Forbidden Games

"MISSING"

"Harry's gone."

I don't know how many seconds pass between Tristan's terrible confession and his mother's reaction. Ten, maybe twenty? Twenty long seconds of incredulous silence. Then Sienna collapsed, in a sort of slow motion. She didn't really faint, but her body was obviously unable to withstand the shock. She didn't even say anything or cry out. My dad rushed over and picked up her amorphous body, emptied of all energy and emotion. He laid her down on the living room couch.

By the time my stepmother came back to her senses, the house had literally been invaded. Police officers, rescue workers, men in uniform, others in suits, women, young people, old people, as if the whole city had decided to meet at our house in the middle of the night. At one point I noticed someone had draped a blanket over my shoulders. There's one crumpled at Tristan's feet, which I guess he shrugged off. All his muscles are contracted, his fists clenched, his jaws tight and the flashing blue lights reflect off his eyes, which look darker than ever.

From far away, I hear my dad answering questions, trying to handle the situation and keep up a calm appearance. But I can hear how disconcerted he is. His voice is hesitant and almost muffled. It sounds like he doesn't know what to say anymore, or how to say it.

"Harrison Quinn. He's 3 years old. No, he's not my son. He's Sienna Lombardi's son, my . . . my wife. Yes, his father is deceased. Before he was born. No . . . I never adopted him. It never really came up."

Tristan steps between my dad and the man taking notes. He must be a detective. He stops writing to pull a tissue out of his pocket and dab at his forehead.

"Listen, I don't know who you are, and I don't care."

"Lieutenant Boyle."

"All you have to do is find my brother," Tristan says, ignoring him. "You're wasting time!"

"No, young man. I'm following procedure for when a child goes missing."

"I see where you're going, with all your questions and your raised eyebrows. Craig has nothing to do with this! He wasn't even at home. And he loves Harry. Whether he adopted him or not doesn't change anything. Don't start snooping around Craig. My little brother disappeared. Just disappeared. And you're supposed to find him – find him alive. Nothing else! It's your fucking job!"

Tristan's voice cracks. I go over to try and calm things down. The lieutenant dabs his forehead again, breathing loudly. He's overweight, and most of the flab is bulging out over the belt that doesn't seem to be doing a very good job of holding up his beige suit pants. Apart from the early May heat, which doesn't let up even at one in the morning, the tension in the house seems to be making him hot. Tiny drops of sweat bead up under his glasses.

"Don't they say that every second counts when a child goes missing?" I ask quietly.

"My men are already working on it, Miss . . .?"

"Sawyer. Liv Sawyer, I'm his daughter," I say, nodding to my dad.

"So the missing boy's stepsister," says the detective, scribbling on his notepad.

"You could say that."

The statement chills me to the bone. I don't know what's worse: whether it's hearing Harry being described as "missing" or the way the detective calls me his "stepsister".

"Fergus!" Tristan suddenly yells. "Fergus O'Reilly, he was here tonight! Did you talk to him?! He might have–"

"He was taken into the station for questioning, interrupts the detective."

"What did he say? Did he see something? That bastard . . ."

"That information is all confidential. Mr. O'Reilly is being interrogated as a witness. For now I need a detailed description of the missing person: size, weight, hair and eye color, the clothes he was wearing. With as much detail as possible."

Tears rise to my eyes as Tristan describes Harrison, his bowl cut, blue eyes, little checkered pajamas, Bermuda shorts and a button-down shirt and his stuffed alligator.

"Alfred disappeared too!" he says, placing his hand on my neck, a spark of hope in his blue eyes.

"Harry never lets go of him."

"I know! So that means he left with him. He took him with him, Liv! If he'd been kidnapped or hurt or whatever, he wouldn't have had time to get his stuffed animal! He thought to take Alfred! Maybe he just wandered out, chewing on the alligator's foot like he always did!"

Tristan is almost smiling as he holds me close, as if clutching the proof that nothing could have happened to Harry. The lieutenant looks at us more than he listens. His beady little eyes follow Tristan's fingers as they close around my neck. He watches our embrace. He must be one of the only residents of Key West who hasn't heard about the scandal. Or maybe he's just forgotten all about it. Or he's the kind of guy who thinks rumors and teenage drama are ridiculous.

I secretly pray that he fits into the last category.

My dad comes back from the living room with a few pictures of Harry, some full-length, some portraits of him alone or with others. The detective hands the photos to a young woman next to him, a brunette with her hair pulled back and tan skin. He whispers to her to launch an amber alert – but he says it too loudly.

"But he can't have been kidnapped, I'm telling you!" Tristan says, getting angry. "His stuffed animal . . ."

