The Accomplice(103)

“Who is president?”

“No.”

“I’ll accept that answer. What’s your name?”

“Luna Grey.”

“Do you know where you are?”

“Hospital.”

Luna assumed she was at Chambliss Medical Center, where Sam worked. She asked for water. The nurse disappeared and said that she’d check to see if it was okay. When the nurse was gone, Luna remembered that she had another question. Sam entered her room. Then the nurse.

“What happened?” Luna asked.

“You were shot,” Sam said.

“With a gun?” Luna asked, incredulous.

Many pharmaceuticals were roaming through her bloodstream.

“Yes, a gun,” Sam said. “Those detectives are here. They want to talk to you.”

“Who shot me?” Luna asked.

She thought of Owen. She remembered being outside his house. She didn’t think it was him. It couldn’t have been him. Could it?

“They’re just outside,” Sam said. “They’ll explain.”

“I’m really thirsty,” Luna said.

Sam found a plastic pitcher and poured water into a sippy cup. “I’m going to let them in, okay?” Sam said.

Luna nodded, guzzled water.

“Slow down,” Sam said, like she was drinking vodka.

The police came in. The same ones who’d asked so many questions. The woman detective—Luna forgot her name; must be the drugs or getting shot—told Luna the name of the shooter. She asked Luna if the name was familiar. It wasn’t at first. Then she thought about it again, the last name. Wells.

“Wells?” Luna said.

“Yes,” said the woman. “He was the brother of Lila Wells.”

“Oh fuck,” Luna said.

“Had he been in touch?” the young male detective asked.

“Not recently,” Luna said. “A while ago, maybe.”

“If that’s all,” Sam said, “she needs to rest.”

The detectives shared a silent exchange. There was something else. Luna had an inchoate theory that her drug-addled brain couldn’t fully grasp.

“The gun,” Luna said. “Was it the same?”

The woman nodded; the man said, “Same man, same gun.”

“I see,” Luna said.

“What are you talking about?” Sam asked.

“When he shot Irene, he thought he was shooting me. Right?” Luna said, observing the female detective’s expression to see if her theory was correct.

“Yes,” said the woman. “He was waiting outside your house that day. He had an address scribbled on a piece of paper. He didn’t know what you looked like. He just saw a woman leaving your home through the back door. He thought it was you. He followed her to the cemetery. There was no one around. He didn’t realize his mistake until the story was in the news.”

“Okay,” Luna said, the tears falling freely.

The feeling was so familiar. Another death she’d have to carry around like dead weight.





November 2019


When Luna was released from the hospital, it was decided that she should return home with Sam. It made the most sense, all things considered.

It wasn’t as uncomfortable as one might imagine. Caring for Luna would help Sam erase some of the guilt over his affair. Plus, she was heavily medicated and, even with a bullet wound, she wasn’t that demanding. She camped out in the downstairs guest room, watching cable TV. One day, he found her crying. The Sopranos was on in the background. Sam asked if she needed another pain pill. No, she said. She was crying because Irene had the same tracksuit that Paulie Walnuts was wearing.

There were visits from Casey and Mason. Griff as well. Luna and he tried to avoid any meaningful talks while she was living under the same roof as her husband. And the past was also off-limits. They may not have spoken about the future, but it existed as an unspoken promise. They were on the brink of something, they both thought.

Owen called. Often. He tried her mobile at first. After ten unreturned messages, he tried the landline. He was surprised to find an ally in Sam.

“At least talk to the guy,” Sam said to Luna, on more than one occasion.

Luna’s memories of that day were thick and murky. She was stuck in the moments before she stepped outside, before Gregory Wells took his aim. Luna couldn’t get past the feeling that she didn’t know Owen, that he might have been a murderer.

One evening while Luna was still in the hospital, dosed on painkillers, she woke from a fitful sleep. Sam had just come into her room to check on her.

“I need to tell you something,” Luna said, beckoning him to her side.

“What?”

“Owen shot me,” she whispered.

“No, Luna,” Sam said, concerned that Luna might have suffered some neurological damage. “They got the guy. It was the same guy who shot Irene. Same gun.”

The next morning, when Luna was more lucid, Sam reminded her of the conversation. She couldn’t recall accusing Owen of being her shooter, but the feeling came back that there was a memory hidden in her brain. Scarlet, she thought. She remembered what Griff had told her. Owen knew what Scarlet was wearing the night she died, even though Owen claimed to have not seen her that day.