They stayed in a Marriott Rewards hotel. Ines bought a one-piece swimsuit because she didn’t want to wear a bikini. They drank daiquiris by the hotel pool, and Ines tilted her head up. Sun breathed hot across her cheeks.
Art museums. Public parks. Three-star dinners. At a street fair, Ines made Russ try mango doused in Tajín, and Russ doubled over coughing. Ines doubled over laughing. One night, they went salsa dancing; Ines tried to teach him the steps at a crowded nightclub with overpriced drinks and sweaty, tan bicep men. Russ stepped on her feet, but Ines didn’t care. She spun around in a red skirt and shook her hips at him and Russ felt wanted. Young and desired. When the club closed down they stumbled home, Russ shirtless because of all the sweat, Ines fanning her neck with one hand as she held her hair up with the other.
They took a shower when they got back, and, wrapped in a clean white hotel robe, Ines pulled Russ on top of her.
Tell me about the people you’ve loved, she said.
I haven’t loved anyone before, Russ said, and he was certain, momentarily, that this was the truth.
They drove back to Broomsville, where the air was vacuum-sucked dry. That night, they did a load of laundry, and Ines did not go to the couch. She padded up the stairs, her small hand in Russ’s.
Russ’s sheets were nearly ten years old. He didn’t realize this until he was swollen inside her, Ines lying flat on her stomach, face buried in the pillow.
Can you breathe? Russ asked.
Yes, she said. Muffled. Russ pressed a hand to her ribcage, feeling for oxygen. Afterwards, he mopped the sheets with a Kleenex and said, Will you marry me? California hung between them, like a dream or a fruit. Pulpy and ripe. Ines rolled over. She watched the ceiling, black hair splayed across the rumpled pillow like someone underwater.
Yes, she said. All right.
A man should always keep his word, Russ’s father used to say. Your word is your dignity.
So when Detective Williams pulls Russ aside after the briefing to ask about his brother-in-law—Ivan Santos, ex-con and neighborhood idol—Russ puts on his bravest face. I know he’s family, Detective Williams says, so if anyone asks, you’ve been put on temporary probation. But we need all hands on deck here. And hey, between me and you—could Ivan have done this?
I think so, yes, Russ tells Detective Williams, sinister and noble. I think Ivan could have killed this girl.
As Russ says it, his father’s voice rings loud in his ears, confirming the valiance of this shaky proclamation—if your word is your dignity, then Russ is a hero. Besides, he has never promised Ines anything except to be her wedded husband, to have and to hold, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health. Russ knows that if it were to come down to it—if he had to choose someone to protect—it would not be Ivan.
Take care of my boy, will you? Lee Whitley had asked, the day he left for good.
Okay, Russ had said.
Okay.
This was Russ’s word. He had no choice but to keep it.
Cameron
Back when Beth DeCasio said that Cameron was the sort of kid who would bring a gun to school, they sent him to the school social worker.
“My name is Janine,” she said, with a gaze that did not feel. “I’m going to ask you a few simple questions, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Have you ever thought about hurting yourself?”
When Cameron first heard about Andrea Yates, he ran a bath.
The ceramic surface of the tub was slippery. Cameron lowered himself in carefully, one hand on each edge. Rested his spine against the metal faucet and slid down, like a person getting into bed after a long day stomping through loud, slushy streets.
Cameron sank until he could feel the wall of bathwater against his eardrums, rising, a tide that sloshed gently toward his brain. He tilted his head back. Hair spread around him in slow motion. He could have danced, he thought. Underwater, it would have looked all right. He sank farther, until the only parts of his body exposed to oxygen were his eyes and his nose, which felt very close to the webbed cracks in the ceiling.
When he went under, it was a pleasant hum he heard, a pressurized sound that was not uncomfortable. He opened his eyes. The cracks in the ceiling were gone. So was the stained shower curtain, and so was the mirror, and even his toothbrush, crusty next to the sink. Muted by this veil of water. He closed his eyes again, reveling in the peace of it.
Cameron thought how it wouldn’t be so bad, dying like this—aware of your own insides.
“Have you ever thought about hurting yourself?”
“No,” Cameron had said to Janine.
She scribbled in her spiral notebook.
“It looks nice.”
Mr. O stood over Cameron’s shoulder, studying the unfinished portrait. The lion’s left eye was looking much better. Cameron had finished the lashes, and they carried the same texture as the whiskers. The lion was Cameron’s portrait project for art class. He thought lions were both intimidating and graceful, and this was an underrated combination of things to be.
“Try for more shadows around the eye,” Mr. O said. “See that blended area? Your darks need to be darker.”
Cameron thought his darks were plenty dark.
“Come with me,” Mr. O said. “Bring your stuff.”
As Cameron followed the art teacher past the industrial paper cutter, backpack slung over his shoulder, lion and charcoals in hand, the class fluttered and murmured.
“That’s the kid?”
“Yeah, him. Creepy, right?”
“Sick little fucker.”
Mr. O’s office was a converted supply closet that he had covered in student art and furnished with a stool and easel. A single lightbulb hung from the ceiling. Bits of pink eraser littered the linoleum floor, and acrylic paint spread in dripped patterns across every surface. Cameron suspected Mr. O spent nights here, working on his own projects. He’d seen a painting, once, propped against the wall. A pair of hurting blue eyes set against cotton skin.
“I’m worried about you.”
“I’m fine.”
“I heard the gossip, Cam. Kids can be so mean.”
A smash came from the other side of the door. They’d just finished a unit on ceramics. His classmates whooped.
“You miss her?” Mr. O asked.
Once, Mr. O told Cameron to try photography. He hadn’t explained why, but Cameron deduced: photography was about capturing moments other people had missed.
Photography never worked for Lucinda. She couldn’t be reduced to a single second. Drawing was different—lines were intentional and they spanned in range the way she did, light to dark to heavy to soft to smudged and everything in between. He thought this described Lucinda much more naturally than a snapshot.
“Yeah,” Cameron said.
Mr. O patted him on the shoulder, hesitated, and cracked open the metal door.
“You can work in here today,” Mr. O said, and the crinkles around the corners of his eyes looked very kind.
Mr. O fell in love with Mom last year, when they started a unit on painting.
“They usually don’t allow it until junior year,” Mr. O had said. “But they’re making an exception.”
“What kind of painting?” Cameron had asked.