Matisse hadn’t realized it before, but there had been a cloud of stress hanging over his house; when he awoke the morning after talking to Dad, it was gone. Things were as normal as they’d ever been, and he focused on finishing out his last few weeks of high school and making plans for college. Boudreaus were Ole Miss true, and he’d be heading to Oxford in the fall. He hadn't even applied. Nicole made a call, and that was it. He was in.

The summer, though, it was all his.

Racing his bike, hanging with friends—it all stretched before him gloriously. Before he knew it, he was accepting his diploma in the bright sunshine. He sweated uncomfortably through the ceremony, hating the way everyone stared at him when his name was called.

Tradition stated a graduation party be held the same day as the ceremony, and so family came from all over Mississippi and Louisiana with their cards stuffed full of money to offer their congratulations.

He stood next to his parents. The photographer snapped photo after photo, and he forced himself to smile.

“I’m so proud of you.” Nicole gave him a hug, and the scent of jasmine surrounded him. “I sometimes wondered if this would happen.”

He studied her. “Why? I’m smart.”

“You are.” She took a sip of wine and waved at a passing cousin. “But you weren’t people smart. For so long, I feared you’d never find a place to land, people you cared about or to care about you.”

He rolled his eyes. One had nothing to do with the other as far as he was concerned. “I’m fine, Mom.”

“You’re going to be.” Her fingers squeezed his arm as she considered his outfit. “You look nice today, Lord Byron.”

The button-down shirt was a concession to her, chosen only because he knew she’d want to take pictures. He’d paired it with a velvet vest, which was stupid considering the heat, but he didn’t care. It fit him, and confused people.

The doors to the country club opened, and he and his mother turned to watch a pair of well-dressed, youngish men head toward them. “Matisse Boudreau?”

“Yes?” Were these cousins?

“We’re Agents Adams and Koldys. We need you to come with us.”

His mother moved in front of him. “My son is a minor. He’s not going anywhere with you.” Lifting the hand with her white wine, she got his dad’s attention who came over right away. Meanwhile, his stomach twisted and curled, and a sudden sweat broke out along his skin.

I left no trail. There’s no way they know what I’ve done. Fuck. Did I leave a trail? How did they find me?

“What’s going on?” Dad asked, voice deep and imposing. “This is a private party.”

“Guillaume Boudreau?” Agent Adams asked.

“Yes.”

“We need you to come with us as well.”

“Are you arresting us?” Dad’s face tightened, and he cut a glance at Nicole.

The taller man, Agent Koldys, nodded. “Your son. We’re inviting you for questioning. And we would prefer not doing it in front of your family.”

“Guy.” Nicole’s voice shook, and Matisse was afraid he was going to puke. He’d fucked up. Shit. What had he done? Everything was finished. He’d fucked up, and his dad was going down for his mess-up. I can’t let that happen.

“Call the company lawyer and Rene. Matisse and I will go with them. We’ll be fine.” Dad reached for him, took his elbow and urged him forward. “Gentlemen.” He addressed the agents. “Lead the way. Thank you for your consideration.”

Matisse struggled to process what was happening and concentrated on his dad’s grip on his elbow to keep him grounded when everything inside him wanted to fly apart in a panic. All sorts of ideas rushed through his mind—jerking his arm away and running out the door, jumping on his bike and screaming down the interstate.

Every nerve ending in his body flared, and the touch of Dad on his skin hurt like a deep bruise or burn. His vision narrowed, his mother’s face blurring. The cousins and guests became hazy, impressions of colors instead of actual people. The blood rushed in his ears. The men could be reading him his rights, his father calming him, and he’d have no idea.

He knew he walked after the agents and got into the car, but he was removed from it all, an observer and not a participant.

The next thing he knew, he was fingerprinted and photographed. The agent touched his shoulders—stand to the left, face the front. Mugshots. Holy fuck these are my mugshots. This is real.

Blinking, he found himself waiting in a cold room, shivering as the sweat cooled on his body and the air conditioner blew directly down his neck. What was he supposed to do now?

The chair hurt his body. It was metal and cold. He was being frozen from the outside in. Imagining frost forming along his skin and moving inward, slowing the blood in his veins, he wrapped his arms around himself and rocked back and forth. I won’t fly apart.

Dad was gone—taken to another room. The only words he’d spoken since arriving here at Bijoux Shores’ small police station were, “Don’t say anything. Wait for the lawyer.”

Teeth chattering, he didn’t think he’d have any trouble keeping quiet. The ideas in his head were barely sentences; they were impressions of words: afraid, fucked, jail, over. His life was over if this was real.

Rocking a little faster now, he liked the way his head bobbed back and forth. In the corner of the room a motion detector flashed. Every so often a little light, barely the size of a pin, flared. Red. Green. Red. Red. Green. He stood and walked to the corner to stare up at the light. Lost in the color and the flash of light, something inside him settled. Rolling from his heels to his toes, he kept his eyes on the light. Each time his mind screamed at a sensation—a shiver, the smell of cleaning agent—he watched the light.

He stood there, watching and waiting. It could have been seconds or hours. Red. Green. Red. Red. Green.