Forbidden Games

48 days

Forty-eight days. Still nothing.

When I close my eyes, I try to imagine his little face. The round cheeks and the lines of his jaw, the point of his little chin, those two serious, blue eyes. The more time that passes, the blurrier the image gets. Only his eyes remain clear in my memory.

***

The presenter's voice is so high-pitched it hurts my ears, but I don't say anything. Sienna is slouched in front of the TV, a bag of potato chips in hand while I make her a real sandwich. Lettuce, tomatoes, a little bit of tuna and mayo. If someone had described this scene to me a month and a half ago, I wouldn't have believed it.

My stepmom – or what's left of her – cracks up laughing at a ridiculous joke on the TV, then leans toward me and tightens the belt of her bathrobe.

"Do you know when my son's coming home – the one who's not missing?"

With crumbs on her cheek, she forces a smile but her eyes are empty. I press the slice of bread onto the top of the sandwich and take it to her along with a glass of water.

"Tristan will be back soon. He's rehearsing for the first time today."

"Good," she sighs, pushing away her dinner. "I want him to start living again."

The landline rings and like every time this happens, Sienna the slob momentarily becomes Sienna the Warrior. She jumps up and rushes to grab the phone before I can reach it. She still believes she'll get some good news someday . . .

As for me? I don't know anymore . . .

Her face changes color several times.

"In 40 minutes. OK. We'll be here," she says, and then hangs up.

She hastily makes for the shower while I call the other two family members, telling to come home. She yells random things from the bedroom door, which she has left open:

"If they aren't here in less than a half hour, they're never setting foot in this house again!"

And then:

"Lieutenant Boyle didn't say what it was about, but his voice sounded positive!"

And:

"Make sandwiches for everyone, Liv. The boys will be hungry!"

Who does she think I am? Cinderella? But right now I couldn't care less that she's treating me like a slave, that it doesn't occur to her that I might be going through my own emotions at the thought of the detective coming to give us some sort of news. Sienna can talk to me and treat me however she wants. She is a mother who has lost her son, and her pain is greater than anyone's.

My dad rushes home from the agency and Tristan replies to say he's coming in the gate. I meet him outside, ignoring my stepmom's orders coming from the downstairs bathroom.

"She seems back to normal . . . what's going on?"

Sienna's high-pitched voice follows me relentlessly around. I can even hear it outside. I finally slam the front door behind me. No more Sienna. Tristan's wearing the Led Zeppelin tee-shirt he sent me when I was in Paris. Memories come rushing back and I can't help but stare. The dark fabric hugs every muscle of his torso and arms. It's hypnotizing.

"Liv?" says the rocker.

"Sorry! Boyle called. From what I understand, he'll be here in thirty minutes."

"He didn't say anything else?"

"Your mom talked to him. But apparently not."

"More damn mysteries," he sighs, running his hand through his hair.

I don't dare ask if he thinks it's a good sign or a bad sign. I don't dare ask anything anymore, to be honest. When Tristan wants to talk to me, he knows where to find me. The rest of the time, I leave him alone. It's better that way.

For him, anyway . . .

His guitar case is hanging negligently over his shoulder, about to fall. I open the door to let him in.

"Come in, you look totally weighed down."

"Actually, I haven't felt so light in ages . . ."

He walks in and sets his guitar down, stretching his neck.

"Did you play?"

"Yeah."

"Sing?"

"No," he murmurs, staring at me intensely. "I can't."

"It'll come back," I say and then immediately regret it.

"And what about him, Liv? Will he come back?" Tristan replies, pointing to Harry's photo.

His question isn't aggressive or cruel. It's almost childish or naive. As if he understood that fighting against the unavoidable was pointless. As if he finally realized how powerless he is. For most of us it took about a week. For him, a month and a half. That's what you call strength of character . . .

Craig got home just two minutes before Boyle and detective Cruz. We all go sit in the living room, praying for good news. A small glimmer of hope at least. The two officers get straight to the point, for once. No small talk.

The young woman, her hair pulled back into a bun, takes a plastic bag out of her briefcase. It contains a key element in the case, she says softly. And suddenly the earth quakes under our feet. Our jaws drop and our eyes just about pop out, but no one makes a sound for a few long seconds. And then Tristan speaks.

Howl might be a better word.

"Alfred! Jesus! Alfred!!"

It's him, the little worn alligator, sealed in a bag so as not to destroy any evidence that could be useful to the investigation. Sienna breaks down in tears and Tristan tries to grab the toy, but the lieutenant stops him.

"Wait! We have to handle it as little as possible. We just needed your confirmation."

"It's him!" Sienna moans. "I'm telling you, it's Alfred!"

"Can you take a closer look at it – tell me what makes it unique," the detective adds softly.

Tristan and I look at the pile of greenish fur more closely. My heart tenses up, my throat tight. To see Alfred without Harry is extremely painful. The animal is very dirty and wet. I can't make out what I'm looking for.

"The front foot . . ." I murmur. "It's all worn away."

"So?"

"Harry was always chewing on it," Tristan explains darkly.

