The Lifeguards(23)

WHITNEY DROVE TOO FAST, taking the turn into the Four Seasons without waiting for oncoming traffic. “Whoa!” cried Geoff MacKenzie. Whitney slowed in front of the Residence entrance. “I apologize,” she said.

“What’s going on?” said Geoff petulantly. He played with the zipper of his hoodie, moving it up and down, trying to self-soothe. (Whitney, her sister’s locket clasped in her palm, could relate.) He’d finished four Red Bulls and his hands were shaking.

“It’s a personal matter,” said Whitney. “I really am sorry. I’ll be in touch to reschedule.”

Whitney saw the kid pout and consider telling her (again) about the value of his time. On a normal day, she would placate, cajole, flatter, flirt. But not today. “You know…” Geoff began.

“I’ve got to go. I’ll be in touch. I really am sorry,” said Whitney.

“Wow, OK,” said Geoff. He crossed his arms across his belly. (Why, though they lived on Soylent and Red Bull, were all the young millionaires chubby?) Whitney hit the button on her key fob, and the falcon door unfurled. Geoff climbed out, and when he was standing on the sidewalk, he glared at Whitney, inhaling in preparation for giving her a piece of his mind. Whitney clicked the button to close the passenger door (as silly as it was, she did adore the key, shaped like a mini-Tesla in her hand), and the sleek wing fit snugly into place before Geoff could convey his wrath. Whitney put the car in gear and depressed the pedal, zipping soundlessly forward, leaving Geoff openmouthed, still working his sweatshirt zipper.

Jules called as she merged onto Lamar heading south. She answered, and her husband’s plummy voice rang through the premium sound system. “Darling?” said Jules. “I hear you have an emergency?” Jules didn’t like thinking about “personal matters” at work, so she knew the “darling” took some effort.

“It’s family,” said Whitney.

“Noted,” said Jules. He took her off speaker and went into the soundproof room, its door to the left of his desk in their shared office. (Only Whitney and Jules knew about the room; it required a retina scan to enter.)

“Carry on,” he said, after a moment.

“Oh, Jules,” said Whitney, “we have a problem.”

“What is it?”

“Xavier just called me from work. He says Charlie thinks he left a kneepad on the greenbelt. With his name and address on it.”

Jules exhaled. “Don’t make a move,” he said. “I’ll speak with a lawyer immediately.”

Whitney bit her lip. When she had first met Jules, his complete self-assurance had made her feel taken care of. How wonderful it had been, after a life of being self-sufficient, to have someone telling her exactly what to do! She’d agreed with everything he said, even getting her real estate license to join his agency. She’d reveled in the many (many) photo shoots they’d posed for—Austin’s Power Couple! Love & Real Estate! Riding the Wave of Austin’s Population Boom, Meet the Brownsons! (The last posed on their matching stand-up paddleboards in the middle of Lady Bird Lake.) But over the years, as he got American citizenship and they built a family and a business, his dictatorial way with her began to chafe.

Whitney didn’t know what had happened on the greenbelt. But she knew what had come before, and she did not want a lawyer’s sharp eyes on the case. She wanted some overworked cop who she could lead like a dog to his dinner.

Jules had made her into a sleek, powerful machine. Whitney flexed her muscles. “I don’t think we need a lawyer,” she said.

There was a silence, and then Jules said, icily, “Sorry, darling?”

Whitney looked at her face in her rearview mirror. She looked flushed, self-assured. She raised her chin. “I said, darling, that Xavier had nothing to do with whatever happened on the greenbelt. We don’t need a lawyer. “

“I disagree,” said Jules.

Whitney cut the call. When Jules called back, she did not answer. This was her son. Whitney knew Xavier. He was not a murderer, and she was not going to behave as if he were. She was certain that Xavier had no secrets.

Whitney, however, had many.



* * *



—

SHE TURNED ON BARTON Hills Drive and her front gate came into view. They had been the first in the neighborhood to install a security gate, but not the last. Whitney paused in front of the sensor and the metal door swung open slowly. She pulled the Tesla inside, waving to the men working on their new topiary garden, passing the pool guy’s van. She waited for the garage door to lift, and slid her car into its spot, next to the Mercedes G Wagon, in front of the Jet Ski rack. (They didn’t have a Lake LBJ home yet, but that was in the works. Waterfront lots on the constant-level lakes surrounding Austin were selling like gangbusters, and the Brownson Team planned to invest heavily in the area.)

Whitney had treated her two best friends to a weekend on the lake, even renting a pontoon boat so she, Annette, and Liza could watch the sunset from the water. They’d cued up a Yacht Rock playlist on the boat, drunk margaritas, and sung at the top of their lungs to “Come Sail Away” and “Brandy, You’re a Fine Girl.” Whitney loved her kids, but spending a weekend getting sunburned, reading Us Weekly, and letting Liza paint her toenails had made her feel as if she had a sister again. It had been so wonderful.