When she’d been announced an official American citizen, Annette posed in front of the flags at the front of the room. She hugged her family, and everyone from Laredo headed back. They had declined to attend her “Annette is an American” party, to Louis’s dismay.
“We’ll have our own party, next time you come home,” said Annette’s father, embracing his daughter. He held her for a while, whispered, “You deserve all of this. You can have whatever you want, my love.”
“Thank you, Dad,” said Annette. “For everything.”
Annette stood before her parents for a moment, imagining how scared they must have been, swimming against a current with a baby held aloft. “You’re so brave,” she said.
“So are you, Annette,” said Maya. “Come home soon.”
Annette had once been annoyed that her parents still called Laredo her home, but now the words rang true. When her family exited and Annette was left with her husband and son, she felt lonely.
“Come on, gorgeous!” said Louis. “The caterers are already at the house making American flag fruit cups and your signature cocktail!”
“Signature cocktail?” said Annette, suddenly exhausted. She could barely walk in her heels.
“Something with crème de cassis; I don’t know,” said Louis.
* * *
—
ANNETTE’S PHONE RANG AS she was changing for the party—a blocked number. She let the call go to voicemail. She bound her hair in a pink scrunchie and began applying mineral makeup. Her complexion wasn’t as perfect as she’d like, so she’d worn “base” since high school, dusted with Revlon powder. Her mascara and eyeliner were Maybelline. Although Annette could afford expensive makeup now, she stuck to what worked, including platinum highlights from a hairstylist she’d visited in the Barton Creek Square for decades.
Outside her bathroom window, Annette could see three large tents. Her kitchen was filled with caterers making every possible iteration of red-white-and-blue foods: skewers of raspberries, blueberries, and light melon shaped like stars; blue crab cakes with multicolored dipping sauces; blue corn mini-empanadas.
The signature drink, the American Annette, was revealed to be a fruity concoction with a flag affixed to the glass. Louis had spared no expense: Dale Watson and his band, fireworks, the pool filled with inflatable Texas-shaped floats, spangled outfits for the catering staff. Even Hank Lefferts was coming to the party on his bike （he’d never gotten a driver’s license）。
Annette told herself she could huddle with Hank and her friends, sneaking cigarettes, later downing a few “American Annette” cocktails and dancing barefoot to Dale Watson…all in her very own yard. God knows they all needed a break.
With the house abuzz, Annette tried to feel happy.
Instead, she stared at her phone, a premonition creeping slowly up her neck like a scorpion. Images flashed before her: she and her son, walking across the bridge between Laredo and Nuevo Laredo, a small apartment with a handheld shower, her mother visiting for fresh coffee.
Annette put her hand on the vanity to hold herself up. Her heart beat powerfully in her ears.
Louis appeared in the doorway. Annette looked at her husband. He grinned, then dropped his pants to show that he was wearing a Speedo bathing suit printed with American stars and stripes. He opened his arms.
“Louis…” said Annette.
“My love,” said Louis. “Are you ready to party?”
-5-
Liza
MY WORLD WAS CLOSING in. I had waited for Charlie to return from work the previous day, readying myself to bring him to Hilary Bensen, but he texted that he was staying at Bobcat’s house and that his phone was dying. He had track in the morning, he texted, and then would meet me at Bobcat’s party. I responded that he should come home immediately. He did not answer. When I called his phone, it went to voicemail.
This was not uncommon. Charlie dropped his phone and fell into sleep （or videogames） and emerged as if from underwater hours （or even a day） later, texting me back. I knew he would text me back. I prayed he would text me back.
I almost went to find him, but that would be shredding the fabric of our normal life. I wanted everything to be the same. I didn’t want to show up, frazzled, yanking Charlie from his friends and taking him to a lawyer’s office.
I did not want what was true to be true.
* * *
—
AS THE SUN SET, a police car parked in front of my house and I heard the doorbell ring. I was frozen, holding my breath until the car drove away. I stayed up much of the night. When I woke—too early—I waited with difficulty until 7 a.m., and called Charlie again: no answer. I tried Annette and Whitney, but no one took my call.
Finally, I went on foot to Annette and Louis’s house, in case someone was following me. I knew my brain was misfiring, but I couldn’t rest. It was midmorning, and the person who answered the Fontenots’ door was a party planner who said none of the family was home. Still, I searched the house.
No Bobcat.
No Charlie.
The boys often spent their days off together or with other friends from the track team, roaming their city, sneaking into hotel pools, thrift shopping or gorging on Panda Express. As I walked home, Charlie texted at last. WENT SAILING ON LAKE TRAVIS W/ GUYS FROM XC. THEY GOT A BOAT CALLED BLUE ROOSTER. IT’S SO COOL! LOVE YOU SEE YOU LATER! He sent a photograph of himself with two friends in the background, grinning—blond boys I didn’t recognize. I exhaled, gritted my teeth, decided to let him have the day, the lake, the sunshine. We would meet with Hilary Bensen as soon as he returned.
I sent a thumbs-up emoji.
Finally, around 5 p.m., another text: PLUGGING IN PHONE AT BOBCAT’S AND CRASHING FOR 1 HR. SEE YOU AT PARTY? CAN YOU BRING ME NICE CLOTHES?
I texted back: I NEED YOU TO COME HOME NOW.
He did not respond.
Finally, I showered quickly and went to Annette’s. I held a pair of khakis, clean socks, and a button-down shirt for Charlie.
* * *
—
A PART OF ME still hoped there was some path that could lead me back. Wasn’t the bond I had with my two best friends stronger than this mess? We had always discussed how to keep the kids safe—we’d made plans and hired driving instructors and tutors and enrolled the boys in swim lessons before Annette’s pool was even finished. Couldn’t we handle this situation in the same way—together?
Austin was my home—I wanted to stay. （An embarrassing truth: I’d imagined myself as an old woman, maybe wearing a sun hat and orthopedic sneakers, walking with Annette and Whitney through the neighborhood…even donning old-lady bathing suits and meeting at the Springs.）
I was sad for the young woman named Lucy Masterson. From the few mentions of her in the paper and an article in her hometown news, I saw she had been a waitress and a student, just starting her adulthood, the first in her family to go to college. I ached for her parents.
Everything had moved so fast—with the lawyers and defense strategies and DNA warrants. We’d all jumped right over trying to discover the facts and become obsessed with the exit strategy: protecting the boys from prosecution and harm. The last time we had all spoken, the night Whitney had shown us the Packers’ underground doomsday bunker entrance, we had believed everything was a mistake that would blow over. We’d talked about the right lawyers to ensure there wasn’t any lasting damage. Now, just three days later, it was seeming as if the event hadn’t been blameless. The DNA warrants meant that the police had reason to suspect one （or more） of our boys.