Annette wanted to kiss Hank Lefferts, but she was not going to kiss Hank Lefferts. She’d once desired her husband, but now, when he reached for her, she had to swallow her repugnance （among other things）。 Annette was a good Catholic: She’d signed them up for marital counseling, but Louis had never filled out the presession forms, which were—fair enough—exhausting. Instead, Louis had come home with a bag of La Perla lingerie for his wife. He didn’t seem to understand that trussing herself up for his ogling was the last thing Annette was seeking. She wanted Louis to love her when she wore sweatpants （like Hank seemed to）。 She wanted him to see her as who she was.
Who was she?
She dreamed of kissing Hank, leaving Louis, moving into Hank’s bungalow behind Hola, Amigos. The sexy nights they’d share, the coffee made on Hank’s stovetop percolator. But Bobcat might choose Louis and the wide-screen 5K TV, and Louis could block her American citizenship and wrest custody. Annette didn’t really understand Robert and his computerlike brain; she wasn’t sure of his allegiances, or if he had any. He was strangely…unemotional. So as hard as it was some days not to kiss Hank Lefferts, Annette knew that she was no lone coyote.
She needed her pack to survive.
-18-
EVIDENCE FILE 147
BIRTHDAY CARD RECOVERED BY APD TECHNICAL FORENSIC DEPARTMENT
Dear Arlo, Happy Birthday! I miss you SO MUCH. How is Beary? Are you taking care of him? I know you are. I am working very hard in the city and I hope you can come visit someday. Are you looking at the stars every night like I told you to? It might seem like we are far apart but every night I look up and think of you. I love you.
XXOOOOOOOOOO, LUCY
P.S. I have a new boyfriend! I think you will like him a lot. He is as sweet as you.
P.P.S. This squishy sloth can live next to Beary on your bed.
P.P.P.S. His name is Slothy.
-19-
Liza
I WAS GHOSTWRITING TWO cookbooks for local celebrities, both due in the fall. Bring on the BREAD was the brainchild of Lou Jenkins, a big guy with a wild beard who ran a brewpub and bakery in downtown Austin. I’d been stunned by the size of his book advance—who knew there were so many rabid fans of sourdough? But every time Lou had a local appearance, there were hundreds of attendees, many of them young men with beards similar to his. They lined up to ask him question after question about their yeast makeup, beer-brewing equipment, and sourdough starters. Lou was a king.
My second project was the cookbook I was working on with Sam, who had grown up in Thailand and attended graduate school at the University of Texas, where she met her husband, Brent. After obtaining advanced degrees in biology and history, respectively, they ditched academia and opened Thai Tex. It was a sleek and modern restaurant, its hanging lamps covered with large paper umbrellas to create a reddish glow.
Sam was much more hands-on than Lou, who was happy to have me write his book for him. She wanted to talk through each chapter of her upcoming book, and I loved spending afternoons in the sunlit kitchen of her popular restaurant, drinking lemongrass tea and listening to her stories, watching her craft recipes.
Sam was making fish sauce from scratch. “Really, there are only two ingredients,” she explained. “Fish and salt. That’s all! But it’s a complicated process.” My phone rang, interrupting the recording.
“Sorry,” I said.
Sam stopped speaking and nodded as I took the call. She was short and lovely, her hair held back with a rubber band. She wore peach-colored pants and a fitted T-shirt, a blue apron wound twice around her waist. Brent and their daughter, Wren, sat in the corner of the kitchen working on Wren’s seventh-grade algebra homework. Giving me privacy, Sam joined her family at the table.
I didn’t recognize the number on my caller ID. “Hello?” I said.
“Is this Mrs. Elizabeth Bailey?” said a warm male voice.
“It’s Ms., but yes,” I said, immediately wary. Anyone who knew me would ask for Liza.
“This is Detective Salvatore Revello from the Austin Police Department,” said the man. “I’m looking for the legal guardian of Charles Bailey?”
I cut the line on instinct, my heart racing. I stood. Sam turned to watch me. I sat. I pretended to speak into my dead phone. “Thank you, I’m so glad my library book finally came in!” I said loudly. “OK, OK, yes. I’ll come after work to grab it. Thanks again.”
I smiled at Sam, but adrenaline flooded my veins. Two words rang in my ears: Protect Charlie. Protect Charlie.
“Liza,” said Sam, “what is it?” I hated her then, this kind woman with a husband at her side. She wouldn’t ever be in the position I was in: completely alone with everything to lose.
-20-
Salvatore
THE GOLD TOYOTA TERCEL smelled of coconut sunscreen. It was rusty around the wheel wells, reported abandoned at a 7-Eleven at Lamar and Barton Hills Drive. Headquarters was running the license plates. It had almost been twenty-four hours since the woman’s body had been found, and Ramirez wanted SOMETHING FOR 7 P.M. PRESS CONFERENCE, he’d texted. He’d followed up, saying:
NEED AN ID ON THE BODY AND AN ARREST NOW.
* * *
—
A PAIR OF SIZE six black pants and a white shirt were folded in the backseat; the victim had likely been a waitress or worked behind a hostess station or bar. After forensics gave him the go-ahead, Salvatore went through her belongings: a calculus textbook, makeup case with earrings, lip gloss, travel toothbrush, a cellphone with a password they would soon be able to bypass, a paperback copy of Carrie by Stephen King, and a pink towel.
He texted his boss: ALMOST THERE.
Jacquie had driven a Toyota. She’d worn black and white clothes to waitress at Vespaio on South Congress, paying her way through graduate school at the University of Texas. This car—though it was a different color than Jacquie’s, smelled different, didn’t belong to her, he knew that—made Salvatore woozy. He had the bizarre, déjà-vu-esque sense that he was trying to solve Jacquie’s disappearance by going through the meager remains in this car. The painful hope that he could still find her, somewhere, somehow, made him feel both fabulous and sick. Was he going to throw up again?
He did not throw up.
Salvatore stepped out of the car into the hot Austin afternoon. The 7-Eleven where the victim had parked her car was a few blocks from the greenbelt entrance that led to the spot where she’d been found. What the hell was she doing here? Why had she gone down to the greenbelt at night?
He saw a car park across the lot, and his colleague, Tina Silver, climbed out. Salvatore preferred to work alone but was glad to see Tina, who was smart as hell and often considered angles that hadn’t occurred to Salvatore. Tina was a blond woman in her late forties, a mother and grandmother who relied utterly on her husband, a librarian, who took care of all the cooking, cleaning, and childcare. The Silvers hosted a big Thanksgiving potluck every year, emailing an open invitation, Tina glowing as guests complimented her husband’s famous sweet potato pie. Salvatore and Jacquie had spent every Thanksgiving with Tina and her family, and Salvatore planned to bring the kids in the fall.
Tina saw Salvatore and approached. “This the victim’s car?” she said, when she reached him.
“Nothing concrete yet, but I’d bet on it.”