The Lifeguards(46)

Maybe, in devoting herself to protecting her son, she had been mistaken.

Maybe keeping him safe hadn’t been the problem.





-12-


    Liza


CHARLIE’S LAWYER’S OFFICE WAS located downtown, at Fifth and Congress. I parked my Mazda, got out, and gazed at the capitol building, glowing under the merciless sun. I could have gone home to change into matching shoes, but I was too eager to meet Hilary Bensen, who Whitney had told me was “the best of the best.”

Clearly, Hilary was not the best of the best, because she wasn’t representing Xavier. I’d asked, and Whitney had said, “Well, it just seemed like a good idea to get them each their own lawyer, you know what I mean?”

I did know what she meant. She meant that she was going to save Xavier, and if that meant throwing my son under the bus, so be it. “Clearly my lawyer’s the second best of the best,” I commented.

“You’re hilarious!” said Whitney.

Still, it had been kind of the Brownsons to get me a lawyer at all, to tell me we could worry about her fees later. When I searched her name, a posting came up saying, “If you’re guilty, Hilary’s the one you want to call.”

Why would Whitney hire me a lawyer known for defending criminals? It seemed strange. If I didn’t trust her, I’d wonder if she were trying to frame me.

I walked into the lobby of the art deco building, rode an elevator that smelled of brass polish to the tenth floor. A secretary behind a giant desk told me Hilary would be out soon. I sat uncomfortably in the lobby pulling at my Artz Rib House T-shirt. It was so cold in the building; I felt goosebumps on my arms and wished for a cozy cardigan like the one the secretary wore.

My lawyer strode into the lobby in a red pantsuit and heels. She wore her blond hair in a motionless bob. (In fact I could still smell a bit of hairspray; she must have applied a coat before coming to greet me.) Her makeup was sparing but elegant: a bit of mascara, lipstick matching her suit. Her face was absolutely smooth, free of any lines at all, so it was hard to tell if she was thirty or fifty years old. She was beautiful in an unapproachable way, as if she’d perfected every piece of her visage, but it added up to more of a blurry photo of someone “pretty” than anything concrete or interesting. Hilary’s handshake was firm, and I liked the fact that she seemed oblivious to my disheveled appearance. “Let’s talk in my office,” she said.

Hilary had a framed JD from Harvard above a large, sleek desk. She had no photos, no tchotchkes, soda cans, coffee mugs, or snacks. “Have a seat,” she said.

“Thanks,” I said. “Look. I don’t even know that I need a lawyer. All the boys did was find a woman on—”

“Stop,” said Hilary, holding up a hand. “There’s a warrant for DNA now. This is serious. Where’s your son? Why isn’t he with you?”

“Oh, I wanted things for him to…stay as normal as…” My voice trailed off.

“Mrs. Bailey—”

“Call me Liza, please.”

“Liza, this is a murder investigation. There’s a warrant for your son’s DNA, which means they have something—semen, blood, don’t know yet, but something—and they think your son’s DNA might be a match.”

I felt my mouth open slightly, made it close. “Oh my God,” I managed.

“Sorry to be abrupt, but this is very serious.”

“OK,” I said, biting my lip, a useless anger toward Hilary Bensen rising in my throat.

“Listen to me,” said Hilary. “I need you to go get your son and bring him to my office. We’ll administer the DNA test, and the three of us can have a long talk, decide where to go from here.”

“DNA test?” I said.

“Charlie is going to be OK,” said Hilary. “You hear me? It’s going to be OK. But you need to get him and bring him here. Now. There are going to be photographers looking for him; it’s just hitting the news cycle. Park in the garage—here, use this pass.”

“Reporters?” I said weakly, taking the laminated parking pass.

“Liza,” said Hilary. “Snap out of it. It’s go time, you hear me?”

I met her gaze. “I hear you,” I said.

As she walked me out of her office, she came close, and said, “Don’t talk to any of the others, OK?” I must have looked puzzled, because she said, “The other lifeguards. Don’t let Charlie speak with them. He’s on his own now.”





-1-


    Xavier


XAVIER’S STOMACH BEGINS HURTING after breakfast. He knows he should not have taken the smoothie from Roma. She’d been so nice about it, saying she was going to JuicyJuicy and would be happy to grab him a Peach Melba.

“I added protein powder,” she’d said, handing him the orange cup as he walked out the door to work. Would he ever stop being a fucking idiot? But they all wanted to believe she wasn’t what they all knew she was. The amazing part was that even though he knew her better than anyone—she’d taken his favorite blanket and hidden it when they were babies; she’d almost suffocated him but always stopped in time; she’d held him underwater in the pool but let him free before it was too late; she’d sent texts to friends and strangers from his phone; and on and on—he, more than anyone, wished she was the sister he wanted. His twin.