“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.
* * *