switched on his laptop. He scrolled to Karen’s e-mail address and typed out the quick, heart-felt words.

He read it over. Yes. He felt lifted. He felt alive in his own body again for the first time in a year. They don’t. He thought of seeing her again. Holding his kids again. He could reclaim his life.

He pressed send.

A noise came to him from up on deck, like a boat tying up. Neville, back from his reveling. Charles called out the captain’s name. Excited, he headed up to the deck. His heart was racing. He ran out from under the bridge. “Change of plans—”

Instead he stood facing two men. One was tall, lanky, in a beach shirt and shorts, holding a gun. The other was shorter, barrel-chested, with a small mustache.

Both were looking very satisfied, as if a long search had ended and they were staring at a prize they’d waited to see for a long time. The man with the mustache wore a grin.

“Hello, Charles.”