This statement makes our blood run cold. I can't decide whether this discovery is a good thing or a bad thing. The different scenarios bounce around my brain and I get up to pace the room, trying to make sense of everything. Tristan is struggling as well, his head in his hands. Finally Boyle breaks the silence to speak to his partner.

"Cruz, could you take the evidence back to the station, please?"

"Can you tell us anything else? Where did you find it?" my dad asks suddenly, his voice intimidating.

"About four miles from here."

"Four?!" Tristan says out loud.

He stands up and puts his back to the wall, like me. Right next to me.

"Be honest, Boyle. Tell us what you really think."

The officer looks at Tristan with a certain amount of respect, then answers:

"We'll send the samples to the lab tonight, but I think the evidence speaks for itself. Harry was kidnapped. A three-year-old would not walk four miles. Not on his own. Not along a main highway – and that's where we found the evidence."

"His name is Alfred," Sienna sobs, still in my dad's arms.

"You couldn't stand him before!" Tristan says, getting angry. "And now you want us to call him by his name?"

"Tristan!"

I grab his arm and pull him out of the living room with me. Much to my surprise, he doesn't resist. Once we get to his room, I close the door and push him onto his bed. I see a slight smile on his face.

"You think it's funny to be cruel? Don't you think your mom is in enough pain?"

"Liv . . ."

"Why do you have to twist the kni . . ."

"Liv . . ."

"Seriously, you're better than that . . ."

"SAWYER!"

"What?"

"There's a chance!"

"A chance of what?"

"A chance that he's alive! It wasn't an accident. He didn't drown somewhere or get run over by a drunk driver, he wasn't eaten by a starving alligator. If he was kidnapped, we might still find him!"

"Tristan . . ."

"A little bit of hope, Liv. That's all I'm asking for! All I needed . . ."

While I'm less optimistic than he is, I let myself be seduced by his joy. I have to admit, his smile is contagious. Those eyes. That smile.

I already mentioned his smile, didn't I?

His hands go to my waist and pull me onto the bed. I cry out in surprise and he quiets me with a kiss. His mouth tastes sweet from the soda pop he was drinking downstairs.

"You really think we can celebrate?" I ask between two kisses.

"I don't really have a choice, Liv. Either I believe, or I lose myself . . ."

"Then I'm happy to believe with you," I say, brushing my lips against his.

***

Fifty days.

"Don't forget the march tonight, in honor of Harry Quinn! Bring everyone you know, show your support and wear white. It starts at 8:30 in front of town hall. I don't know about you, but we'll be there! Get moving, you've got less than an hour to get there!"

The radio presenter talks on, reminding listeners of the evening's activities. I suddenly realize it's getting late. I accelerate and honk at a driver who's piddling along, talking on his phone, then I take the narrow road that leads to the house. I run up to my room and put on my whitest top and jeans. I'm following the theme for once. For once, I want to make everyone happy, even Sienna.

Tristan joins me in the kitchen as I'm scarfing down a yogurt.

"I didn't know you were here," I say, surprised.

"I am, as you can see . . . you're not at town hall yet, Sawyer?"

"And you?"

"Touché," he sighs, pulling off his green tee-shirt as I watch.

Of course I blush like a little girl when I see his statuesque torso. And of course, he has to notice. He gives me a knowing look then heads to the laundry room. He comes back wearing a white V-neck tee-shirt.

"A rebel who follows the rules . . . almost as surprising as it is sexy," I murmur, picking up my car keys.

"This stupid thing was organized for Harry. I'm not going to make a spectacle of myself."

"You riding with me, Quinn?"

"I've never been in your car," he says suddenly, as if just realizing it.

"Nope. And I always wondered if one day you would."

"Today's the day, I guess."

"Let's say you're doing it for Harry."

"Yeah, for Harry."

We smile shyly and walk out to my car in silence. Once the engine is running, we barely speak to each other. He may be right next to me physically, but his mind is elsewhere – which is understandable – as I park, we realize that hundreds or even thousands of people are about to come together to honor his missing little brother.

"You know, they're not coming thinking we're going to find him," he says, seeing the crowd of people dressed in white. "They're coming to say goodbye. To try to move on. They're all convinced he's dead."

"We're the only ones who still believe."

"Yeah, but we're the only ones who really know him. If he were in our shoes, he'd be here screaming our names in his determined voice, missing out his l's and r's, not caring what anyone thought. He would have hoped 'til the very end. Waited for us. Jesus . . . Harry . . ."

A tear rolls down his cheek. For a few long seconds, Tristan looks out the car window at the crowded square in front of town hall. Then he wipes his face with the back of his hand and kisses me on the cheek, right next to my lips, jumping out of the car saying "See ya, Sawyer!"

Bonnie shows up at the same time – I realize that's what made Tristan run away. We go stand behind the big group gathered in the square. I don't exactly have a good reputation in this town, not since my relationship with Tristan was made public. And even less so since his brother was kidnapped while we were looking after him. Then came the salacious newspaper articles and TV reports, which didn't exactly help matters. So I try to avoid looking at the people around me. There's no need to provoke sarcasm, gratuitous rudeness or idiocies. I'm here for Harry, so there's no way I'm going to start a scandal.

