The Accomplice E-Book

Lisa Lutz

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Seitenzahl: 488

Beschreibung

A gripping psychological thriller on the bonds of friendship and the cost of breaking them, from the New York Times bestselling author of The Passenger and the Spellman Files. Everyone has the same questions about best friends Owen and Luna: What binds them together so tightly? Why weren't they ever a couple? And why do people around them keep turning up dead? Owen Mann is charming, privileged and chronically dissatisfied. Luna Grey is secretive, cautious and pragmatic. Despite their differences, they begin forming a bond the moment they meet in college. Their names soon become indivisible—Owen and Luna, Luna and Owen—and stay that way even after an unexplained death rocks their social circle. Years later, they're still best friends when Luna finds Owen's wife brutally murdered. The police investigation sheds some light on long-hidden secrets, but it can't penetrate the wall of mystery that surrounds Owen. To get to the heart of what happened and why, Luna has to dig up the one secret she's spent her whole life burying.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Praise for the Author

Copyright

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Also by Lisa Lutz and Published by Titan Books

Dedication

September 2002

October 7, 2019

October 2003

October 8, 2019

October 2003

October 8, 2019

October–December 2003

October 8, 2019

December 2003

October 9, 2019

December 2003

October 9, 2019

Irene, March 2005

December 2003–March 2004

October 10, 2019

March 2004

October 12, 2019

March 2004

October 13, 2019

Irene, March 2005

October 13, 2019

March 2004

October 13, 2019

March 2004

October 13, 2019

March–August 2004

October 14, 2019

October–December 2004

October 15, 2019

March 2005

October 15, 2019

April 2005

October 15, 2019

June–July 2005

October 15, 2019

Irene, 2014

October 16, 2019

August–September 2005

October 16, 2019

November 2019

March 2004

November 2019

November 2019

Irene

November 2019

Acknowledgments

About the Author

“Masterfully plotted, The Accomplice is both a keep-you-guessing mystery—like, seriously, I didn’t see any of it coming—and a keenly and tenderly observed character study and portrait of a beautiful friendship complicated by a strange body count that keeps growing around them. I was rooting for Owen and Luna, but murder has a way of testing the bounds of even the tightest of best friends”

—ATTICA LOCKE, AUTHOR OF BLUEBIRD, BLUEBIRD AND HEAVEN, MY HOME

“There’s no one in crime fiction more inventive than Lisa Lutz, and The Accomplice is her greatest sleight of hand yet. Wry and menacing, with the gravity-defying grace of a skipped stone, The Accomplice is at once a suspenseful thrill ride, a deep and disquieting meditation on friendship, and a Wes Anderson comedy rolled into one. After this, I’d read her grocery list”

—AMY GENTRY, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF GOOD AS GONE AND B AD HABITS

PRAISE FOR THE AUTHOR

“Riveting… full of imagination and power”

—CAROLINE KEPNES, AUTHOR OF YOU AND PROVIDENCE

“I devoured The Swallows. You’ll laugh out loud even as you anxiously flip the pages”

—NEW YORK TIMES-BESTSELLING AUTHOR TESS GERRITSEN

“It’s the era of #MeToo, and literature is beginning to reflect that in a big way. In Lisa Lutz’s The Swallows, a prep school teacher ignites a gender war when she begins the question the institution’s overpowering ‘boys will be boys’ mentality. She soon learns that starting a revolution and threatening the status quo comes with steep consequences”

—BUSTLE

“A new teacher at a ritzy New England prep school ignites a fierce battle between the male and female students that ends with revenge, threats, and a fatality. So, just another average day in high school… just kidding”

—POPSUGAR

“The latest campus novel teetering between thriller and satire, Lutz’s book throws readers into the drama of a New England prep school, where one inscrutable new teacher brings about ideas that ignite a deadly gender-war”

—ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY

“Liza Lutz is a treasure. Her Spellman Files series manages to be both charming and shrewd, and The Swallows promises to follow suit—it looks witty and caustic, winsome and clever. It’s also, and this is a classic Lutz move, a fresh, unique spin on a genre that already has been reworked a million times… Lutz, searing as ever … illuminate[s] how various institutions excuse the oppression or silencing of women and girls”

—CRIMEREADS

“[Lutz] takes no prisoners… She builds her plot cannily and walks a neat line between satire and realism [in a] withering portrayal of how the #MeToo movement plays out in this rarefied setting”

—PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

“Lutz draws on the droll humor and idiosyncratic characterizations that make her Spellman novels so appealing… An offbeat, darkly witty pre-#MeToo revenge tale. The patriarchy doesn’t stand a chance”

—KIRKUS REVIEWS

“With a memorable cast of characters and more than a few secrets, Lutz’s latest is a turbocharged tale for our times”

—NEWSWEEK

“Extraordinarily fun and blood pressure-raising… The Swallows goes surprising places (axes are employed) and isn’t afraid to let everyone roll around in the muck—though some characters come out smelling sweeter than others”

—VULTURE

“Wes Anderson meets Muriel Spark in this delicious and vicious battle of the sexes set within a private school. Wickedly fun and wildly subversive but packing an emotional punch, The Swallows is as powerful as it is timely”

—NATIONALLY BESTSELLING AUTHOR MEGAN ABBOTT

“Sharpen your axes, ladies, and get ready for this fierce, fun, unsparing novel of female rage, power, and friendship”

—CAMILLE PERRI, AUTHOR OF THE ASSISTANTS AND WHEN KATIE MET C ASSIDY

“Told with enormous verve and at a breakneck pace, the story twists and turns like a corkscrew”

—DAILY MAIL

“Psychological suspense lovers will tear through this thriller, a new direction for best seller Lutz (How to Start a Fire)”

—THE LIBRARY JOURN AL

“Lutz’s complex web of finely honed characters will keep readers turning the pages”

—PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

“[Lutz] steps smartly out of her comfort zone to write a dead-serious thriller (with a funny bone) about a Wisconsin woman who dashes cross-country when her husband dies in a fall and she knows she’ll be accused of killing him”

—MARILYN STASIO, THE NEW YORK TIMES BOOK REVIEW

“Lutz’s comedic novels about the Spellman clan are terrific, but this stand-alone is darker and trickier and, for me, funnier — Elmore Leonard funny”

