Kristie Cook - Purpose

“Honey—” she started.

“It’s not him,” I repeated, louder now.

“We don’t know—”

“I said it’s not him!” I threw my hands to my face. My body began trembling again. My head shook back and forth. “It’s not him. I don’t know how I know. I just do. It’s not him, Mom. It can’t be!”

She rubbed her hands against my thighs. “I know, honey. I mean…I don’t know. I just know what you’re feeling. I know it’s hard to believe.”

“I don’t believe. I know!” I cried into my hands. “Don’t you? Can’t you feel the truth?”

She sighed. “You know I haven’t been able to feel anything at all. And we haven’t been able to find anything. We’ve tried to send soldiers in, but, if the Daemoni do still have him, we have no idea where.”

I stopped shaking as I listened. She’d never given me so many details.

“They lie so much, we never know what to believe. And Rina’s heard nothing from her other sources about any of this.” She sighed again. “And this video…we’ve never been able to figure out if it’s him or not. Our people examined every frame and couldn’t determine if it was even real, let alone who the hostage was.”

I dropped my hands from my face. “What do you mean? You’ve seen this before? You’ve known about this?”

She grimaced. “Yes, honey. We’ve had this video for a few years.”

“A few years?” My jaw dropped with disbelief.

“When the media did that whole character bashing about your having Dorian so young and out of wedlock, we were going to make an official statement. But then the Daemoni sent this video, threatening to send it to the media worldwide if we said anything at all. We decided it best for you and Dorian that we just keep quiet. Ignore the rumors and let them run their course.” She paused, then added quietly, “No one wanted you to see this.”

“Until now.”

“We don’t know who sent it or why.”

“It’s obvious why! The council wants me to move on and they thought this would convince me. Well, they’re wrong. It doesn’t mean a damn thing to me!”

The next thing I knew, I sat at the head of my bed, my arms wrapped around our wedding picture and my knees drawn up in a ball. I didn’t remember if I had walked here purposely or had fled to the refuge of my room. I didn’t even know how long I’d been sitting here, rocking back and forth, whispering, “No, no, no.”

Before this, I’d already worked through the first four steps of the grieving process, getting stuck on the depression part…and sometimes moving backward. I had never reached acceptance, though. The council—at least one person—thought they could rush me into it with this video. But the idea back-fired. It pushed me back. All the way back to denial. Because I absolutely refused to believe my husband was beheaded in the video. In fact, with the way the camera cut away from the hostage and then the angle of the view…I couldn’t be certain there was even a head in the sack rolling on the floor. The scene really could have been staged, just theatrics, as Mom seemed to imply. But someone obviously wanted me to see it…and to believe it.

How stupid could they be? Did they really think I would be so easily convinced? Our connection was too strong. Or is it? I froze at this thought. I’d been losing him in my memory and now even in my dreams. Our connection had actually been quite weak lately. Mom knew that. Owen had probably figured it out. They said they hadn’t told anyone, but now someone on the council knew and tried to take advantage of my weakness. Tried to shred my hope, as if slashing that grotesque sabre right through my thread.

I squeezed my eyes shut and saw the images in the video. It could be convincing, actually. Quite convincing. Especially with the Amadis mark on the hostage’s chest. And his voice…beautiful and horrible at the same time…screaming my name.

“It’s not him,” I whispered again. Even I could hear the doubt in my voice. I shook my head. “No. It’s not him. I won’t believe it!”

I felt something inside me start to crack, about to break. Probably break me down for good. Psycho Alexis tried to work her way in, blackening my heart and my thoughts with grief and anger. Then a rough growl in the back of my mind marked Evil Alexis also wanting to take control. I shook my head again, more violently this time.

I just need to feel you again. I know you’re there.

Then a thought occurred to me, rushing me to the back of my walk-in closet. I pulled out his bag, tore open the zipper and stuffed my face inside, inhaling deeply, trying to smell him, to bring back his memory, to feel him and know he still lived. The scent was so faint. After wearing his shirts every night for over a year, I’d finally packed them in here, his scent washed out of them.

Feeling his physical presence with each touch of his belongings, I rummaged through the contents. Papers and keys for the beach house lay at the bottom of the bag. The letters I’d written every year on our anniversary were in there, too. Letters where I reminded him of his promise and where I made my own promise—that I would come for him after the Ang’dora if he didn’t come back first. Letters I could never send. I read them twice and my chest, where my heart should have been, throbbed with pain. Then I came across the envelope he’d given me at the safe house. I had never bothered to open it.

I ripped through the envelope. It contained some important looking documents I couldn’t focus on and a car title—the title to his Ferrari Spider, signed over to me, as if he’d known he wouldn’t make it back. His Ferrari. Since we’d had it in the Keys with us on our honeymoon, it hadn’t exploded with the rest of his belongings when the Daemoni blew up his house. We had used it as our escape car to the safe house. He had flashed away when he left the final time, leaving it behind.

I knew the Ferrari sat in the extra garage. Not knowing I even had the title to it, I’d never done anything with the ostentatious sports car. I could never bring myself, through all these years, to even look at it. I knew Owen, along with Dorian (he loved his daddy’s car), took it for a spin every now and then and kept it maintained. Mom kept the tags and insurance up-to-date.

I dashed to the extra garage. There it sat, red and shiny like new, obnoxious and beautiful as ever. Owen had taken good care of it. I circled the car, running my fingers over the horse emblem just as I had the first time I’d seen it, and stopped at the driver’s side door. This was not my side. I’d never driven the thing. I took a deep breath, popped the door open and slid inside. My hands caressed the tan leather seat and steering wheel, trying to feel Tristan’s presence. I leaned back in the seat and closed my eyes, imagining that I could feel him sitting here right where I sat, his warmth and power surrounding me. And I felt even more convinced he was not in that video, his voice was edited in…they did not kill him years ago. I leaned forward and pressed my forehead against the steering wheel, my arm crossed against my stomach, focusing on the conviction. It’s not him.

Then I suddenly had the incredible urge to go again. The need overwhelmed me. I frantically searched the workshop bench in the garage and finally found the key in a drawer. I left, pealing out of the driveway.

Driving felt good. Driving fast felt amazing. I sped down the highway, wondering if I drove as fast as he did. My senses felt so keen, so alert, I didn’t feel like the car moved very fast as I weaved around traffic on the interstate. The needle on the speedometer hovered at 110. I drove for nearly an hour and headed home when the gas gauge fell to a quarter-tank…and only then because I hadn’t brought my purse.