Page 44 of What Boys Learn

I thought of the pool sign-in sheet. The page I had taken and pushed down into my bag.

Benjamin said, “Two weeks ago is when I knew she was being picked up by some guy who wasn’t her boyfriend. I knew that for a fact because Manny was out of town visiting some college. You can check that, I bet.”

“Okay, clarified. The underwear story was great, by the way. It establishes that you weren’t just . . . for example . . . stalking a girl who didn’t like you. I mean, if shegaveyou her underwear.”

The skepticism in Hernández’s voice was plain.

“We’ll want the underwear,” he added. “Just in case.”

Benjamin didn’t look at me or the detective. His gaze was fixed on the far wall, over Hernández’s shoulder. “Ask my mom. She took them.”

My face felt odd, my skin too tight. Like I’d applied one of those face masks and it had dried all shiny and flaky, and like my eyebrows were sitting too high on my face.

“Ms. Rosso?”

“Yes?”

“The underwear?”

“Yes?”

“That belonged to Isabella Scarlatti?”

“Yes?”

“We’ll need to get that, as evidence.”

“Yes. I threw them away.”

I kept my eyes on Benjamin. His expression didn’t change.

“You threw them away?” Hernández asked.

“Yes. I didn’t tell my son I found them. We didn’t talk about it. I threw them into the trash. Almost two weeks ago, just after he got them, I guess. We were moving apartments that day, so yes. A Sunday.”

Hernández chuckled to himself. Silly people. Hiding underwear. Throwing away underwear. Making up stories about underwear.

“Funny thing—a kid willing to do a cheek swab. A mom who won’t let him. A kid who’s willing to hand over underwear. A mom who already got rid of it. You got a reason to be more paranoid than your own son?”

I’m an adult, I thought. But that wasn’t the only reason. I knew how much cops overlooked—the most obvious questions they neglected to ask, the tunnel vision that made them mistake innocence for guilt and vice versa. And I also knew a person could be sent away even when cops only knew a fraction of the truth.

Hernández shook his head. “The underwear would have been nice to have. But let’s be clear. We don’t need it to get Benjamin’s DNA. We can get that with a warrant.”

Benjamin made a disgusted face. I did, too, but then I realized. Hernández was only thinking what I’d thought, when I first found the underwear. That it was a souvenir from a sexual encounter. That it might contain traces.

Or then again, maybe Hernández didn’t believe in the underwear. Maybe he didn’t believe in the car. But if there was an older man she was spending time with, who finally met her at a motel, it made sense. A car.

The door opened and another detective popped his head into the room.

Hernández said, “Joe, can you bring in the binder? The one with all of Isabella Scarlatti’s text messages and social media posts?”

Hernández said to Benjamin: “Did you know we can get even the deleted messages off a phone? Amazing.”

I said nothing. I was looking at Benjamin, trying to see if he was surprised. Teens could be equally brilliant and naïve about technology.

“Wait, Joe. Can you bring a bottle of water for Ms. Rosso? Unless—you want a coffee instead? It’s pretty good stuff—one of those machines with the pods.”

“Keurig,” Joe said.