Forbidden- Our Secret Love

by Elise Quinn Larson

  “Us?”

  “Of course. I’m sure Quinn will tell them he spent the rest of the night here. He expects us to back him up somehow.”

  Trey snorted. “I don’t see how. We weren’t at that party. How would we know what went on?”

  “At this point, the police have no idea what Quinn said or did in our apartment. But they’ll want to find out. And Trey . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “We need to be honest. No matter what they ask, we can’t lie.”

  “Well, there’s one thing you can’t tell them, Elise. You can’t tell them you’re Quinn’s half-sister. You’re his cousin. Nothing more. You must protect our secret, even if you have to lie.”

  Chapter 31

  Q uinn was far from relaxed in his penthouse suite, held “prisoner,” as he put it, by his lawyer and the PR guy, who kept him away from reporters and female company while the investigation proceeded. His calls to me were an endless torrent of complaints.

  “I’m sick of this,” he grumbled. “I’m living like a monk up here! No women, no parties, no fun. I figured this’d be over in a few days, but no. Here I sit, just waiting. I’m supposed to be at training camp in a week, my first preseason game is on August 11th, and I’m stuck in a damn hotel in Boise! Give me some good news, Elise. They talked to you yet?”

  “If you mean the investigators, no. Not yet.”

  “So call them. Tell them what happened. Help me clear this thing up.”

  “I don’t know what happened, Quinn. I wasn’t at your party.”

  “You know I’m no rapist! Tell them that. Tell them the bitch is lying.”

  “Were you with her that night?”

  “Did I fuck her, you mean? Yeah. Her and another. But there was no rape. They wanted it, and I was happy to oblige. And I wasn’t the only guy screwing the ladies at that party. If anyone got raped, it wasn’t by me. If anyone got pregnant, it wasn’t by me.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive. And to prove it, I signed a form to release the results of the blood test I did for CJ back in March. That HLA thing we all did, remember?”

  Of course I remembered. The “HLA thing” was supposed to remain confidential, protecting us from any possible disclosure of our sibling relationship. What if . . .

  “You still there, Elise?”

  “Yes.”

  “That test will prove I’m not the father, right?”

  “I hope so.”

  “So call them, little cousin. I’ve got to get out of here by next week. My team is counting on me.”

  I didn’t need to call anyone, because they came to me. Shortly after Quinn’s call that morning, Boise police Detective R. Jamison and Ada County Sheriff’s Detective G. Slater rang my doorbell, showed their identification and asked to speak with me regarding Quinn Larson. Certain it was more than a polite request, I let them in.

  Although they wore suits instead of uniforms, both men carried themselves with an air of authority that might have intimidated me, were I not so accustomed to living with large, formidable men. Detective Jamison was the younger of the two, somewhere in his late thirties, with close-cropped brown hair and blue eyes. Detective Slater was fiftyish, with short gray hair that almost matched his eyes. Judging by the stony set of his features, I decided any attempt at pleasantry would be futile.

  As soon as we sat at the kitchen table, Detective Jamison placed a recording device in the center, turned it on and told me the interview was being recorded. Although I was not under oath, the authorities would have a record of everything I said, which could be given in evidence. “Protect our secret,” Trey had told me. “Even if you have to lie.”

  So I lied. I lied in the first minute of the interview, when Detective Jamison asked for my name, date of birth, address, occupation, marital status, and relationship to Quinn Larson.

  “Quinn is my cousin. Our fathers are brothers.” Lie number one, I thought.

  During the next fifteen minutes or so, I told them everything I remembered about that night in March: Quinn pounding on our door at three a.m., drunk and complaining about being kicked out of The Grove; spending the night on our sofa; suffering from a hangover the next morning; flying to Las Vegas later that day. They asked very few questions during my narrative, so I started to relax, assuming the interview was almost over. I was wrong.

  Detective Slater asked, “Does Quinn Larson have a history of violence? Fights? Assaultive behavior? Injuries to another person, especially females?”