—CAROLE E. BARROWMAN, MINNEAPOLIS STAR TRIBUNE

“Lutz develops riveting suspense by slowly revealing the events that first sent [her main character] on the run, while pouring threats on her gritty heroine’s increasingly tenuous bids at survival. Binge-worthy fare, especially for those drawn to strong female protagonists”

—BOOKLIST (STARRED REVIEW)

“At the outset of The Passenger, Lutz’s narrator knows that her only chance for freedom is to lose herself, and thus, leaving one dead man behind, she hits the diamond lane of America—and storytelling—with a carload of identities, including the reader, who is carried along as both passenger and pursuer. This tenacious and resourceful heroine will keep you chasing, rooting, lip-biting, and above all reading until you reach the ending you never saw coming. My advice: buckle up”

—TIM JOHNSTON, NEW YORK TIMES-BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF DESCENT

“A sharp, clever, and utterly compelling thriller about a woman running from the mistakes and misfortunes of her past. Terrific”

—CHRIS PAVONE, NEW YORK TIMES-BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE EXPATS AND THE ACCIDENT

“With whip-smart writing and a breakneck pace, The Passenger’s clever plot twists and sharp characters are sure to keep you guessing long into the night, hoping against hope that its complex protagonist isn’t nearly as guilty as she seems”

—KIM MCCREIGHT, NEW YORK TIMES-BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF RECONSTRUCTING AMELIA

THEACCOMPLICE

The AccomplicePrint edition ISBN: 9781803360485E-book edition ISBN: 9781803360492

Published by Titan BooksA division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UPwww.titanbooks.com

First Titan edition: April 202210 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© Lisa Lutz 2022. All Rights ReservedOriginal edition published by Ballantine Books, 2022

The right of Lisa Lutz to be identified as Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

THEACCOMPLICE

LISA LUTZ

TITAN BOOKS

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ALSO BY LISA LUTZ AND PUBLISHED BY TITAN BOOKS

The Swallows

The Passenger

For Mark & Beverly Fienberg

THEACCOMPLICE

SEPTEMBER 2002

Owen Mann first noticed Luna Grey in an Intro to Ethics seminar. He would watch her, fascinated by the way she hunched over her notebook, scribbling, glancing up occasionally to see if anyone was watching her. Owen thought she was pretty, pretty in a way that might last or grow on you. She definitely wasn’t one of those beauties who made you do crazy things. By all objective standards, Luna appeared normal, reliable, and even a bit square. Owen, however, saw past Luna’s ordinary armor. He recognized a feral quality in her. He saw a girl roiling with secrets. And he would have paid good money to know a few of them.

Luna always knew when someone was watching her. Sometimes she’d wait it out. Other times she’d stare back and force the prying eyes to withdraw. When Luna glanced back at Owen, he smiled brightly, even though they’d never met. What the hell was he smiling about, she thought. Luna had seen Owen before. It occurred to her that he might know who she was. But the smile was wrong for someone who had her number. The girl sitting next to Owen was trying to get his attention. When the girl saw where Owen’s eyes had landed, she fixed her gaze on Luna, shifting it from curious to withering within seconds. Luna quickly turned away. She’d seen that expression too many times to count.

In her head, Luna repeated, They don’t know, they don’t know.

* * *

A few days later, Owen ditched the glaring girl and sat in Luna’s row, a few seats away. Luna felt her whole body tense up, until Owen fell fast asleep and didn’t stir, even after the lecture was over. Luna tapped him on the shoulder to wake him as she climbed over his legs, clearing out of class. Owen rubbed his eyes, shook himself awake, and chased after her.

“Hello . . .” Owen said, as he caught up with Luna and began to walk in stride. “I don’t know your name.”

“I don’t know your name,” Luna said.

Owen had a stupid grin on his face. If she didn’t have a secret, he thought, it would be deeply disappointing. Luna couldn’t decide if the smile was taunting or goofy. Owen stepped in front of Luna and extended his hand.

“Owen Mann. A pleasure to meet you,” he said.

Luna kept her hand by her side, debating whether to respond in kind.

“What can I do for you, Owen Mann?” Luna said.

“Has anyone ever told you that you have the social graces of a mobster?”

Luna fought hard not to laugh. “That might be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me,” she said.

Luna offered her name; Owen explained why he’d followed her. He’d slept through the Kant lecture and wanted to borrow her notes.

“Why my notes?” Luna asked.

Owen shrugged. “Don’t know. But they have to be your notes.”

Luna weighed the request. Then she leafed through the notebook to confirm there was no personal information in there and handed it to this Owen guy. They agreed to meet an hour later at the library.

Markham University was a small liberal-arts college in the Hudson Valley. It sat on twenty acres of dense woods and prided itself on self-directed independent study. It was also a safe haven for lazy stoners who wanted a break from life. Think summer camp with cushier accommodations. Markham U was Luna’s first choice and Owen’s third-backup school.

Owen chose a seat on the third floor of Bancroft Library, at a desk nestled by a wall of windows. He opened Luna’s notebook and poised his pen over a blank pad. Once he examined her text, he dropped the pen and visibly slumped in his chair. He couldn’t decipher a single sentence of her handwriting.

As he stared at the mysterious script, it occurred to him that she was writing in code. Either way, it was aesthetically pleasing. He took out his sketch pad and rendered an abstract interpretation of Luna’s notes. Then he removed his headphones from his backpack, blasted Mogwai on his MP3 player, and looked out the library window, watching the human traffic on the quad.

Luna arrived at the library five minutes before the one-hour mark.

“Done?” she said.

“Can anyone read your writing?” Owen asked.

“No. Never,” Luna said, relieved.

“Then why did you give your notes to me?”

“I thought you might be the first.”

Owen liked her voice. It was deep, deadpan. Her pitch rarely wavered, even when she asked a question. Most people were cautious and slow to warm around Luna. Owen just barreled forward, unafraid.

“I’m going to need you to translate,” Owen said.

He pulled out a chair and slid the notebook across the desk. He waited for Luna to sit, not even considering that she wouldn’t. Luna accepted the chair and reviewed her notes. Sometimes, even she had trouble reading them. Above her head, a fluorescent light was flickering its way to death. Luna clocked it with annoyance.

“They should fix that,” Luna said.