"It's not for you to judge, young man. You want me to do 'my fucking job', right? So this is what's going to happen: I need to know who the last person was who saw the little boy. And how the whole evening went before he disappeared. Had his behavior changed recently? Are there problems in your family? How did–"

"That's all there is in this family – problems!" Sienna yells from the other side of the room.

She gets up, throwing off the thick blanket over her shoulders. Then she staggers over to us in the entry hall and I realize that the "I'm too upset to scream" phase is over. I totally understand that my stepmom has to take her nerves out on someone.

I just wish it didn't have to be me . . .

But who else would it be?

"My oldest son was supposed to watch his little brother while I was busy at the hotel. Instead, he was spending the night with this . . . this . . . girl! She'd moved out! But then she comes back when no one is around, sneaking around as usual!"

"Sienna . . ." my dad says.

"Mom . . ." Tristan says at the same time.

"No, I have things to say! And you're going to let me talk!" she screams, getting louder.

"I'm listening."

Lieutenant Boyle has his notepad and pen out again, apparently thrilled to get information without having to ask for it.

"Are you ever going to leave us alone?!" she yells at me. "You were supposed to stay far away from him! You're the one who brings all the bad luck to this family! Why did you have to come back looking for him, in the middle of the night?! Putting all these ideas in his head! My baby is gone because of you! And God knows what you two were doing! He disappears right under your noses and you can't even–"

"And where were you?!" Tristan barks. "Where were you while your three-year-old son was sleeping alone in his room? What were you doing when he disappeared?! Did you see something? Did you hear anything? No, because you weren't even fucking here! You're his mother! Not Liv! Not me!"

Sienna's enraged screams fill the house, but nothing seems to make any sense. She claws at her face and for the first time, her pain and screams seem sincere. My dad takes her by the shoulders and leads her away. He's the only one who can handle her when she's in this state. He looks at me over his shoulder to make sure I'm alright, and I nod, waiting for him to look away before I break down sobbing.

Tristan takes me in his arms, but for the first time, the warmth of his body is not enough. It doesn't reach me. It can't soothe or calm me. My tears soak his tee-shirt. His arms don't seem big enough to bear the weight of my guilt.

Something is broken.

"I'm going to tell you everything," he finally sighs to the detective.

The young policewoman takes me into the kitchen and makes me a coffee. Without my really noticing, she starts asking me questions. A few yards away, in the dining room, Tristan is explaining what happened this afternoon and this evening, and how Harry disappeared. Boyle fills up pages of his little notepad, his face dripping with sweat. I give my version as well, undoubtedly the same as his. Nothing left out, no lies. I can't stop thinking about Harry, who I failed to protect. I was too busy thinking of myself. Thinking of Tristan whom I kept from fulfilling his duty as a big brother, wanting him all to myself. Of Sienna whose little boy I stole – this tiny fragile thing. She has every reason to hate me. I think of my dad who is going through hell because of me as well.

Me, me, me . . . how could I have been so selfish? How could have I put myself before everyone, blinded by my desire to see Tristan, possess him, love him without anyone annoying us?

***

One sleepless night later, Harry is still gone. Police have searched within a 3-mile radius of the house but have turned up nothing. They brought on twice as many men early this morning to start searching again. The sun is up now and the idea that little Harrison has spent the night outside, alone, or worse – with some twisted lunatic – is unbearable. Sienna was seen by a doctor who gave her some sedatives. She's finally sleeping. My dad has dark circles under his eyes and a stubbly blond beard over his cheeks. He reeks of tobacco. Tristan looks weary and tired. I've never seen him like this – so closed off and distant. Yet he's still just as handsome, despite the hardness of his features.

It's past 9am when Lieutenant Boyle and his colleague, Detective Cruz come back to the house. Her hair is still just as perfect, slicked back and pulled into a tight bun. He's still wearing his beige suit, but he's taken off the jacket and his white shirt is already soaked with sweat across his back and under his arms.

"For now we don't have any solid leads, but we haven't dismissed any possibilities either. Kidnapping, runaway, accident, unfortunate chance meeting, drowning," he lists coldly on his fingers, as if it were a shopping list.

"And interviewing people in the area hasn't really gotten us anywhere," adds the young woman, who is more compassionate. "No one saw or heard anything last night. But the missing person notice should help us get some info–"

"Fergus!" Tristan yells, interrupting them. "He was there, just in front of the house, he has to know something! What did you find out when you interrogated him?"

"Mr. O'Reilly was interrogated and released last night."

"So what was he doing here, then? In the middle of the night! At the same exact moment my brother disappeared!"