  I hesitated. Like Johnny, Quinn was wild growing up: lots of drinking, parties, fights, girls, even some drugs. But he had no record that I knew of, except for speeding tickets and one DUI.

  “He had some fights growing up,” I said. “Like most boys, I guess. I wouldn’t call it assaultive behavior. He’s a football player, so naturally there’ve been some injuries on the field. I’m sure he’s never hurt a woman. Quinn wouldn’t do that.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know Quinn. He’s a big man and a tough competitor, but he’s not a violent person. Especially when it comes to women.”

  “What about when he’s drunk?” Detective Jamison asked. “Is he a mean drunk?”

  “No. He’s usually happy when he’s drunk.”

  “You told us he pounded on your door at three a.m., drunk and yelling obscenities. Did he sound happy to you?”

  “No. He was angry because he’s been kicked out of The Grove. That’s all.”

  Detective Slater tapped his pen on the table repeatedly—an annoying, distracting sound. “Did he mention any women at the party? Any intimate relations?”

  “Not that night, no.” I instantly realized my mistake, which he caught right away. The tapping stopped.

  “But later? He said something later?”

  Oh, Quinn, I thought. Why did you tell me anything at all?

  “Please answer the question, Miss Larson. What did he say?”

  “He said he had relations with two women at the party.”

  Detective Jamison leaned forward. “Was Amelia Parker one of them?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “But it wasn’t rape. It was consensual.”

  Jamison smirked. “Is that what he told you to say?”

  “No. He told me what happened. Then he told me to tell you what happened. That’s what I’m doing. Quinn is a good person, detectives. I’ve known him all my life. We practically grew up together.”

  Detective Slater’s pen started tapping again. “So you were close as cousins?”

  “Yes.”

  “You said Trey Larson was here when Quinn showed up drunk. What is your relationship to Trey?”

  “Trey is Quinn’s brother. And also my cousin.” Lie number two, I thought.

  “Why was Trey Larson here that night?”

  “He lives here. He’s my roommate.” As you already know, I thought, certain they hadn’t overlooked such basic details in their investigation.

  Sticking his pen in his pocket, Detective Slater stood up and walked into the living room, stopping beside the sofa. “Is this where Quinn Larson slept that night?”

  “Yes.”

  He turned in a slow circle, surveying every detail with narrowed eyes. “Nice apartment,” he said. “Modern and spacious. Great view of the pond from here.” Then, almost as an afterthought, he asked, “How many bedrooms does it have?”

  The question caught me completely off guard. Why was he even asking? What did this have to do with their investigation? If I said two, in order to protect myself and Trey, a check with the apartment manager would prove I was lying. If I said one, they would know I was sleeping with Trey. But Idaho law did not prohibit cohabitation between cousins.

  He watched me closely, waiting for an answer to his seemingly simple question.

  “One,” I said. “One bedroom.”

  Making note of the time, Detective Jamison ended the recording. “We need to speak with Trey Larson,” he said. “When do you expect him?”

>   I glanced at the clock. Almost noon. “Any minute. His last morning class ends at eleven fifty, and the university is only . . .” I stopped. Of course they knew where the university was. “Would you like something to drink? Ice water or lemonade?”

  They declined. When Detective Slater resumed his seat at the table, I retreated to the living room, scooped Emma from her favorite cushion and sat with her on the sofa, calming my nerves by stroking her soft belly and listening to her purr.

  As soon as Trey walked in the door, they asked me to leave. Once again, it was not a request. It was an order. Trey and I exchanged a quick glance filled with silent questions, but that was all.

  I went outside and walked toward Quinn’s Pond and the Greenbelt, knowing Trey would call me when the interview ended. What will he tell them? I wondered. Will our stories match? I knew he would lie to protect us, but would they believe him?

  He joined me on the Greenbelt an hour later. I ached to hold his hand as we walked toward Whitewater Park, but we never touched in public. We didn’t dare. So we walked along the path like two casual friends, comparing our stories and our lies, which thankfully coincided fairly well.

