The little boy looked up.
All the doubts laid down by reason and prudence that he didn't know for sure, that maybe Charissa was lying or wrong or vindictive and messing with his mind, were crushed.
The boy looked up at him with the same sapphire blue that looked back in the mirror every day.
Face choked back a sob. He swallowed and kept his hands in his pockets, tightly fisted because now it was true, now it was real, and now he didn't know what to do, just as predicted.
The boy watched him solemnly.
"Got some leaves there?"
Not the greatest opening gambit, but who would have thought it would be so hard for one of the world's slickest con artists to formulate coherent words when his brain was confronted with someone outside himself but still part of him?
The boy was clearly torn between not talking to strangers and someone who showed an interest in his leaves.
"I like the red ones," Face went on mindlessly. "They match your sweatshirt."
The boy glanced at his fist and at his zipped up coat, then nodded with a smile.
That smile simultaneously filled Face with joy and broke his heart.
"You've got a good collection there," he continued, and from across the playground, he heard a woman calling,
"Devon! Devon!"
He wanted to say something more, he wanted to say something poignant and meaningful. He couldn't.
"Devon!"
The woman—Devon's mother—still called, sounding more frantic.
Face glanced away from the boy, expecting to now be blinded, like looking into an eclipse. He saw the search the woman was conducting, looking for the boy who had been climbing and sliding and was now nowhere to be found on the playground.
"I . . ." Face started. "I think someone's looking for you. Is that your mom?"
The little boy turned. "Yeah. That's her," he confirmed.
A lump formed in his throat, threatening to close off his airway and forcing tears close to the surface of his eyes.
"You'd . . . you'd better go back."
"Yeah—"
But before the boy could go, the woman spotted him and darted to them.
"Devon!" she scolded, grabbing his outstretched hand. "Don't run off like that!"
"I didn't run off, mama," he contradicted. "I was getting leaves."
"I couldn't see you! You scared me!"
"Sorry, mama," the boy replied contritely. He offered a smile and the handful of leaves to her. "I got these for you!"
Face almost smiled at the not-so-clumsy attempt of distraction.
"He didn't go anywhere, ma'am," he said. "He stayed on the playground the whole time."
The woman glanced over as if it was the first she'd noticed him.
"Thanks," she said, and it didn't sound sarcastic. He noted she also didn't seem to think it odd he was sitting here by himself at a playground. "You have kids here?"
"A little boy. Somewhere . . ." Face managed to unclench a hand and extract it from a pocket to wave towards the jungle gym. " . . . out there."
"They can be so hard to keep track of sometimes," the woman confided, as if that was a parenting secret.
He nodded. It was true, he'd found.
"Well, have a good day," she said, and walked Devon back towards their side of the playground, exclaiming over the bright red maple leaves the boy had found.
Devon looked back at Face one time and the image of those brilliant blue eyes and dazzling smile seared itself into Face's memory; it etched itself into his soul.
The bench shifted a little as Murdock sat down beside him.
"Well?" his friend asked quietly.
Face looked at him and tears fell. He didn't wipe them away.
"Everything's . . . good," he answered honestly.
He'd lost his sight of the mother and child; maybe they'd returned to their car. It didn't matter.
"Everything's good. He's here, he has a mom and a dad . . . I'm glad. It was for the best. It's good. Good for him."
Murdock nodded, and never questioned whether Face knew it was his boy or not. Face believed it, made his peace with it, and that was good enough.
fin.