"He was coming to visit Miss Sawyer, who is one of his friends. Nothing strange about that."

"But that bastard ran when I–"

"Mr. O'Reilly said he was scared when you yelled and started chasing him. He didn't know why you were angry. And he explained that he's seen you in that state several times before . . ."

"Oh! I see. So I'm the suspect, now? Is that it?!" he barks with an icy fake laugh.

"Tristan," my dad says, trying to reason with him.

I slide my hand around his tense biceps, trying to calm him down as well. But he pulls out of my reach and moves away.

"Why isn't anyone doing anything, god damn it!?" he yells, slamming the door to the house.

"Mr. Sawyer, I'm going to have to ask you to keep your stepson at home. He can't interfere with our search like he did last night. My men need to be able to concentrate."

"And Tristan needs answers," my dad says in a calm but firm voice. "I'm not going to lock him up like an animal. He's an adult and his brother is missing. Unless you arrest him, he's free to go looking for Harrison."

Boyle is quiet and decides on a few loud exhalations to express his displeasure. I hand Cruz a stack of posters my dad and I printed overnight. The word "MISSING" is written in big red letters at the top with a picture of Harry and all the necessary information underneath. His little shy smile breaks my heart. I also give the detective the little green toothbrush she asked for, so she can take a DNA sample. And it feels like every second that passes, everything we do, just pushes us further and further into hell. Pushes us just a little further away from Harrison.

And pushes me away from Tristan . . .

Over the next few days, the entire city is out looking for the little boy. The residents organize search parties that comb the beaches and explore the swamps. Rescuers and professional divers are sent out into the ocean. A helicopter flies overhead several times. Betty Sue's house is searched from top to bottom, as are the houses of everyone who's ever had anything to with Harry. And that includes the five members of the Key Whys, Bonnie, who is doing everything she can to help, Fergus, who refuses to answer my calls, open his door or answer any of my questions since he was arrested – as if it was my fault. Harry's nannies and speech therapist. Anyone who has ever looked after him at his private preschool. Sienna's cleaning staff and all the hotel employees. Romeo Rivera and all my dad's other colleagues. The real estate agency and the Lombardi are also searched thoroughly. But they find nothing.

How is it possible?

How could he be there just the night before and then disappear without a trace?

The days go by and we lose track of time, barely distinguishing night from day. A press conference is held and Sienna finally speaks publicly. Facing the camera, her clothes, hair and makeup perfect so as to hide her devastation, she begs anyone who knows anything to come forward. She asks them to bring her baby back. She says she has no tears left to cry, but she has a whole lot of money and she's ready to pay whatever they want. My dad remains silent behind her, his arms crossed. And Tristan refuses to appear on TV with them. His mom's quaking voice is broadcast on all the local stations and all the radio stations too. A photo of her holding a framed portrait of Harry over her heart is printed in the paper. Strangely, no one talks about me and Tristan anymore, about our kiss at the ceremony, the graffiti or the bar fights about incest. One dark story replaces another. And I hate the entire planet, all these people feeding off tragedies like some new form of entertainment in their sorry, boring lives.

Since Harry disappeared, I only catch glimpses of Tristan. Our lives all seem to have stopped. But he's the one who looks for his little brother most actively, never giving up. I don't know when he last slept. I don't know if he's thought to stop and eat. I think he's just incapable of thinking of anything else, of anyone else except Harrison. Sienna stays in her bed most of the time, knocked out by medication. My dad tries to manage things as best he can. The hotel has been shut down for now, the agency continues to function without him but he has bills to pay, people at the house, onlookers crowding around outside. There are people that call with fake tips hoping for reward money and police officers that don't share enough information with us. Even in his exhausted state, he manages to worry about me. And about Tristan. And his wife – or what's left of her.

And I don't think I've ever loved or admired my dad as much as I do now.

After ten days without news of Harrison, a white vigil is organized in the streets and I don't even know who organized it. It goes from the center of town to our house. I let Betty Sue and Bonnie guide me. They hand me a white tee-shirt with Harry's face on it and I throw it on over my tank top. Tristan's wearing the same one. I meet up with him at the front of the crowd. His sad eyes meet with mine and I finally see some emotion there, some feelings. I see my Tristan Quinn – so hard and strong on the outside, unable to ask for help as he clenches his fists to keep from breaking down, tightening his jaw to keep from crying. But he's so fragile inside, so lost and powerless. He slides his hands into his short pockets, staring straight ahead. I slide my hand in and press my fingers against his palm. He pulls his hand out. He squeezes mine. Wrapping his fingers around mine. He smiles, or almost.

