Forbidden Games

32 days

Thirty-two days.

"Where are you going?"

"To look for him."

"Tristan . . ."

"Yes, Liv. Again. I'm going to look for my brother. And that's all I'm going to do, if that's what you're asking. I may be crazy. Maybe he's dead, but maybe he's not. And if Harry's alive, that means he's waiting somewhere for me to come get him. So I'm going to keep going. And I'll only stop looking when I've found him."

"Okay," I reply softly. "I just wanted to see if I could come with you."

"Oh. Sorry. Yeah, sure."

Tristan rubs the back of his head, embarrassed to have gotten annoyed with me, but unable to stop himself. I know he feels alone and misunderstood, that he's tired of people telling him to start living his life again. To get back to his music, go back to class, organize a concert. But he hasn't touched his guitar since that night. He hasn't hummed a tune, even once. And as the days go by, he becomes more tense, more combative, more enraged – against everyone, including me.

It's been this way for a month now: he searches during the day and at night he thinks. Sometimes, when he sleeps with me, he explains his theories. Things he's read on forums of parents searching for their missing children. What he's learned about cases in Florida, what he imagines in his worst nightmares or everything he keeps trying to believe in.

Harry's absence has made me numb. I feel like I'm living in slow motion. Like I'm living a little below survival level. I don't even know if that exists. But Tristan is still searching with the same intensity he had on the first day. He never gives up. I wonder sometimes if he's not getting more intense. The further away Harry gets, the more he fights. The more he realizes time is against him, the more he runs after it. The more people begin to lose interest in the case, the more stubborn he gets. He ends up rejecting everything and everyone else, anything that could get in his way – the way to his brother.

And all I can do is take the same path, to make sure he's ok. And to make sure we remain connected.

It's been more than a month since we've seen Harrison. No sign, no trace. Yesterday the investigators came back to the house to explain to Sienna as tactfully as possible that the chances are very slim, that they can't go on searching forever. They told her they've halved the agents on the case, that there are thousands of children missing in the United States and the police have to give others a chance as well. There are other runaways that are missing, that might be found. And that she should perhaps turn toward a volunteer organization now. My stepmom had begun to get some strength back. She'd started getting out of bed, had agreed to eat. She even asked for news from the hotel. And then they uttered those terrible words. Detective Cruz placed her hand on her arm and whispered:

"I'm sorry. We're still going to keep looking, but you should start to try and accept . . ."

Sienna wouldn't hear of it and begin clawing at her face again, moaning like a wild animal. Then she went back to bed, knocked out by her magical cocktail of pills. Lieutenant Boyle tapped my dad's shoulder, wishing him luck as the sweat accumulated under his little glasses, sighing loudly as he walked out, unable to hide his relief. Tristan muttered a hundred times, "I don't care, I won't stop." He looked at me for support, and only found tears. So this morning, I'm trying to be strong like him, full of hope and energy.

"Where do you want to go?"

"Everywhere. The park, the preschool, the speech therapist, the nanny's. I know the cops already talked to all of them, searched the places, but we have to keep going. We'll find something eventually!"

"You think someone will end up revealing something if you really press them?"

"Totally! When you're three you don't have any secret relationships. So whoever did this has to be someone he knew. So we know them too. You follow?"

"Yes . . . Because if he thought to take Alfred with him, it's because he followed someone he trusted," I know Tristan's theory off by heart.

"That's right, Sawyer!"

"But who would want to kidnap him? We don't know anyone who . . ."

"Yes we do. Did you see what your damn best friend was capable of? Believe me, there are other crazies among the people we think are normal."

"Good point."

I don't dare contradict him, or point out that there's a slight difference. That on the one hand we have a confused, self-conscious teenager who was sick with jealousy and who tried to cause trouble because he felt alone or wanted his dad to be proud. On the other, we're talking about a psychopathic adult capable of kidnapping a three-year-old child and keeping quiet for a whole month. I'm not trying to excuse what Fergus did. We're not even talking. Anyway, his family moved to another state after he admitted what he'd done. But a man who goes after a child, that's another story. And to do what? To hold him hostage? To Kill him? Or worse? It's impossible to avoid thinking the worst.

"Stop it, Sawyer. I know what you're thinking. He might not even have been kidnapped. He could have gone out walking by himself in the middle of the night and a car hit him. The driver hid the body and ran. Or maybe he walked all the way to the beach and drowned. Or he fell somewhere, hurt himself, was too weak and couldn't get out alone. But whatever the scenario, he's dead. And I don't want him to be dead, Liv. My brother cannot be dead, okay? I need him to have been kidnapped! Some twisted person has been keeping him alive this whole time. And hasn't hurt him too badly. And we're going to find him, alive! Okay? Can you do that for me? Can you believe with me, please?"

"Yes . . ."

"Maybe they're some people who couldn't have their own kid and really wanted one! A nice mom and a protective dad who took him in like he was their own. And they've turned him into a spoiled brat, they love him so much! Maybe he's not even suffering, Liv!"