More and more people gather around us. There are some especially moving banners that people raise up over our heads. Seeing Harry's face everywhere – on tee-shirts and posters –reminds me how much I miss him. My emotions get the best of me and Bonnie holds me in her arms for a minute while I try to pull myself together. Then, by some miracle, Betty Sue finds us, and I hug her close. My grandma shows me the heart-shaped pendant she's wearing around her neck. She sculpted a plain old rock into a precious gem and has dedicated it to Harry. The march slowly begins and my dad calls me on my phone to tell me to come up to the front with them.

"Is Betty Sue with you?"

"Yeah, but we're going to stay at the back . . ."

"What? "No, it's out of the question! Liv, come join us! If there's one time we need to be together as a family, it's now!"

"People hate me," I whisper. "I'll ruin everything . . ."

I suddenly realize the phone has changed hands and I hear a threatening, hoarse voice talking to me:

"Sawyer, get your ass up here right now, or I'll come get you . . ."

"Tristan, you know how people are . . ."

"I don't give a shit!" "I'll protect you! I'll punch out the first jerk who says anything about you or us!"

"I . . ."

"Liv, I swear, if you don't do this for me, for Harry, for your dad . . . even for my mom . . . Liv, this time I won't forgive you."

I hear whispers and whistling as I join the head of the march next to Tristan. Clearly I'm not the most popular person in Key West, but no one verbally or physically attacks me during the 2 mile march.

Once we reach the ocean, on the long white sand beach that runs along the island, Sienna and Tristan light the first two lantern balloons and the emotion of the crowd is palpable. They turn toward the people standing behind them and in a few minutes, the flying lights are burning bright. Sienna releases hers first. Then Tristan. Then we all do. A thousand lanterns go flying, like a thousand I love yous all meant for Harry. My cheeks are drenched with tears and I look up at the sky, begging he'll be sent back to us.

Suddenly the crowd moves and I'm pushed to the right. I end up far away from my family. People are pushing me harder and harder. I look up and see a big, muscular man who insults me rudely. Another does the same. I just stand there in the middle of the crowd, being sworn at as people push me forward like a rag doll. I hear "incest," "slut" and worse. I've never been treated like this, never witnessed such cowardice. Then two girls come and look me up and down, acting as if they're disgusted. They finally leave, laughing, and spit at me.

Harry would have hated this. I look around, in shock. I finally find Tristan, about 30 feet from me. I see him whisper something to his mom. I don't want to ruin their moment of closeness. I look up to admire the sky full of stars one last time, then make my way out of the crowd. It takes me forever to get free, and behind me I vaguely hear someone say my name. Surely someone who wants to burn my hair or tear out my fingernails. I ignore it and keep moving, wanting to escape this hell.

Finally, once I'm out, I can hear it clearly. It's Tristan. He's out of breath, his cheeks are red and his eyes are daggers.

"Why didn't you tell me they were attacking you!? A little girl came and told me! Jesus, Liv, what am I to you?"

"Harry's the one that matters, not me. I'm fine, go back to be with Sienna."

"Stop doing this! Stop running away! It's driving me crazy!" Tristan scolds, coming toward me. "I want you to stay WITH ME!"

He closes his hands around my face and kisses me forcefully. Then he grabs my hips and lifts me up. I end up in his arms, despite my kicking and thrashing. He's too strong for me. He carries me to the little cabin at the entrance to the beach, the one reserved for lifeguards and rescue personnel, and locks me inside, leaving me there alone.

"This way you can't get away!" he says through the wood slats.

"Let me out of here!"

"Nope."

"Tristan!"

"In your dreams, Sawyer!"

"How'd you get the key?"

"I'm the one who organized the march. And the lanterns were stored in here."
"But I thought . . . You didn't even want to be a part of it!"

"Something had to happen! For the media to get interested again, so people wouldn't forget. To get the investigation moving! Get new witnesses!"

"You could have told me!"

"No. It was more fun that you didn't know."

In other words, "I was having a good laugh at your expense."

"Open up or I'll scream!" I say in a rage, kicking the door.

"Scream, go right ahead."

"Please, Tristan . . ."

"I'm so sick of this, Liv. Of fighting for Harry. For you. For us . . ."

"So let's stop fighting," I murmur. "Let me out and we'll make peace."

"No."

"Why!?"

"Because I have a better idea."

The door opens with a bang and closes again as the wood slams against the frame. Tristan is here. Inside with me. I hear the key turn in the lock, and then he's on me, removing his white tee-shirt. He presses me against the wood wall, kissing me ferociously, sliding his hands under my top, then under my bra. I pant into his mouth.

"Is this what you want, Liv?" he asks in that husky voice.

"Yes . . ."

I barely have time to answer before my top is gone, then my lacy white bra with it. Suddenly his lips, his mouth, his tongue, his hands, his nails – he's everywhere, all over me – and my sighs drift up into the night air.