“We have a name?” asked Tina.
“No wallet. Got a phone, but there’s a password.”
Tina took a deep breath, put her hands on her hips. “Katrina found semen in the body,” she said. “No obvious signs of rape, but our Jane Doe definitely had intercourse the night she died.”
“OK,” said Salvatore.
“Water in her lungs, found on land, semen…you ready to call this a homicide?”
Salvatore nodded. “This is a murder investigation. Get the victim’s phone unlocked, and get me her home address from the plates.”
“I’m on it,” said Tina.
“Salvatore?” It was one of the techs; Salvatore turned. “There’s, uh…there’s a photo in the glove box.”
Tina and Salvatore rushed toward the passenger-side door. The tech held up a Polaroid print. The old-fashioned Polaroids were all the rage; Salvatore had given one to Allie “from Santa” the year before.
“It’s just some kids,” said Tina.
Salvatore stared at the photo. In the picture, three handsome teenage boys stood in the sunshine, their arms around each other’s shoulders. One was blond, one with black hair, and one with hair the color of strawberries. They were tanned and smiling, wearing City of Austin lifeguard uniforms.
“Any idea who they are?” asked Tina.
“No,” he said, squinting. They looked a lot like Salvatore and his friends, back when he was a carefree teenager. All three boys grinned, as if the world were a kind place, holding only joy in store for them. But Salvatore had met plenty of handsome teenagers who’d committed crimes.
He thought of the woman who had hung up on him earlier, then forced him to leave a message. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the photo. He had a feeling that one of these happy kids would turn out to be Charlie Bailey, address 1308 Oak Glen.
-21-
Whitney
WHITNEY WAS A TERRIBLE cook, hated every step from making a grocery list to garnishing plates. And although she could afford someone to help, or at least order in once in a while, she made herself do everything. Cooking and serving was what a wife and mother was supposed to do, so goddamn it, she wasn’t about to shirk her responsibilities.
Whitney understood that what drove her was internal, a voice that tore her apart and critiqued her every move. She imagined everyone was judging her constantly （and let’s be honest, many were） but understood that the unkindest commentator resided in her brain.
Whitney refilled her wineglass, continued to chop. The menu included grilled chicken—she even grilled, for God’s sake: was Jules the only neighborhood dad who didn’t man his own barbecue? He was a husband who could assemble a charcuterie platter with ease, but propane and tongs confounded him. On the side: orzo with pistachios, roasted red peppers, and feta. She would eat only the protein; Roma would concoct some borderline anorexic plate （or just eat garbanzo beans from a bowl—had she seen this on some “pro-ana” TikTok video?）; Xavier would eat heartily and compliment her, hugging her and thanking her a bit overzealously, as if he knew how much she relied on his appreciation; and Jules would chew and nod distractedly, expecting nothing less than the usual gourmet meal at 6:30 sharp.
Toast the pistachios. Whitney took one of her stainless pans from the hanging rack （she hated the pots hovering above her head, always felt a low anxiety, worried one would fall on her skull, but Jules wanted their gleaming pots and pans displayed） and placed it over a low flame, but stopped herself from adding olive oil.
She held the bowl of shelled pistachios. No one would know they weren’t meant to be poured atop the orzo raw. Whitney felt a small thrill—she wasn’t going to toast the damn nuts. She turned off the burner, exhaled. A small kindness to herself, but she already felt a bit less furious.
Roma and Jules burst in the front door, approached the kitchen. Whitney tossed her hair back and smiled. “Dinner in twenty!” she sang.
“We got P. Terry’s burgers,” said Roma, arching a perfect eyebrow.
“Oh,” said Whitney, feeling hurt smash into her but recovering immediately, making her face impassive, moving to the sink to wash her hands.
“Sorry, darling,” said Jules, slipping an arm around her waist.
“It’s fine,” said Whitney lightly.
Jules nodded, distracted already by his phone, making his way out of the kitchen. Whitney looked at the expensive ingredients laid out on the marble countertop: a perfect still life of wasted energy, money, and time.
“I wanted an iPhone Ten and Dad said OK,” said Roma. She placed three shopping bags on the kitchen counter, baiting Whitney to ask what else she’d suckered her father into buying, wanting her mother to be angry with them both. She leaned back and crossed her arms over her tiny chest. “Sorry we got burgers, Mom,” she said, her voice saccharine.
“It’s fine,” said Whitney. “Sweetheart,” she added, forcing the word from her mouth.
“I wish I knew where my old phone was,” said Roma.
“Where did you go last night?” said Whitney. “Did you retrace your steps to look for it?” She swallowed. How could it have been less than twenty-four hours since the boys had found the body?
“I didn’t go anywhere,” said Roma. “I was in my room.”
“Really?” said Whitney. “I saw your car leave, around nine.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Roma. “I went to the Barton Hills Food Mart to get Takis.”
“What’s a Taki?”
Roma laughed derisively. “It’s a chip, Mom. Like Doritos. You’re so white!” She waited, willing her mother to erupt.
Whitney did not respond.
“And I couldn’t find my phone,” Roma continued, “so I went without it. I was so annoyed. I missed everything last night.”
Whitney’s head throbbed. “Did anyone see you at the food mart?” she said.
“The food mart guy,” said Roma, twirling a strand of hair around her finger.
“Did you use a credit card?” said Whitney. “For the chips?”
Roma stared at her. Her look was a bit menacing, and Whitney’s stomach began to ache. “No,” said Roma. “I used spare change. They’re only, like, eighty-nine cents.”
“There’s probably a video,” said Whitney, thinking aloud.
“What’s going on, Mommy?” said Roma.
“Well, someone died last night, Roma,” said Whitney.
“Yeah, I heard,” said Roma, gathering her shopping bags. “Mom,” she said. “Are you thinking I did something?”
“Of course not!” said Whitney.
“You always suspect me when things go wrong,” said Roma, looking genuinely pained.
Whitney’s mind spun. “Have you…heard anything else?” she said. Roma didn’t answer, kicked off her sandals, and made her way toward the living room. Whitney touched her bronze shoulder and Roma flinched as if her mother had hit her. She whirled around.
“I had nothing to do with this!” she cried, her direct gaze chilling. Don’t think about New Zealand, Whitney ordered herself. No, don’t think about the boy in New Zealand…