The flickering light unsettled her more than a light should, Owen thought. Luna spent thirty minutes summarizing the lecture for Owen, who took notes in his own hand, which was so clean and concise that it almost looked like a font designed to resemble human script. Luna felt the heat of the flickering light. Her head gave her that familiar warning signal, the one she often ignored. It was like the police standing outside her head, knocking on her temple.

“There are two duties that are part of the categorical imperative,” she said. “Um, there are negative duties, like don’t kill or be an asshole. And positive duties to help others. But then, okay, say you’re helping another person—you’re just supposed to promote their happiness. Kant didn’t believe in paternalism, which is pushing your morals and ethics on someone else. He was super into autonomy. And, um—”

Luna made a choking sound. Her eyes rolled back, her body went stiff, and she began to vibrate and tilt to the side. She fell off her chair onto the hard linoleum floor. Owen winced as he watched her head hit the ground and bounce up again.

Owen called for help, but the entire floor was empty. He crouched next to Luna, balled up his jacket, and put it under the base of her neck. She made a gurgling sound, which Owen misinterpreted as choking. He stuck his fingers in her mouth, trying to press down on her tongue, remembering something he’d read or heard or seen on TV about people swallowing their tongue in the midst of a seizure.

He called for help again, but Luna’s convulsions had begun to fade. He removed his fingers from her mouth and wiped them on his sweatshirt. He pulled out his cellphone and dialed 911. He told the operator what had happened. The operator asked if Luna was breathing. Owen turned his head and let his ear hover above her mouth. He could hear her soft, wispy breath.

He told the operator that she was breathing but unconscious and provided their location. Then he sat on the floor next to Luna for several minutes, watching her inhale and exhale. It seemed to Owen as if she were in a deep, luxurious slumber.

Luna opened her eyes. She first saw that flickering light again, and then she saw the boy staring down at her. He looked familiar, but that concerned gaze was even more familiar. A trail of drool slid down her cheek.

Owen covered his hand with his sleeve and wiped it off.

“What are you doing?” Luna asked.

“Wiping drool off your face,” Owen said.

“Do I know you?” Luna said.

“Not well.”

“What happened?”

“I think you had a seizure,” Owen said.

“I know that,” Luna snapped.

“I called 911.”

“Where am I?” Luna said. Then she noticed books. From the angle on the floor, it looked like she was trapped in a library maze. “Oh yeah, right.”

When she sat up, her brain felt like an eight ball in a glass of water. She reached up and touched a small lump on the side of her head.

“The ambulance should be here any second.”

Luna stumbled to her feet. “I need to get out of here before they come.”

“You should see a doctor,” said Owen.

“Why? I’m fine.”

“Has this happened before?”

“I’m epileptic. Of course it’s happened before.” Luna picked up her notebook and shoved it in her bag. She turned to Owen. “Thanks for . . . whatever you did.”

“I just put my jacket under your head.”

“That’s it?” Luna said, with a note of skepticism.

She slung her backpack over her shoulder and checked her close perimeter for any lost or forgotten items.

“I made sure you didn’t swallow your tongue,” Owen said, as casually as one can say that.

Luna froze and then slowly looked up at Owen. Her eyes narrowed. “Tell me you didn’t stick your fingers in my mouth,” she said.

She could tell from his expression that he had. Her profound disappointment was hard to miss.

“I—” Owen started.

“It’s a myth,” said Luna. “You can’t swallow your own tongue. Think about it, dude.”

Owen curled his tongue back and thought how obvious that seemed right then. But he figured all tongues were different.

“I’ll remember that for next time,” Owen said.

“If you want to help, you turn someone on their side.”

“Good to know.”

The ambulance pulled up in front of the library, sirens blaring and lights reminding Luna of the one that had set off her fit.

“I’ll see you around,” Luna said as she took the back stairs, like a robber making a getaway.

Owen promptly gathered his belongings and followed her.

“Wait up,” he said.

Luna didn’t. She knew he could catch her if he wanted to.

Outside, Luna was revived by the fresh air and a rush of adrenaline as she breezed past the incoming paramedics.

Owen caught up with Luna and walked in stride with her through the quad. “You hit your head pretty hard. You might have a concussion.”

“I don’t.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve hit my head before.”

“Maybe I’ll just stay with you to make sure you don’t develop any symptoms.”

Luna wanted him to stay. She’d wanted him to follow her out of the library. But she was good at not saying what she wanted.

“It’s a free country,” she said.

As they walked in stride, Owen was greeted by a gauntlet of students, cheerily acknowledging his presence. Owen would raise his hand in a half wave or nod as a response.

“You running for class president?” Luna asked.

“Never. Why?”

“You have a lot of friends,” she said.

“Acquaintances,” he clarified. “People like me. Don’t know why.”

Luna thought he probably did know and didn’t want to say. He was handsome but not manly or rugged. Attractive without being threatening. And, judging by his egalitarian greetings, he was friendly. Luna didn’t mention any of that. She did, however, ask a question no one had ever asked him before.

“Do you like people?”

“Not as much as they like me,” Owen said. “Hmm, I think that came out wrong.”

“I get it, in a way,” Luna said.

Her experience was the exact opposite, which allowed for a certain inverse understanding.

Luna seemed wise beyond her years, Owen thought. She was subtly enigmatic. It would take some time to figure her out, but he was willing to put in the effort.

“Tell me something about yourself,” Owen said.

“Like what?” Luna said.

Vague questions never seemed vague to Luna.

“I don’t know,” Owen said. “What do you do when you’re not convulsing?”

It was a dangerous joke. When a moment of silence passed, Owen thought he’d gone too far. Then Luna laughed, a big, deep laugh, the kind of laugh you can’t fake. He loved the sound of her laugh. It was like the first time you take a drug.

“I think we’re going to be friends,” Owen said.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Luna replied, even though she secretly hoped that would be the case.

That was the day it all began. Luna and Owen. Owen and Luna. Their names would be inextricably linked for years to come. The one steady thing in their unsteady lives. Before long, neither would be able to imagine a life without the other. It would be hard not to admire the strength of their bond. However, if you were in their orbit, you might come to realize that it was a dangerous place to be. Not everyone there made it out alive.

