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No luck.
My brow cocks, and suddenly my entire purpose on earth revolves around getting into this locked room. I immediately begin plotting the break-in—like any normal, inquisitive person would do. Right?
I squat down, cursing my popping knees, and examine the lock. When I remember that I am not a locksmith, I decide to search for the key. My instinct has me hurrying to the library. Everyone knows that secrets are always hidden in the library.
After peeking in every decorative box and vase in the room, and under every potted plant, I begin searching for secret levers, which, of course, only exist in my imagination.
The key has to be around here somewhere.
Fisting my hands on my hips, I chew on my lower lip.
I once watched a movie where a woman used a credit card to break into her husband’s mistress’s apartment. I have one of those—a credit card, not a cheating husband.
I jog to my bedroom, retrieve a card from my wallet, then hurry back to the locked room. I kneel, grip the knob, and slide the card between the lock and door frame. On the fifth try, the door gives with a loudpop.
At first, the room appears to be a normal bedroom. Everything is blue—the walls, the bedspread, the curtains. Next to the window is a desk crowded with multiple monitors. A printer sits on a filing cabinet next to a gaming chair.
A totally normal teenage boy’s room—except for the hundreds of photos, newspaper clippings, articles, and maps that are tacked up on the walls. Some are even connected by strings of red yarn, reminding me of a detective’s pin board in crime shows.
Something deep inside me tingles as I step deeper into the room. The photos are all of the same boy, from birth to toddlerhood, childhood to junior high, and eventually high school. The boy has big blue eyes and a messy head of snow-white hair, just like Nina.
A chill runs up my spine as I stare at the smiling face in each photograph. There is a definite shift in the boy through the years. His smile in childhood is wide and toothy, his eyes sparkling mischievously. As the boy ages, however, that sparkle fades. In the last photograph, his smile is nothing more than a tiny curve on his lips. He’s sad, conflicted, confused. Tortured about something.
Something in my heart breaks for this boy.
I shift my focus to the workstation where stacks of folders and notebooks sit next to a mess of articles, handwritten notes, Post-its.
4/12: Citgo gas station, possible sighting
4/14: Horseshoe Bar, possible sighting, with a young woman with blond hair
6/18: Hang-up call on house line, no message, could be nothing. Check with phone company if they can trace?
There are at least two dozen of these notes, and some have arrows that connect to other notes.
I pick up one of the articles.
Local Boy Missing
Local high school student James Carrington, seventeen years old, was last seen on March9, 2001. He was wearing a pair of dark jeans, black boots, and a black sweatshirt. His parents said he left for school and never came home. Rock Hill High School staff reports that James never made it to school, and his car was not photographed entering or leaving any of the parking lots. Neither James nor his car has been seen since. Police are asking for your help in this investigation. If you have any information about the disappearance of James Carrington, please call 555-423-3287.
My heart races as I stare at the article.
Tristan and Nina had a boy. His name was James. And that boy went missing.
6
Tristan
Sweat breaks out along my brow as my stroke tightens, quickens. My heart is pounding, the water sluicing down my back as I brace myself against the back of the shower wall.
I picture her eyes, one blue, one black.
Lavinia Greer. A new woman in my life—anotherwoman, I should say. Another womansleeping in my house.
My jaw clenches. I am both angered and aroused at the same time.
Angered that I cannot control myself, that I resort to masturbating in the shower the moment I meet a new woman. Angered that I have to masturbate at all to fulfill my carnal desires.