  We stopped at the edge of the Boise River, where two kayaks were floating downstream. The kayakers waved to us and we waved back, Trey in his professor’s clothes and me in my shorts and tank top. I was suddenly envious of them, out for a carefree ride on the river on a glorious summer afternoon.

  “So,” I said. “Do you think they believed us?”

  Trey shrugged, removing his tie and rolling up his sleeves. “Sure. Why wouldn’t they? We told the truth, mostly, and our stories jibed.”

  “But they know we’re sleeping together. Because of the one bedroom thing.”

  “Yeah. But there’s no law against it.”

  “Why do you suppose they asked that question? It has nothing to do with Quinn.”

  He picked up a stone and tossed it into the river, followed by another. And another. “Don’t know why. Prurient interest, maybe? The idea of two cousins getting it on? Don’t worry about it, Elise. They can’t prove we’re doing anything illegal.”

  “Unless . . .”

  Another stone—a larger one—splashed into the river. “Unless what?”

  “The blood tests we took. The HLA . . .”

  He turned and looked at me. “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t think about those tests. They’re confidential. Quinn’s decision to release his results has nothing to do with us. We’re completely safe.”

  He kept throwing stones as hard as he could in a steady release of tension, his actions belying his words. We were not completely safe. The authorities now had recorded proof that we were sleeping together, and a Boise lab had documented evidence that we were siblings. If they connected the two . . .

  My fingers reflexively brushed across the ring on my right hand, a symbol of our union. A symbol the detectives had seen. I felt sick inside.

  We retreated to our apartment that afternoon, still regarding it as our safe haven despite the detectives’ invasion of our privacy. But our privacy and our safety were no longer assured, now that we were caught up in the net of Quinn’s fame and notoriety. We suddenly became part of the news media’s obsession with the “Quinn Larson rape case.”

  I don’t know how they found out where we lived—or about the detectives’ interview—but they did. I was fixing lunch when the doorbell rang, and I heard Trey’s curt “no comment” before he slammed the door.

  “Who was it?” I asked, chopping tomatoes and cucumbers for our salad.

  “Don’t know and don’t care,” Trey grumbled, grabbing a beer from the fridge. “Some damn reporter. How in hell did they find us so fast? Are we trapped here now, like Quinn in his fancy penthouse?”

  I set the salad bowls on the table, along with thick slices of French bread. “Surely not. If we don’t say anything, they’ll lose interest. Besides, Quinn says this will soon be over. The test results will prove she’s lying about the baby.”

  Trey took a long swig of his beer. “That won’t prove he didn’t rape her.”

  Chapter 32

  W e escaped to CJ’s house later that afternoon, figuring reporters wouldn’t find us there. His part-time nurse met us at the front door.

  “I’m so glad you’re here!” she exclaimed. “Mrs. Larson took the boys to a dental appointment that seems to be running late. My shift ended at four, ten minutes ago, but I didn’t want to leave my patient.”

  “Go ahead,” I assured her. “We’ll sit with CJ until they get back. How is he?”

  “Doing well. Just woke up from a nap. He’ll be happy to see you.”

  She hurried away and we went upstairs, finding CJ sitting in a recliner in a corner of the spacious master suite. I hugged him and ran my hand across his fuzzy head, where his hair was just starting to grow back.

  “Hey, you two,” he said with a smile. “Good to see you. Grab a couple of chairs so we can talk.”

  Sitting side by side in damask covered chairs, Trey and I relaxed for the first time that day, holding hands as we told CJ about the interviews and our fears of disclosure. Since CJ knew our secret, we felt we could safely confide in him.

  “So I’m scared,” I admitted. “They know we’re sleeping together. And those blood tests prove we’re siblings. What if . . .”

  I stopped in shock when the nurse walked into the room. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I was almost home when I realized I’d forgotten my cell phone. It’s not in the kitchen, so I thought I might’ve left it up here.”

  She glanced at Trey and me. He’d quickly let go of my hand, but we were sitting too close to each other. Our chairs were practically touching. How much did she hear before she came in here? I wondered. How much does she suspect?

