“This is only between you and me, OK? You’re my best friend.”
“Yes, of course. I promise,” I said. As always, the term “best friend” made me feel warm—chosen.
“It’s Roma,” said Whitney, her tone grave.
“Roma?” I was surprised, though I knew Roma was a perennial problem. She could be cruel, but despite a few truly alarming incidents, I tried to believe that Roma was, at heart, a good person. Charlie had once asked, “Mom? What do I do if every time I see someone, I feel bad about myself?”
“Sweetheart,” I’d said, “you can try to make friendships work, but it’s OK to just let some people go.”
Charlie had nodded grimly. I felt that I’d taught him a good lesson…until Whitney called, crying, saying Charlie had told Roma they couldn’t hang out anymore. I confronted Charlie, and he’d said, “Mom! You told me it was OK to let people go!”
“But not Roma,” I’d said, pleadingly.
Charlie had looked at me with disgust. I pretended I hadn’t seen it, inviting both the twins over that evening for “Make Your Own Pizza” night, ignoring Charlie’s withdrawn demeanor.
* * *
—
“ROMA?” I REPEATED NOW, taking a gulp of hot coffee. “What happened?”
Whitney took off her visor, and her hair fell into her face. She rubbed her eyes. Was she crying? I didn’t see any tears, berated myself for checking for moisture. “You can trust me,” I said. I moved to her side of the table and hugged my friend. Usually, I felt comforted when I was near Whitney, but today, I just felt raw.
Whitney lifted her head. Her eyes were reddish but dry. “I don’t know where she went night before last,” said Whitney. “She left the house while we were drinking wine…she says she lost her phone. And I don’t know where she was. I’m afraid…I’m just afraid. Do you think Roma could have had something to do with that woman’s death?”
Whitney certainly looked afraid. I tried to speak soothingly. “Come on, Whitney,” I said. “You know she didn’t.”
Whitney nodded, but this news really was worrisome. It was another item on the list of disturbing events involving Roma. There had been the fractured elbow. The neighbor’s cat. Xavier’s mysterious poisoning. And worst: the incident in New Zealand. Whitney had confided in me in the early years about Roma’s troubling behavior, but a wall had come down sometime in the last few years. Was it possible Roma had been on the greenbelt and somehow hurt the woman, left her for the boys to discover?
If so, why?
“Promise you’ll never say anything?” said Whitney, putting her hands around my wrists. “I had to tell someone. I had to.”
“I promise,” I said, biting my lip. Whitney’s grip was painful, but I repeated, “I promise, Whitney.”
But I knew, deep down, that if betraying Whitney meant saving my son, I would do it.
-3-
Salvatore
WHILE HE RODE THE exercise bike he kept in the garage, Ozzy Osbourne blaring in his headphones, Salvatore tried to solve the problem of having a job he loved too much and kids who needed him. Jacquie had accused him of being selfish, attending to his work and not his family. She’d complained, but she’d made it all OK. Better than OK: when he was jacked up from one horror or another （the worst were the kids, the kids）， she would let him talk in the hushed, sacred space of their bedroom, unloading the worst of it, listening, staying next to him. Now, all the stories were crammed in his brain with no off-ramp. And at 2:45 every day, his own two babies needed him. It was impossible.
Salvatore didn’t have time for the plaintive texts he got from Joe, the guilt trips from Allie when he finally made it home completely wiped out. He needed to find a solution and fast. He couldn’t afford a nanny, but he was going to have to afford a nanny. That would fix it: a nanny! He had a vision of a competent young woman, maybe in a blazer, who would handle his kids so he could stop worrying about messy domestic intricacies.
Solving murders was what he was meant to do, what he could do. Work was a balm. Adrenaline distracted him from sorrow.
When he finished his ride to nowhere, pedaling furiously yet traveling no farther than his perch in front of the plastic bins of Christmas decorations, he googled “How to Find a Nanny Austin,” and ended up on “Nanny Poppinz.” He filled out the forms quickly, entered his credit card with a sigh, and “matched” with three people. He copied and pasted the same message to all three and logged out in time to take a quick shower before Joe and Allie woke up. He was out of soap. He would ask the nanny to buy soap! Naked, he rummaged under the sink, then washed himself with years-old baby shampoo.
Salvatore didn’t really listen to Allie and Joe as he drove them to school. Something about a bully, something about a jerk, Joe kept poking his sister. Salvatore was so tired.
* * *
—
RAMIREZ WAS LIT UP and waiting for him in the office. “So,” he said, “you saw the conference?”
“I get the gist,” said Salvatore. “Arrest someone, anyone. Rich kids are ODing and that’s not acceptable.”
“Fair summation,” admitted Ramirez.
“So if Teen One gives Oxy to Teen Two, and Teen Two OD’s, that’s a murder charge now?”
“For Teen One, yes.” Ramirez leaned against Salvatore’s desk. He crossed his arms over his chest. Ramirez was younger than Salvatore, single, a go-getter. Salvatore had never seen him appear troubled. “Best solution we’ve got, apparently,” said Ramirez.
Salvatore respected his honesty and told him so.
“You take a child, she breaks an ankle, needs surgery,” said Ramirez. “You give her some Percocet, open those receptors, you can never go back. Once you crave these drugs…”
“Yeah, I know. We all know,” said Salvatore.
“You got an ID on the greenbelt body?” said Ramirez.
“We got a car registered to Lucy Masterson. Twenty-one, Austin Community College student, part-time waitress, from Sugarland. She lived in a condo complex near the greenbelt. We’ve notified the family. They’re on the way.” Salvatore winced, remembering the wail of Lucy’s mother over the phone line, the sobbing of a young boy in the background.
“Anything else?”
Salvatore listed the facts. “I thought it was an OD…it was an OD. But she had water in her lungs. Someone dragged her to shore. And Katrina found semen from recent sexual activity.”
“OK…”
“At the crime scene, I found a kneepad with a name tag and address. It belongs to a kid who lives near the greenbelt named Charlie Bailey. Could have been down there awhile, not sure. There was a photo of three boys in the victim’s glove box. They were wearing City of Austin lifeguard uniforms. One of them could be Charlie Bailey. I can’t reach his mother or the kid, went to the home three times. Could be no connection, but I’ll stay on it. That’s where I am.”
“OK. Get the kid in here before he lawyers up. Head to the City of Austin pools, find out who the boys in the photo are. We’ll need their DNA, so get warrants ready.”