The Lifeguards(52)

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.

Was it possible that in a dim corner of Annette’s expansive yard, my friends and I could air our fears and lessen their power? As I approached her house—blazing with light, fabulous music spilling from her backyard into the street already—I nursed a tender shoot of hope.

But not for long.





-6-


    Salvatore


SALVATORE PARKED HIS CAR at 1009 Slaughter Lane. It was 5:00 p.m. on the dot and he was absolutely bone-tired, done. He didn’t want to get out of his car. His children, his loud, energetic, beautiful children, and the knowledge that one of the summer lifeguards could be a rapist and murderer…it all felt overwhelming. Was this depression? Could a pill fix him, make him want to stay in his life?

Salvatore’s team had combed the neighborhood surrounding the greenbelt, interviewed Lucy Masterson’s neighbors, co-workers, family, friends. They had not uncovered any other possible suspects.

One neighbor had seen “a teenage boy” entering Lucy’s condo the week before but had seen him only from the back and didn’t remember any identifying details other than that he was tall. Lucy’s professors at Austin Community College either couldn’t place her or had nothing to add. Her hometown doctor had stopped refilling an OxyContin prescription he’d written two years before for a rotator cuff tear. (Dr. Garcia talked to Tina for close to an hour about the painkiller problem in Sugar Land.)

Lucy Masterson had had sex the night she died, and the lab had promised to “ultra-rush” the process of analyzing the teenage suspects’ DNA to see if it matched the semen found inside the victim. (Salvatore had called the lab himself, and assumed Paul Jackson had been joking when he said, “Oh, we’re not just rushing, Detective. We are ultra-rushing.” Salvatore could never tell when Paul was being sarcastic or earnest or what; Paul was a weird guy.)