OCTOBER 7, 2019

Luna was watching coffee brew. It was seven-thirty A.M., caffeine withdrawal ramping up, brain still fogged and incapable of any heavy lifting. Still, Luna thought, this is not a good use of my time. Not that she could think of a better thing to be doing at the moment. Her husband, Sam, had a thing about waiting for the coffee to finish brewing before you poured a cup. He once suggested it was like the grown-up marshmallow test. Luna didn’t think that was the best analogy, but the mere suggestion that she’d fail that test had changed her entire morning habit.

Luna heard two quiet knocks on the back door. Only one person used that door. You had to unlatch a side gate and circle around the house. It was just easier to use the front door. Irene Boucher, however, didn’t care about easy. The doorbell took a picture of you, which was stored on some random company’s hard drive. They were not going to take her picture.

Luna opened the door, got a look at Irene, and laughed. That morning, Irene was wearing a red Fila shell suit. It wasn’t one of her better ones, Luna thought. She also had on a thick gold-plated chain that Luna had given her for her last birthday. A joke of sorts. It was the kind of thing that a movie mobster might wear. Irene really liked the chain, in an unironic sort of way.

“Is Tony Soprano your fashion icon?” Luna had once quipped.

Irene’s earnest response: “Paulie and Christopher wore the best tracksuits.”

Irene had a closet full of them. Some velour, some polyester, in a strange rainbow of colors. She was most loyal to Fila and Adidas. She wore them for comfort and because she could exercise at a moment’s notice when she had them on. Irene was compulsive about physical activity. She ran, hiked, lifted weights. She was the sort of person who would suddenly drop to the ground and do a set of push-ups or lunge her way across the room.

Irene exercised so she could maintain the diet of a teenage boy under no supervision. She was the only middle-aged woman Luna had ever met who ate doughnuts and pizza on a regular basis.

While on occasion Luna might join Irene for a run, most of the times Irene dropped by, she’d end up in Luna’s kitchen drinking coffee for an hour. She’d hit the pavement after that.

“Am I interrupting something?” Irene asked.

“No. Come in,” Luna said. “Coffee is almost done.”

Irene followed Luna into the kitchen. Luna’s phone rang. She showed Irene the caller ID. Leo Whitman.

“Ignore him,” said Irene.

“He’ll just keep calling,” Luna said. “One minute.”

Luna answered the call. “Hi, Leo. I told you ten. Yes, it’s still ten. Okay. I’ll see you then.”

Luna silenced her phone and placed it screen down on the counter.

“You’re still helping him?” Irene asked.

“I’m vetting résumés and arranging interviews. He swore he’d hire someone this week.”

“Remember,” said Irene, “he’s really good at asking for things and he doesn’t know when to stop. You have to have boundaries with Leo.”

“I know,” Luna said.

“Thank you,” Irene said.

Irene knew the only reason Luna was helping him out was so that she didn’t have to.

“What’s new?” Luna said as she removed two mugs from the cupboard.

“I’ve been listening to this podcast about Bigfoot,” Irene said as she opened the refrigerator, checked the inventory, and closed it.

“You’ve mentioned it,” Luna said. “You want toast?”

“Nah. If you want to survive a Bigfoot attack, offer it food and don’t cry.”

“What happens if I cry?” Luna asked.

“It’ll punch you in the face,” Irene said, smiling. “I think that’s my favorite Bigfoot fact.”

“Sure you want to call that a fact, when the existence of Bigfoot is already in question?” Luna said.

“The punching thing may be bullshit. But there is a Bigfoot or Sasquatch, whatever you want to call it.”

“Okay,” Luna said. “You’re the expert.”

The coffee maker beeped. Luna removed the full carafe and aimed at Irene’s mug.

“Owen’s got a side piece,” Irene blurted out.

Luna poured half a cup of coffee onto the counter before sharpening her aim and filling the mug.

“What?” Luna said.

Irene grabbed a sponge and cleaned up the spill. Luna wiped down the mug and slid it over to Irene.

“I shouldn’t have said it that way. I sound like a misogynist. Owen has a paramour. I think. No. I know. He has one.”

“ ‘Paramour,’ ” Luna repeated, thinking what a polite word for a wife to use. “Why do you think that?”

“Because now he tells me where he’s going and when he’s returning.”

While this was indeed out of character for Owen, Luna felt confident that her best friend wasn’t hiding a mistress from her. Maybe from Irene. Not from Luna.

“I promise you, he isn’t,” Luna said.

“How do you know? Would he tell you?”

“I think so,” Luna said.

For almost two decades, Owen had been the one person to whom she’d confessed all her sins. It never occurred to her that he didn’t do the same. So she stalled—sipping her coffee and wiping a smudge of jam on the counter with her sleeve—and bluffed her way through the rest of the conversation.

“I don’t know what to say here, Irene. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

The first yeah had no conviction; the second one was solid. In fact, Irene seemed a little too okay to Luna. Okay in the way someone who is making big changes is okay. They’re okay because they have a plan.

“What are you going to do about it?” Luna asked.

Luna tried to picture life without Irene. What would it look like?

“I’m not ready to say,” Irene said.

Both women understood why Irene wasn’t answering the question. Luna and Irene were good friends, maybe great friends, but Luna’s primary allegiance was to Owen.

“I understand,” Luna said.

“I better go,” Irene said as she left her mug in the sink. “Is there any chance you can keep this conversation between us?”

“Of course,” Luna said.

They both knew she was lying.

* * *

Later that afternoon, Owen texted Luna.

Owen: Halfway at 5?

He was suggesting a drink at their local bar. After her morning conversation with Irene, Luna wondered whether that was a good idea.

Luna: Maybe you should go home.

Owen: Why?

Luna wasn’t ready to answer that question.

Luna: One drink.

Owen: Be there in 20.

Luna arrived at the Halfway House first. She ordered a bourbon and checked her phone to get Owen’s ETA. She’d convinced him to install the app years ago after he’d left her waiting over an hour at the train station. At least she’d know if he was stuck in traffic, almost there, or truly off-grid. She could see the Owen dot moving on Route 9. He was less than ten minutes out. She then texted her husband to tell him she wouldn’t be home for dinner. Book club, she lied.

After five minutes, her husband replied: K.

The Halfway House was a dive so divey that Owen and Luna could safely assume they’d never run into anyone they knew. Finding a place in a small town where you could remain entirely anonymous made up for a sticky bar-top and filthy restrooms. After a few drinks you didn’t notice the grime or the sour stench anyway.