"Maybe . . ."

His desperate blue eyes plead with me. His deep voice is about to crack and it breaks my heart. His clenched fists hurt just to look at. So I agree – anything to help him. I choke back my tears and say yes. Again.

"Are we going?" I stutter.

"I'm right behind you."

He smiles as if to thank me, but his dimple doesn't sink into his cheek. I know he has doubts, deep inside. I know he won't really smile until he gets answers. We walk all over town for almost five hours. We look everywhere, searching for the tiniest of signs – a footprint, a little piece of checkered cloth that could be his pajamas. Several times, we think we see a piece of a green stuffed toy, but it's nothing but a tuft of grass, a bit of Styrofoam or a leaf under a rock. Tristan is tireless and interviews a complete stranger, a park attendant, a passerby who doesn't stop, a traffic officer, a young secretary who refuses to let him into the speech therapy office. He tries to remain polite, but he gets carried away every time. He accuses the entire planet, either of not knowing or of lying.

In front of the private school Harrison attended, he goes after the parents and nannies who are waiting. He stands in front of them, one after the other, interrogating them and pleading with them, finally blaming them for this, that and next thing: for saying nothing, for seeing nothing, for smiling, for being compassionate, for not reacting. Whatever they do or say, Tristan is angry with them, hates them, even. Just because they can pick up their kids and take them home for lunch. They'll kiss them, hug them, ruffle their hair and lift them high in the air, listen to them talk about what they did at school with their lisp or missing consonants, their stuffed animals or blankies trailing behind them. It breaks my heart too. But I pull Tristan by the arm to keep him from causing another scandal. I stand between his tense body and the uncomfortable crowd who understands his distress but doesn't want to hear about it anymore. I try to reason with him, but he won't listen. And when we finally decide to go home, because he's exhausted, checked out and defeated, we're not talking anymore. The connection between us has been broken again.

***

A few days later, the house is full of journalists, photographers and cameras. My dad is wearing his work suit and he's chain smoking in the backyard. I join him with two cups of coffee.

"Are you hiding?"

"No, I'd like to go to work without being accosted by cameras."

"Yeah, so you're hiding. Coffee?"

"No, I just don't want to leave the three of you in the middle of all this."

"Did you know about it?"

"Yeah, it was Sienna's idea. I was against it, but if it helps her . . . I didn't know she'd manage to get so many people here. Some of the journalists have traveled a long way."

"And Tristan?"

"He decided to take part as well. You're not speaking anymore?" my dad asks, surprised.

"Yes, sometimes."

"Liv, listen. Just because you're not looking for Harry all day every day, it doesn't mean you love him any less. And just because Tristan is willing to do anything doesn't mean you have to do the same. There are lots of different ways to support or protect people you . . . love. Lots of ways to express it. And it's normal for couples to suffer in a situation like this. I don't know what's going on between the two of you, but you need to think about yourself as well, not just Tristan."

"Why are you telling me all this, Dad?"

"Because I don't like journalists. I don't trust them. And I don't want them to hurt this . . . family even more. I'll do everything in my power to find Harry. But my role as a father is also to warn you. And to take care of you. You don't have to take part in this . . . thing if you don't want to."

"You've never had so much trouble finding the right words," I say smiling.

"You see, I'm really not meant to be on TV!"

"I believe you."

"And you're much too pretty, Green Olive, you'll be whisked away to Hollywood if they see you!"

"Oh come on, Dad, I get the message."

I go back inside and keep my distance while Sienna and Tristan are filmed sitting on the couch, both wearing tee-shirts with Harry's face on them. My stepmom speaks in a strong, confident voice despite the dark circles under her eyes and her drawn features.

"My baby disappeared just over a month ago and the police are already finished with us. But we're not giving up. My older son is still looking for his brother, and I'm asking anyone out there who has a heart to do the same. We've had his face printed on grocery bags that you'll see at the store as early as tomorrow. So that no one forgets Harry's face. He was so beautiful . . ."

Sienna's voice cracks and she goes quiet. Tristan holds up one of the bags to show the camera. He looks off into the distance. I can't help thinking he must hate what his mom just said as much as I do. "People who have a heart," as if they were the only two people who did. "He was so beautiful," as if an ugly child wouldn't deserve the same amount of effort.

"And I want to say to the people who took my little boy, if they exist," my stepmom continues after clearing her throat, "that I can pay a ransom. I have a hotel here in Key West that's worth several million dollars. I have the means. So anyone who provides information will be rewarded. And I'll give everything I have, down to the last penny, until I get my little boy back."

Lieutenant Boyle had advised her not to reveal this information, to promise rewards and talk about money. It's the best way to attract liars, cheats and frauds. And the best way to come off as a cold, unlikable woman on TV who despises poorer parents and thinks money can buy anything.

Bingo!

Tristan gets off the couch before she's even stopped talking. Some of the cameras follow him, hoping to catch him breaking down, exploding in anger, attacking a camera or criticizing his mother. I hurry after him to prevent any of those things from happening.

