“Nice to meet you,” said Salvatore.
The kids approached, smiling shyly. Salvatore felt a wave of sweet relief. He could do his job now, knowing they were safe.
Weren’t they?
Mae Mae followed them all into the kitchen. Salvatore filled his travel coffee mug and listened to Mae Mae listening to his kids. God, they had so much to say. His stomach ached at the thought of how long they’d kept silent around him. “OK, guys, I’m off,” he said.
“Bye, Dad!” said Allie.
“See ya,” said Joe, not looking at Salvatore.
“You OK, buddy?” said Salvatore.
“They’re fine,” said Mae Mae. “Have a great day! If you’re not home by six, I’ll drop them with the woman next door.”
“Peach,” said Salvatore.
“Peach,” Mae Mae repeated.
“But I’ll be home by six,” said Salvatore.
“Whatever,” muttered Joe.
Salvatore paused, but he wasn’t paying Mae Mae half his salary so he could stand around and worry. He headed out the front door, climbed into his car, and left, feeling lighter the farther he got from his house and his children.
Salvatore sipped his coffee as he made his way to Barton Hills Drive. No alternative suspects had turned up yet, so he was going to troll his childhood neighborhood, drive by the teen lifeguards’ houses, wander the green and swampy trails.
The first kid, Charlie Bailey, lived with a single mom on Oak Glen Avenue.
As he turned in to the neighborhood, a boyhood emotionrushed over him—look! I’m a cop now! Driving a cop car!He felt lit up, proud.
The history of the area had always fascinated him. A pioneer named Barton had set up his homestead on the southern banks of the Colorado River in 1837; almost two centuries later, the springs still bore his name. Sections of the twisty hiking trails held secrets—Salvatore and his friends had discovered a cave they’d christened Smoker’s Hollow, storing pilfered cigarettes there. But now the neighborhood he’d roamed with his friends was in transition. Some of the old ranchers remained, including the one his mom had sold for peanuts in the eighties. But parts were unrecognizable, giant mansions sprawled over the large lots, fancy cars parked in gated driveways.
—
THE BAILEY HOUSE WASone of the original ranchers. It was in OK repair, needed a new roof, the front lawn a bit overgrown but not unkempt, a gorgeous live oak well watered and healthy in the corner of the lot. There was no car in the driveway. This was the kind of house Salvatore dreamed of, actually. If only he’d bought one like this in 2000, or before the boom, anyway.
There wasn’t anything wrong with Slaughter Lane (besides the name—my God! Were his kids really going to grow up between Slaughter Lane and Convict Hill Road?). Honestly, his “way South” neighborhood was made up of guys like him, guys who’d grown up in Zilker or Hyde Park and couldn’t get near Central Austin with a normal salary. But he missed these streets, living in a place where you could bike to Barton Springs and jump in anytime you wanted. The Barton Creek Greenbelt was the heart of the city.
Salvatore slowed and parked across the street. Framed by what might be the living-room window, he saw a woman at a desk, pecking at the keyboard of a laptop. She was in her mid- to late thirties, closer to his age than he’d realized. Her short hair was tucked behind her ears as she focused intently on her computer, the screen’s glow lighting her face.
Salvatore’s eyes widened. He knew this woman. From his memory, he heard her speak her name, playing with the label on her Shiner beer, tucking that short hair behind her ear:I’m Liza. Hey.
Liza.
Elizabeth Bailey.
It was so long ago, before he’d evenmetJacquie. He and Liza—Elizabeth Bailey—had danced together, both pretty buzzed, the fabric of her dress silky in his hands. Her lips had tasted salty, pressed to his. Her hips, underneath his fingers. He’d lived in a cramped apartment then, and in the morning she was gone. They hadn’t exchanged numbers. He had no way to find her. He’d actually thought about her—the woman he’d met at a Damnations concert—for a long time.
Liza Bailey.
An almost—but not quite—forgotten lover, now before him, the mother of a murder suspect.
Liza stopped typing, placed her chin in her hand and gazed out the window, lost in thought. She wore a gauzy white blouse that skimmed her cream-colored skin. He had kissed a freckle on that collarbone.
Salvatore watched her for a moment, overcome with yearning. For her? For who he’d been, a young man who could get drunk at a Damnations show? For a life where anything was still possible?
Salvatore swallowed. He had to do his job, which was interview Liza Bailey. He gathered himself.