I can see deep pain, but also deep love in his shining eyes.

If anyone is looking at us askew right now, I haven't noticed. If there are whispers from the crowd, I don't hear them. Or maybe my grandmother is taking care of them one by one. But I don't think anyone is doing anything. No one's concerned with that right now. We move slowly, thousands of people with Harry's face on their tops walking behind us. His little smile plastered on muscular torsos, stretched over large bellies, his blue eyes staring out at the horizon. His absence felt so strongly, in spite of the presence of all these people. I don't know if it helps Tristan, but I feel a little less alone all of a sudden. Less of a chill clashing in the May heat. Less guilty, despite what I've done.

The walk ends in front of our house and the endless waves of people parade by. Some stop to place stuffed animals in front of the gate. Some bring food for the family with a note for Sienna. And others bring children's drawings or messages to Harry: "Come home quick," "we're waiting for you," "there's still hope," as if these wishes and gifts could help bring him back. My dad thanks everyone, his eyes wet with tears. He gives the occasional update on my stepmom who's "too weak to take part, but happy to see such a surge of solidarity."

"How dare you show your face here!" I suddenly hear Tristan scream.

I see him rush through the crowd and grab Fergus by the collar. He doesn't even fight back.

"We saw you creeping around the other night! We saw you run away! I tried to catch you, you bastard. You didn't even stop! I don't know what you told the cops, but you're going to tell me the truth!"

Tristan is furious and he drags Fergus to the gate, slamming him against the door. I run over to them, worried that a fight will erupt. And I'm also angry at my best friend for shutting himself off and refusing to talk. I can understand Tristan's violent impulse.

"What did you do to him, damn it? What did you do to my brother?!" Tristan screams, just a few inches from the redhead's face.

"Nothing, I swear!"

"When are you finally going to explain what you were doing here?!" I say, begging him to speak.

"Let go of him, Tristan," my dad says, interrupting.

The police officers responsible for keeping the march under control come over to separate the two boys and break up the crowd. They are soon joined by Lieutenant Boyle who asks us all to go inside.

"I wanted to talk to Liv . . ." Fergus sniffles once the door is closed.

"We're all listening, young man! Unless you'd rather go down to the station to talk about it?"

Tristan, my dad and the lieutenant all focus on Fergus. He can't back down now. And even if he wanted to, I don't think he'd have the guts.

"I'm sorry, I . . ."

"Spit it out!" Tristan says, growing impatient as my dad prevents him from getting any closer.

"I didn't do anything to Harrison, I didn't even see him that night."

"So what the hell were you doing here?!" I insist. "Why won't you answer, Fergie?!"

Fergie. The affectionate nickname just slipped out of my mouth in a hoarse cry. Desperate, the boy I thought was my best friend finally decides to talk. He blushes up to his scalp and his whole body is shaking.

"I just wanted to spy on you and Tristan," he admits, looking down in shame. "To scare you . . . the phone calls, the letter, the graffiti, it was me."

"What?!"

"Huh?"

"Jesus!"

"Why?!"

It feels like the whole world is crashing down around me. Like it's all turned upside down. I take a deep breath to keep myself from fainting as the pieces of the puzzle start to fit together.

"My dad's real estate business went bankrupt because of your dad's. I didn't think it would go so far, Liv. I just thought that if your family had problems, maybe your dad would lose a little business. And my dad could pick up the pieces. He's his biggest competitor. He took everything. And we had nothing left. I just wanted to help my family!"

"By destroying mine?!" my dad roars, enraged.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Sawyer. I don't know why I did it. Why I didn't stop before. I got carried away and . . . I swear I had nothing to do with Harry's disappearance. That's why I came here the other night. To tell you. And I should have done it ten days before, I know. But I was so afraid . . ."

"You're a piece of shit, O'Reilly!" Tristan whistles between his clenched teeth. "You're lucky the cops are here . . ."

"Fergus – How could you do this to me!?"

"I'm so sorry, I . . ."

"Why did you run away when Tristan saw you?"

"I didn't even know Harry had gone missing. I thought he found out I was spying on you, that he was going to beat me up."

"If only I could have, believe me . . ."

"Mr. O'Reilly, you lied to a police investigator," Lieutenant Boyle interrupts, visibly displeased.

"You should have told us this when we interrogated you the first time."

"I thought no one would believe me. That it would make me a suspect."

"Is there any other information from the night of the disappearance that you've been keeping from us?" the officer asks, his notepad in hand.

"No, I told you everything. I didn't see anything. It was dark. I promise I would tell you if I had seen the little boy. Or someone else."

"Someone else . . ." but who?