When Owen arrived, he ordered a dirty martini with three olives. He would switch to an entirely different drink after that, never able to stick with just one. He was obsessed with variety, which Luna had only recently correlated with his inability to stay faithful.

“What’s Irene up to?” Luna asked.

“I don’t know,” Owen said. “She left this morning and I haven’t heard from her all day.”

Owen and Irene weren’t the kind of couple who routinely checked in. In fact, it was fair to say they were the opposite. Early in the relationship, Owen established a pattern of going AWOL, which Irene soon learned to mimic so she could feel a sense of parity. That said, if Owen repeatedly texted his wife, she’d usually respond.

“I saw her this morning,” Luna said.

“What did you talk about?” Owen asked.

“Bigfoot,” Luna said, after a pause. “Apparently the secret to surviving—”

“I’ve heard it already. She’s been listening to that podcast nonstop. It’s getting weird,” Owen said. “Do me a favor and send her a text. See if she gets back to you?”

Luna typed: Run tmrw? 8:30? and immediately felt virtuous, as if she’d already taken the run.

“Maybe she’s ignoring you,” Luna said.

“Why would she do that?”

“Maybe you did something bad,” Luna said.

The bartender served Owen his martini. Owen lifted the toothpick of three olives from his glass and offered them to Luna, who bit the first one off. Owen took the second one and dropped the third back in the martini glass. He was debating how to answer. His silence gave Luna the impetus to keep pushing.

“What did you do?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Owen said without any conviction.

“Who is she?” Luna said.

“No one.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you had a no one?”

“Because I can’t stand that judgy way you look at me.”

Owen finished his martini and slid the empty glass with the lone olive in front of Luna. She ate the olive and finished her bourbon. They ordered another round—bourbon for Luna, a gimlet for Owen.

“She’s a student, I assume,” Luna said.

“Why do you assume that?”

“Where else are you going to meet women?”

“Women are everywhere, if you haven’t noticed,” Owen said.

“So, a student?”

Owen nodded.

“You’re so boring,” Luna said, disappointed by his lack of originality.

“That’s it,” Owen said, pointing at Luna’s face. “That look. That’s why I didn’t tell you.”

Owen picked up Luna’s phone as if it were his own and looked for a response from Irene. “Now I’m worried,” he said.

“Don’t be. She links me with you. When she’s angry at you, she’s also a little angry at me.”

“So, she knows?” Owen asked, trying to read Luna’s expression.

“I don’t know,” Luna said.

“Spill it. What did she say?”

“She said you had a side piece,” Luna said.

Owen took a sip of his sour drink. He liked the idea of gimlets more than gimlets themselves. “She actually said side piece?”

“Yes, but then she switched to paramour.”

“Huh,” Owen said. “It’s enough that she dresses like a mobster.”

“You have any other response to what I just said?”

“How’d she find out?” Owen asked.

He felt mildly queasy and took another sip of his drink, which didn’t help.

“Don’t know,” Luna said. “Tell me about her, your . . . paramour.”

“She’s just a sculptor with spectacular tits.”

“You need to listen to yourself sometimes,” Luna said, rolling her eyes. “Does she have a name?”

“Amy. It didn’t mean anything,” Owen said.

“Did it mean something to Amy?”

“No,” Owen said. Although he couldn’t say for sure.

“Was she the first?” Luna asked.

Owen tried to ignore the question.

“How many?” Luna asked.

Owen knew that she was asking not as a concerned friend but as an advocate for Irene.

“Not many,” Owen said.

“Oh god. Jesus, Owen.” Luna made a face like she’d swallowed a bug.

“Only two. I really tried for Irene,” Owen said.

Luna finished her drink and threw a few bills on the bar.

“Don’t tell her I told you, okay?” Luna said. “Whether you stay together or not, she’s my friend too. I’m not taking sides.”

“Bullshit, Luna. You can’t be Switzerland.”

“Watch me.”

That night, Owen returned to an empty home. He left a few more messages on Irene’s cell and wondered how she had learned of the sculptor. Another man might have called the police. Owen went to bed.

* * *

Irene was still gone the next morning when Owen woke up. He texted Luna to see if she’d heard back. Luna said she had not.

She remembered her invitation for an eight-thirty run and thought she might find Irene doing laps around Dover Cemetery, where they often met. Luna threw on her sweats and sneakers and headed out.

She walked through the greenbelt behind her yard. Her elderly neighbor, Mr. Kane, had bushwhacked a clearing years ago. He maintained the passage year-round, in winter driving his snowblower through the woods. It gave him a shortcut from his house to his wife’s grave. Other neighbors began using the same shortcut, and soon it was a well-worn path that led not just to Dover Church and Cemetery but to town.

Luna began running under the tunnel of foliage, the dirt soft and tacky underfoot. Her body felt stiff and creaky. Within just a few minutes, her breath became hard as an asthmatic’s. She hoped Irene wouldn’t show up and race around her like a gazelle. Luna slowed down, caught her breath, and walked along the edge of the graveyard, noting the names and dates of the dead as she had so many times before.

Then she heard the squawk of carrion birds looping overhead. She spotted a swath of red fabric against the stone and greenery. She stumbled up the hill, past the graves of those who’d died last century and before. There hadn’t been a new burial in more than sixty years.

Luna’s knees buckled; her body understood before her brain. Irene was lying on her side in a fetal position. For the briefest moment, Luna thought Irene might be asleep.

“Wake up, Irene,” Luna said.

Irene didn’t move. Luna stepped closer and saw the blood and the blue hue of Irene’s face. She turned away and then looked back, thinking maybe her eyes were playing tricks on her brain. Irene’s entire chest was the same color as her red windbreaker.

OCTOBER 2003

PARTY, Saturday, @ 2100 hrs

Hosted by Luna and Owen

Owen and Luna. Luna and Owen. Their names said so often as one, like twins or a romantic couple. Outsiders could never figure out what it was. Friends would often ask what their deal was. The truth was they were just friends. That’s not to say there was never any attraction. They’d each thought about it. But neither of them wanted to mess with what they had. Whatever it was had become essential to their lives. The pair had been inseparable since the day Owen stuck his fingers in Luna’s mouth.

One year and one month later, Luna and Owen were hanging out in his dorm room in Watson Hall. Luna was chomping on potato chips and watching Owen iron his shirt. She provided a running commentary, as if she were observing a sporting event.