  I stood up. “I’ll help you look,” I offered. “It must be here somewhere.”

  It was. I found it in the downstairs powder room. She thanked me, apologized for the interruption, and left. Watching her car pull out of the driveway, I suddenly remembered her name. Frances Parker. And Quinn’s accuser was Amelia Parker. Could they be related? Was it possible? Parker was a fairly common name, but still . . .

  I slowly went back upstairs, my mind spinning. CJ said nothing when I resumed my seat beside Trey, who did not reach for my hand. We were no longer relaxed. It seemed we were not safe anywhere. Not even in CJ’s home.

  “How much did she hear?” I asked. “Did she hear the part about the blood tests? Please tell me she didn’t!”

  CJ shrugged. “Probably not. She was looking for her phone. I doubt she was lurking behind the door, listening to our conversation. Why on earth would she do that?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe she’s curious about us Larsons. Maybe she has a reason to spy on us. Maybe because she’s related to Amelia Parker?”

  Both men stared at me in sudden comprehension, but it was Trey who spoke. “Shit,” he said. “Oh, shit.”

  We watched the news that night, sitting on our sofa with Emma between us. The TV screen showed exterior pictures of our apartment while the anchor announced “new revelations in the Quinn Larson rape case. Sources tell us that Trey Larson—Quinn Larson’s brother—spoke with detectives today about Larson’s actions after the alleged rape, when he fled to the apartment shown here. Elise Larson, a cousin to both men, lives at this same address and was also questioned. Details of these interviews have not been released. Meanwhile, Quinn Larson will be interviewed at the Ada County Sheriff’s Office tomorrow afternoon. We’ll have full coverage beginning at . . .”

  Trey clicked off the remote, swearing softly. “So much for staying under the radar,” he muttered. “Maybe we should fly to Mexico tomorrow, to get away from this mess. What do you think?”

  I looked at him. Was he serious? “Just this afternoon, you told me we’re completely safe. So why go to Mexico?”

  He leaned forward, elbows on his thighs and his hands clenched together. “I wasn’t serious about Mexico. But th
is thing seems to be snowballing. If Quinn’s high-priced attorney can’t stop it soon . . .” He shook his head. “I don’t want you hurt by it, that’s all. I want you to be safe. So maybe you should go home for a while, until things settle down.”

  “What are you saying, Trey? I thought this was my home. Here, with you. Do you want me to leave? Go back to Daddy’s house? Whatever happened to the vows we made on Valentine’s Day, when you told me you would never let me go again? I thought you meant those things you said. I thought we were married that night!”

  He unclenched his hands and reached for me, but I pulled away, swallowing hard and blinking back tears. Emma hopped off the sofa, totally disgruntled by the behavior of her humans. When Trey moved into her vacated spot and reached for me again, I yielded to his arms.

  “We are married,” he said, kissing the top of my head. “I meant the things I said. I love you, Elise. I don’t want you to leave. But I must keep you safe, and right now you are not safe with me.”

  Brushing his fingers across my cheek, he went on. “You said it yourself at CJ’s; you’re scared, and you have a right to be. Our secret suddenly has holes. People know things: the detectives, the lab technicians, maybe Frances Parker. Hell, anyone who watched the news tonight knows we’re living together! We don’t have a choice, sweetheart. You need to leave me. Just for a while.”

  He was right about me being scared. And though I cringed at the thought of leaving him, the possibility of Trey going to prison for the crime of loving me was more than I could bear.

  “How long?” I asked. “How long is a while?”

  “I don’t know. You’re practically a lawyer. If this rape thing goes to trial, how long could it last?”

  I frowned. “It wouldn’t even go to trial for months. The actual trial could take weeks. So I’d say we’re looking at close to a year.”

  “Well,” he said, “we’d better hope it doesn’t go to trial.”

  We wandered out to the balcony and sat in our favorite lounge chairs, watching the setting sun cast shimmering trails of gold across the surface of Quinn’s Pond. Darkness gradually settled in, replacing the gold with moonlight’s silvery glow.