“On it,” said Salvatore.
“Arrest them if you have to. We need some progress on this.”
“Got it, boss.”
Ramirez paused. Salvatore willed him not to say it, but Ramirez cleared his throat. “Look, Revello,” he said.
“I know,” said Salvatore.
“It’s been awhile now, and…”
“Yes, sir. I get it.”
“I cut you slack, but…”
Salvatore met his gaze. Ramirez didn’t mention the late reports, the botched cases, the time he was caught at Jacquie’s hospital bedside during his shift. Ramirez didn’t have to say it: This is your last chance. “I know you’re a good detective,” said Ramirez. “And if you need a break…？”
“Thanks,” said Salvatore. “I don’t need a break.”
Ramirez nodded. “OK,” he said.
“Thank you,” said Salvatore.
When the chief was gone, Salvatore checked his email. One of the nannies had written back. Her name was Mae Mae, she was an English major at St. Ed’s, she listed references. Salvatore called the first three, and each confirmed Mae Mae was reliable and fine. Salvatore did not call the fourth reference. He knew he should, and he would, just later.
He wrote the nanny back, sending the times the kids needed to be picked up, telling her his home address, where he hid the key. His children were a messy situation, and he needed clarity. When Mae Mae said she’d take care of it, of them, he ignored the hot feeling in his gut and wrote, “Thanks.”
Look away and it will go away.
-4-
Whitney
AS SHE DROVE HER morning client back to his steel-and-glass rental home above Lady Bird Lake, Whitney’s mind wandered. Despite the punishing heat, her client, who made millions of dollars by streaming himself playing videogames on Twitch, wore a black sweatsuit and dirty socks with Gucci slides. （The hideous shoes were worth $400; Whitney had to keep up with all the trends. These young men didn’t always shower, but they kept their shoes immaculate.） Luckily, her client was the “ignore humans and listen to AirPods” type. Whitney guessed he was just a year or two older than Xavier.
Whitney tried to pay attention to her driving. She was furious about Charlie and his forgotten kneepad. She needed to know what had happened on the greenbelt. Questions scrolled in her mind:
Why had the boys been on the greenbelt late at night?
Was it possible that the boys had had something to do with the woman’s death?
Had they known her?
Who was she?
Had Bobcat really been seeing an older woman, as Roma accused?
Was the dead woman Bobcat’s girlfriend?
Had Bobcat killed her?
Bobcat was, despite his size and strength, a sweet boy. Xavier was a bundle of nerves, and Charlie could be broody, but Bobcat had always been open and enthusiastic, easygoing if a bit wild. He had a wide and generous smile.
Bobcat’s father was crass and a loudmouth, but as far as Whitney knew, Louis had never raised a hand to his son. The boys saw physical altercations only in movies and videogames. Whitney cut her gaze to the gamer dozing in her passenger seat. Could the creepy videogames the boys played have resulted in real-life bloodshed? Xavier got so worked up when he played, wearing his silly headset （it reminded Whitney of her aerobics instructor in 1998）， screaming and shooting and having an absolute meltdown when Whitney called him to dinner.
She’d certainly read about the problems of boys these days, the way they didn’t know how to regulate the emotions these games elicited, how to process rage. And everyone knew social media apps eroded attention spans. She and Jules had a glossy shared Instagram page that was so far from their day-to-day reality it was laughable. Sometimes, Whitney scrolled through images of her twins posing in sunlight, her husband gazing at her, and the one time they went to BookPeople （pretending to browse in Austin’s iconic bookstore but not even buying anything! Well, Roma had bought a muffin）， marveling at how happy her family seemed, lasciviously reading all the over-the-top comments: You guys are so cute! #goals.
Whitney remembered the summer the kids were twelve. How had that been only three years before? The kids went from chubby to rail-thin during those few, hot months, it had seemed. One afternoon, Whitney sat by her pool with Annette and Liza. The boys tackled each other on the lawn, then ran and cannonballed into the pool. “I’m jealous of my own son,” said Liza. She tried to laugh, but the sound was strangled. “Imagine this being your childhood,” Liza continued, gesturing to the house, the pool, the outdoor refrigerator full of cold drinks.
Whitney’s childhood had been bitterly lonely. She’d missed her sister and parents every single day, and she’d spent her summers in punishing ballet classes, pushing her body beyond what it could bear, as it turned out. But then she had created this life; she’d used iron will and cunning to get herself here. The money didn’t matter to Whitney the way it did to her friends—what she craved was love.
Whitney, too, was envious of her own kids.
Annette had been thoughtful that day, playing with her blond ponytail and not looking at Whitney and Liza when she said, “I was lucky. My childhood was the best.”
“In Laredo?” said Whitney. She sounded more shocked than she should have. She had never met Annette’s family: the Fontenots went to their parents’ houses, alternating holidays.
“Yeah,” said Annette. “My brothers took care of me, and my mom is an amazing cook, and my dad’s the best man I know.” She looked up, almost embarrassed. “He’s famous in Laredo,” she said. “Everyone wants his boots.” She laughed and shook her hand in front of her face, as if to dispel her pride. “Sorry to be a show-off,” she said. “I should bring you all there. My parents would love you.”
“Wow,” said Whitney, suddenly jealous of Annette, whom she’d always kind of looked down on: the sloppy athletic clothes, Annette’s muscular thighs, her penchant for messy ponytails. Whitney hated the yearning that rose in her chest.
Just then, Bobcat had emerged from behind a live oak tree with a water gun. “Moms, get in the pool!” he’d cried. Whitney and her friends protested happily, running to the pool, joining in the fun. Whitney tried a cannonball and failed, cherishing a brief respite from being perfect, thanks to Bobcat.
* * *
—
WHITNEY’S CLIENT WAS TALKING. Whitney—part of her still trapped in her lonely childhood room, those endless days in the ballet studio, the smell of resin and sweat; part of her feeling the cool water on her skin as Bobcat shot at her with a water gun—tried to morph back into an adult, a realtor, a cool cucumber. She tried to hide her desperate need.
“…move to New Zealand,” concluded the gamer, whose name Whitney kept forgetting. Was it Mongrel or Meathead? In any case, his real name （Gene Willoughby） was not one he used anymore.
“Tell me more,” said Whitney. These rich young men, many of whom had bought their real mothers houses and cars, clearly missed having a maternal figure in Austin. They had money and power, and some of them had worldwide fame, but they all seemed to want someone to sit with quietly, to listen as they spoke. “I’m listening,” said Whitney.