“You’re really taking your time between the buttons, aren’t you?” Luna said.

“Don’t get chips on my bed,” Owen said, eyes focused on his chosen task.

The iron fired steam like a dragon, Luna thought.

“Any knucklehead can de-wrinkle the shirttails, but your sleeve work is mighty impressive. I give you an eight out of ten,” Luna said.

Owen regarded Luna, who was lounging on his bed, wearing threadbare jeans and a ratty old T-shirt that read “Camp Sunshine.” She had this way of making herself at home in his space, which somehow made him feel more at home.

“Is that what you’re wearing?” Owen said.

Luna checked her outfit, then turned to Owen, with an expression of wild confusion.

“What the hell kind of question is that?” Luna asked. “You can see what I’m wearing, right?”

“I can.”

“I’ll confirm that what you’re seeing is probably at the very least a close approximation of what I’m wearing, taking into account any weird visual anomaly and perceptual errors.”

Owen shut off the iron. Luna pulled the cord from the socket.

“Shall we?” Owen said as he checked his watch. Luna threw on her satin smoking jacket as she and Owen stepped into the hallway.

“Mason!” Luna shouted when she saw her friend leaving a room just a few doors down.

Mason spun around, startled. “Oh, hey, Luna.”

Mason and Owen nodded at each other. Once, Owen had tried to talk to the guy. He asked Mason what he did when he wasn’t smoking pot. Dude, that’s like a really personal question was Mason’s response.

Mason was exclusively Luna’s friend at the time. Owen was convinced that it was because Mason had weed. He always had weed. He even smelled like it. In a good way, Luna thought; in a bad way, Owen thought. Most people called Ralph Mason just Mason, since it was generally agreed that Ralph sounded like a grandpa or something you did after a drinking binge. Mason was a math major with crooked teeth and a haircut that always began with a comma on his forehead. It was pure coincidence that Mason lived in Bing Hall, commonly known as Bong Hall.

“What are you doing here?” Luna asked.

“I’d rather not say,” Mason said.

“You’re coming to the lab party, right, Mason?” Luna asked.

“Maybe. I can’t commit to anything right now,” Mason said quite earnestly. Mason liked to live in the present. He rarely committed to anything that might take place in the future.

Luna found this quirk endlessly amusing. She was always trying to get Mason to pledge himself to a future endeavor.

Mason, let’s go see that Wim Wenders film on Saturday.

Mason, will you study with me tomorrow?

Mason, will you meet me at the dining hall in fifteen minutes?

Mason, promise me you’ll go to sleep later tonight.

Mason’s answer was always some variation of the theme: We’ll see. Let’s play it by ear.

But then Mason broke one of the primary tenets of his life and said, “Hey, Luna, can I talk to you later?”

“What’s up?” Luna asked.

“Later,” Mason said. “When you have time.”

“I don’t know,” Luna said. “Let’s play it by ear.”

She finally understood Mason’s resistance to making plans.

* * *

While investigating the bowels of Markham University one night, Luna and Owen found the perfect party venue—a defunct laboratory with a faulty lock in the basement of the Life Sciences building. The lights had all burned out, but the pair found that replacing just a few bulbs gave them the ideal moody lighting for a midterm bash.

Owen draped the walls with abandoned art from his oil-painting class, while Luna pasted arrows from the archway outside the building, down the staircase, and through the hallway to direct the partygoers to the not-so-secret location.

When the clock struck nine, Owen suggested they crack the good bourbon before the early birds showed up. They toasted with plastic tumblers. Owen hid the bottle just moments before Amber, Bobbi, and Casey arrived. Owen called them the ABCs and was under the impression that they were inseparable and somehow identical, which was simply not the case.

Amber Klein was a lanky blonde who always seemed to speak at a volume two clicks above necessary. Her roommate, Bobbi Schwartz, had the shiniest black hair Luna had ever seen and a slightly wandering eye. The eye thing mostly made her look like she was suspicious of everyone. Casey Carr had unruly blond hair and equally unruly breasts. The only common denominator was that the three women lived in Avery Hall.

Owen didn’t care for any of them back then, but Luna liked Casey and would always try to get her alone. Having grown up in a cult, Casey had some hilarious anecdotes about commune life. Plus, she was freakishly smart, enough to make Luna want to know why she was slumming it at Markham. She didn’t ask, of course, because when you ask questions, you invite them in return. As for the A and B: Amber had an irrepressible crush on Owen, which manifested itself in embarrassing drunken displays of desperation. Bobbi played Amber’s sidekick—a sinister one, Luna thought. Bobbi always encouraged Amber to go for it, knowing Amber would embarrass herself. Casey tempered Bobbi, always trying to keep Amber in check and restore some dignity. As predicted, shortly after her arrival, Amber found her way to Owen and began flirting with abandon.

Soon, others arrived: first Ted, Owen’s neighbor in Watson Hall. Ted was just six months shy of being able to procure beer on his own. He had big calloused hands from summer construction jobs and a thick Jersey accent. Drunk Luna always wondered what those hands might feel like on her body, but she could see that other women had the same idea and was never able to get him alone.

Another dozen or so coeds of various degrees of acquaintance to Owen and Luna arrived before midnight. Owen controlled the music with a handful of CD mixes assembled just for the festivities. Luna had veto power and would remove any disc from the player when Coldplay came on. Owen took to pressing the SKIP button when he’d see her approach, mostly because she had a habit of ejecting a disc and snapping it in half.

“Why?” Luna would say every time she heard her nemesis, as if the popularity of the band was among the great mysteries of the universe. Owen barely liked Coldplay; he just liked seeing Luna’s focused passion against them.

When Scarlet Hayes entered the party, the room quieted for just a second. From the moment Scarlet arrived on campus, people—mostly men—took note. It wasn’t just the long legs, plump lips, and shiny auburn hair, which had to be a dye job to match the name. Scarlet had swagger, a seeming confidence uncommon among women of her age. The swagger turned out to be fake, but it was attractive all the same. She was also nice. Everyone thought so back then. Turned out, that was fake as well.

Scarlet first rested her gaze on Luna, then stealthily clocked Owen’s location. She sat on the table next to Luna and put her arm around her.

“Hey, Luna. How are you doing?” Scarlet asked.

“I don’t know. What have you heard?” Luna said.