"I never should have done that!" he says, annoyed when I join him in the yard.

"You did it for Harry."

"These people aren't here for him!"

"I'm here for you." I say, holding his arm.

"I should have talked to you about it before, damn it," he says, relaxing into my embrace. "You would have told me not to do it, right?"

"Maybe, yeah . . ."

"I don't know about anything anymore, Liv."

Tristan lets out a long, despairing sigh and buries his face in my neck. I can finally hold him in my arms. I try to calm him and hold him, like he's done for me so many times. I slide my fingers into his silky hair and rub his muscular back, feeling a powerful wave of love and tenderness rise inside me that's been held back for too long.

And we can finally share it.

***

The next day, Sienna's message is broadcast on all the national channels. They've all kept the sequence where she breaks down. And the one where Tristan gets up and leaves. They show her awkward speech and his hostility. In the papers and on the internet, articles and photo captions intentionally highlight the negative:

"It's unclear why the entire family was not present."

"The stepfather and stepdaughter did not wish to be filmed."

"The older son had a real problem containing his anger."

"He doesn't seem to have said everything that was on his mind."

"Even millions of dollars hasn't been enough to bring this child home."

And those are only a few select tidbits. My dad was right. A few journalists prowl around the house for the next several days. Some of them try to get Tristan to talk, asking ridiculous questions about his search for Harrison. Others follow me to my car when I'm trying to go to work. And others film my dad as he tries to brush them off. And then finally the police show up. I'm beginning to realize we're in over our heads. And the answers they're looking for are not only about a missing little boy.

The next week, there are even more articles. The journalists seem to have gone digging, stirring up shit. The truth gets a little more deformed with each article.

"The rock star in the house is hot-blooded and not just when it comes to the press. In Key West, Tristan Quinn has already been aggressive with classmates, parents and police officers. Several witnesses also reported fights at bars or parties where there was drinking. Problems with young, underage girls at concerts with his band, the Key Whos. The young man's school records are not much better: thrown out of high school at 15, sent to a private boarding school for three years and didn't even get his diploma. And finally, his driver's license was revoked for unknown reasons."

It's the Key Whys, damn it!

And Tristan got his diploma; he just refused to go to the stupid graduation ceremony! He never hit anyone besides Kyle Evans, and he definitely deserved it. And he hardly ever drives, but it's only because his dad died in an accident! As for the young girls . . . Argh.

All these approximations are driving me totally mental, but it won't change anything. My stepmom has also been torn apart in the press:

"Sienna Lombardi, the widowed businesswoman who remarried."

"39 and already two husbands, one who died when she was pregnant, and two sons – one who has gone missing a night she decided to sleep elsewhere. We're far from the model wife and mother she's trying to portray."

I just hope Sienna is too tired to get on the internet.

As for my dad, they got a photo of him waving his arms around trying to chase away a photographer outside the house. The caption reads:

"Craig Sawyer, head of a flourishing real estate agency, has been successful in business. But he's lost control of his personal life!"

How can these people look themselves in the mirror when they do such disgusting work? They know nothing about my dad!

I come across a final article online entitled "Quinn-Sawyer: two families, how many secrets?" There's a stolen photo of Tristan and me, hugging in the yard the day Sienna was interviewed. Just under the photo, there's a question: "Is there something else between them other than Harry's disappearance?"

My heart skips a beat and I feel myself blush, enraged and about to explode. The attacks on my dad, my stepmother and the lies about Tristan – the bullshit and shock value – all that I can take. But using a family tragedy to get to this!? Taking it out on the two of us, on what is most precious to us. Ignoring Harry to cover this story about the stupid incest thing when they know what we're going through! I'm feel totally sick.

I leave my room and run down to the ground floor. I think my dad is home, but Tristan's not back yet. And I really need to talk to him . . . before it's too late. Halfway down the stairs, I hear the TV babbling all these horrific things. I see Sienna standing in front of the screen, her hand over her mouth. My dad is standing behind her, holding her shoulders to keep her from falling. When they see me, their reactions are completely different, at both extremes. My dad goes pale, closes his eyes and walks slowly towards me as if walking toward a hurt animal you don't want to run away. My stepmother starts running and screaming, as if she was back to normal, her voice angry all of a sudden.

"You took my son from me and you had no right! The other one is missing and he disappeared because of you! And you still find a way to dirty my family name?! What did I do to deserve this? What did I do to you, Liv?! Craig, say something! When are the two of you going to stop destroying everything?!"

My dad wraps his arm around my shoulders and takes me outside while Sienna keeps crying and screaming. He lights a cigarette with his trembling fingers and then whispers:

"She doesn't really believe what she's saying. It's her anger talking. And anger is another step of grieving, Liv. That's all. I have to go take care of her."

"I know . . ." I sigh.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, Dad. Go on, she needs you."

He throws his half-smoked cigarette into the grass and kisses my forehead, returning inside.

Tristan, I need you right now . . .