Luna was stoned. Very, very stoned.

Luna heard something ringing. It sounded just like Owen’s phone. This is going to be a thing, Luna thought, people ringing all the time.

“Is that you?” Scarlet asked.

“Never,” Luna said.

“It’s me,” Scarlet said, reaching into her purse and answering the call. “Hi, Mom. I can’t talk now. I can’t hear you. I really can’t hear you. I’ll call you tomorrow. Didn’t hear that either. I’m saying goodbye now.”

“Owen has one of those,” Luna said. “Doesn’t it bother you, people being able to contact you all the time?”

“Sometimes it’s a drag,” Scarlet said. “My mother calls a lot. If I don’t answer, she keeps calling. But once, I got lost driving home from the city, and all I had to do was call my dad and he gave me directions.”

Luna was about to suggest getting a good set of maps, when she spotted Owen, cornered by Amber and Bobbi. His panic was on full display.

“You should save him,” Luna said.

She said it because she saw the way Owen’s eyes glazed over into lust whenever Scarlet was in range. She said it because she saw how Scarlet wasn’t entirely Scarlet in front of Owen, as if she was holding back, pretending that she felt nothing. She said it because watching the charged energy between them made her uneasy. A girlfriend would alter the essential ingredient of their relationship. Luna struggled to imagine whether the new recipe would even work.

“Why don’t you save him?” Scarlet said.

“Because he wants you to,” Luna said. “You like him, don’t you?”

“Not sure. I need more data to decide.”

“Then go collect some.”

Scarlet eyed Luna suspiciously and jumped off the table.

En route to Owen, Scarlet passed Ted. Ted took Scarlet’s seat. His thigh brushed against Luna’s. She felt a rush of heat. Luna took a sip of her drink. She had a sense that she wasn’t experiencing time in the usual fashion, because after the next sip, the drink was almost dead.

“Would you look at that,” Luna said. “I need a refill already.”

“Don’t go anywhere,” Ted said.

“Where would I go?” she said.

Luna looked over at Owen and Scarlet. The ABCs were in retreat. Scarlet and Owen whispered in each other’s ears as if they were in a loud concert hall.

Luna didn’t notice Mason until he hopped onto the table next to her. They exchanged heys. Luna quickly remembered their appointment for a later conversation. She wanted it done, whatever it was.

“What did you want to ask me, Mason?”

“Uhhh,” Mason said.

Briefly, Luna thought it had slipped his mind, which meant it wasn’t the subject she feared.

“Not here,” Mason said.

Luna felt a mild stabbing pain in her gut. It was indeed what she feared.

Outside, the air was crisp and had the faint odor of caramel corn. Luna had heard about people smelling burnt toast before they stroked out. Was she having a stroke? She decided she was too young. There had to be another explanation.

The campus had an abundance of katsura trees, which emitted a burnt-sugar scent after the leaves had fallen.

“What’s up, Mason?” Luna said.

“Did you ever live in Colorado?” Mason asked.

Shit, Luna thought. He knows. Wait, does he? Was he confirming a known fact or merely trying to substantiate a theory he’d stumbled upon?

“Yeah, why?” Luna said.

Mason had hoped that once he broached the subject, Luna would make it easy on him. Luna pictured Mason, weaponless, trying to rob a bank through the power of suggestion.

Hey, guys, got any money in this vault?

Luna thought, If you want the goods, use the gun. She waited to see what Mason would do, thinking he’d let it go. But then he showed his weapon. He didn’t aim it, just let it sit there as a quiet threat.

“Was Luna Grey always your name?”

OCTOBER 8, 2019

Luna wasn’t sure how long she’d been standing over Irene’s body. Her face felt hot. When she touched her cheek, it was damp with tears. Vultures circling overhead reminded her that she needed to do something. Or at the very least stop crying over the crime scene. She jogged down the craggy incline onto the asphalt drive that circled the grounds. She followed the drive to the south exit and ran as fast as she could to Owen’s house. She pounded on his door until her knuckles screamed.

Owen opened the door holding a cup of coffee, his face set hard, ready to reprimand whoever had the audacity to interrupt his morning. His expression softened when he saw Luna’s ruddy face.

“What happened?” he said.

Luna stepped inside the house, catching her breath. The landline, resting on a table in the foyer, reminded her that there was something she had to do.

“What?” he said, ducking to make eye contact.

“Irene,” Luna said, voice cracking as she tried to speak.

“No,” Owen said.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” said Luna.

“No,” he said again, shaking his head. “Where is she?”

“Dover Cemetery. By that tree.”

Owen raced outside in his robe and slippers. Luna wanted to chase after him, but she remembered how things were supposed to be done. She picked up the phone and dialed 911.

* * *

Owen ran to Dover Cemetery, found Irene, and tried to shake her awake. She was cold and stiff and he quickly recoiled, fought hard not to vomit. He staggered back, caught his breath, and collapsed onto the ground by a nearby headstone. There he waited until he heard the sirens. Luna showed up a short time after that. She wished she had warned Owen about contaminating the crime scene; then again, he should have known.

Two state troopers were first to arrive on the scene. One had gray hair; the other looked too young to drink. The gray-haired trooper asked Owen to step away from the victim. Victim. The word sounded strange to Owen, as if the trooper was calling his wife by the wrong name. Owen moved to the side and sat down on a bench next to Luna. The younger trooper asked who discovered the body.

“I did,” said Luna. “I went for a run and found her.”

Luna didn’t mention that Irene had been missing for twenty-four hours before she found her.

Neighbors began to assemble right outside the gates. After about thirty minutes, an unmarked police car purred along Dover Cemetery Drive. A coroner’s van followed soon after. Two plainclothes detectives—a middle-aged woman and an almost-middle-aged man—got out and covered the distance from the street to the deceased.

Detective Margot Burns nodded at the older trooper. Margot couldn’t remember his name, so she waited until her partner, Detective Noah Goldman, introduced himself.

“Trooper Mike Dale,” the gray-haired cop said, extending his hand to Margot’s partner and tipping his hat to the lady detective. The hat-tipping, she remembered that. She was going to have to establish herself as lead. Otherwise, Dale would address all information to Noah.

“Break it down for me,” Margot said.

“Female, approximately thirty-five to forty,” said Trooper Dale. “Deceased. Been there awhile. Body is cold. Looks like GSW. Too much blood to tell if it’s multiple bullets. No bullet casings near the body . . .”

“Who are they?” Margot said, nodding at Owen and Luna.

“The guy in the robe is the husband of the deceased,” said Dale. “Owen Mann. He says the victim, his wife, is Irene Boucher. There’s no ID on her.”

“Was she carrying a phone?” Margot asked.

Mike Dale ticked his head to the side. His partner, like a well-trained dog, hurried over with an evidence bag containing Irene’s phone. Noah took the bag and slid it into his pocket.

“Who’s the jogger?” asked Noah.

“Luna Grey. She found the body,” Dale said.

“Ms. Grey and the husband know each other?” Margot asked.

“Neighbors, I think,” said the trooper.

Margot observed the bathrobed man and the jogger and took note of their proximity on the bench. Just neighbors don’t sit that close to each other.

“More than neighbors,” Noah said.

“I call dibs on the widower,” Margot said.

* * *

Owen and Luna stayed out of the way, huddled together on a bench next to a moss-drenched mausoleum. Owen watched the two detectives converge upon them. Luna knew exactly what Owen was thinking before he said it.

“I don’t think I can go through this again,” Owen said.

Luna was thinking the same thing.

OCTOBER 2003

Owen watched Luna and Mason escape the party. He thought about chasing after them just to be sure that Luna wasn’t so drunk that she’d hook up with the sad dude. But Scarlet was right there being Scarlet. Owen and Scarlet left the party soon after and made out on a bench under the light of the moon. She tasted like strawberry Jolly Ranchers and vodka, and she smelled like cotton candy. Her skin shimmered as if it were aglow from the inside.

Like drunk, lusty men often do, Owen oversold his affection. He told Scarlet she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He told her he thought he could fall in love with her—he didn’t mention that he was already in love with this furry jacket she wore that felt like his childhood cat, Oscar.

Scarlet thought this might be the best night she’d ever had. Owen tried to remind himself that he shouldn’t fuck her. It was Scarlet who suggested they go back to her dorm. Her roommate had a boyfriend in town and she usually spent the weekend at his place. Owen reminded himself again that he shouldn’t fuck her.

Among the cheap plywood furniture and threadbare carpet, Scarlet lost some of the glow of the moonlight. For the briefest moment when she turned on the unforgiving fluorescent lights, Owen saw spots on her cheek and noticed that her lips were chapped and peeling. It didn’t help that she was a slob and he smelled the faint odor of dirty laundry. But then she dimmed the lights and tossed off her shirt. And he forgot the warnings he had given himself. He fucked her and told her he loved her breasts.

Scarlet heard only the word love.

The next morning, while Scarlet was in a deep vodka slumber, Owen dressed in stealth and made a French exit. He didn’t look back as he opened the door and laced up his shoes in the hallway. When Owen emerged from Avery Hall into the bright morning sun, he felt an adrenaline surge worthy of a man who’d just pulled off a prison escape. He purchased two coffees at the campus café, the Mudhut, and strolled kitty-corner across the quad to Blake Hall, Luna’s dorm.

Luna, half awake but still hoping for a few more hours’ sleep, heard Owen’s three assertive knocks on her door. She didn’t respond, thinking he’d go away. After the second, louder set of knocks, she sat up in bed and said, “What?”

“I brought you a latte,” Owen said through the door. “Can I come in?”

Luna made Owen wait long enough that he considered leaving. When Luna finally opened the door, it appeared as though her right eye had got stuck in a wink. One eye down, she turned her back on Owen and began stumbling around her room.

“My contact lens dried up. That always happens when I smoke weed. Do you see my eye drops?”

Owen spotted the small bottle on Luna’s nightstand and passed it to her.

“You shouldn’t sleep with them in,” Owen said as Luna shoved the tip of the dropper into her eye. “That’s not how you’re supposed to—”

“It’s eight A.M. on a Sunday!” Luna said as she blinked the drops into her dry eyes.

“Sorry,” Owen said, delivering the coffee.

Luna sipped the latte, which was excellent. But she knew if she drank the whole thing she’d never go back to sleep. She cut herself off and crawled back under the covers.

In bed, Luna closed her eyes and remembered the previous night. She recalled sitting on the stoop with Mason when he was still just Mason, the chill guy who always had pot on him, and then she remembered the conversation that changed their entire relationship. She felt at once exposed and caged.

Owen took a seat on the floor when it became clear Luna wasn’t going to kick him out.

“Where did you go last night?” Luna asked.

“Where’d you go?” Owen countered.

Luna had pocketed a lie for that very occasion. “Mason and I took a weed break. Your turn.”

Luna enjoyed asking questions when she already knew the answers. It gave her a pleasant power buzz. Owen sipped his coffee and cleared his throat. More scraps of the night assembled in his mind.

“You don’t want to know,” Owen said with a mixture of pride and regret.

“Casey told me you left with Scarlet. How’d that go?”

“It wasn’t anything. We hung out,” Owen said.

“No sex, right?” said Luna.

Owen answered with silence.

“Did you sneak out of her room before she woke up?” Luna asked.

No reply.

“Dick move,” Luna said.

Owen nodded, agreeing.

“I need more sleep,” Luna said, regretfully eying her coffee on the nightstand.

“Can I stay?” said Owen. “I won’t bother you.”

“Be quiet,” said Luna.

Luna drew the covers over her head and feigned sleep. She could rarely fall into slumber when another person was around, but there were still many substances fighting to clear out of her system. She rested her eyes for ten minutes. And then for a good fifteen she was asleep. Owen read a local rag that Luna had picked up for movie showtimes. He skimmed an article about the importance of cleaning your gutters at the end of fall. Then he thought he should use his time more wisely and plucked the philosophy reader from Luna’s shelf.

An envelope slipped out. A business envelope, addressed to Luna “Grey”—last name in quotes—the original address covered with a forwarding label. The letter was opened with a neat slice across the top. A small piece of rice paper rested inside. Owen would have put the letter back if it weren’t for the quotes.

Luna heard the rustling of papers but figured he was reading the Markham Gazette. Owen checked over his shoulder, saw the slow rise and fall of Luna’s duvet. He quietly removed the paper and unfolded the sharp creases. There was no greeting or salutation, just four words written in clean box letters.

YOU’RE GOING TO HELL.