The Accomplice(16)

Owen paused for a long moment. “Amy Johnson.”

Burns slipped a piece of paper and pen in front of Owen and asked him to write down Amy Johnson’s address and phone number.



* * *



—

Owen found Luna sitting on the steps of the police station. She’d been released an hour earlier and waited for him. In the interim she’d turned on her phone to a storm of buzzes, alerts, and dings. She scrolled through her recent callers—Whitman, Sam, Whitman, Sam, Maya, Casey, Sam, Whitman. She couldn’t phone any of them until she consulted with Owen.

Owen sat down on the stoop next to her, ridiculous in his voluminous sweats. Luna reached into her pocket and pulled out a pack of Marlboro Lights and a book of matches.

“Here,” she said. “I figured you’d need it. Today at least.”

“Probably tomorrow as well.”

“You have a week. Then you quit,” Luna said.

Owen lit his cigarette and took a drag.

“I’m so sorry,” Luna said.

“I know.”

“I loved her too,” she said.

When she said it, she hadn’t realized how much she meant it. It had taken some time for Luna to warm to Irene. She had to learn to love her, but she did. Quiet tears slid down her cheeks.

“What am I supposed to do?” said Owen.

“I don’t know. Mourn, plan the funeral.”

“I think I’m a suspect,” Owen said.

“The husband is always a suspect,” Luna said.

“Who would kill her?”

“It could have been a stranger.”

“Why would a stranger shoot a jogger running through a cemetery?”

“I don’t know. People do terrible things to other people, and sometimes there’s no reason for it. At least no reason that you can understand,” Luna said.

Owen took another deep drag on the cigarette and experienced a head rush, followed by nausea. He put his head between his knees.

“You okay?” she said.

“Did they ask you about Markham?” Owen said.

“They don’t know. Not yet,” Luna said.

“They will,” Owen said.

“Yeah. They’ll know everything soon enough.”





October–December 2003


Scarlet had been patiently waiting for Owen to call since the morning after they’d slept together. When he didn’t, Scarlet decided there was no reason that she couldn’t call him. She called three separate times before he answered. When he did, she asked Owen if he wanted to hang out sometime. He said, “Sure, sometime,” but refused to make an actual date. A few days later, Scarlet ran into him at another party. Both drunk, they left the party together and went back to Owen’s dorm. Soon after they had sex, Owen told Scarlet to get dressed. He’d walk her home. She wanted to stay the night. Owen explained that he couldn’t possibly sleep through the night sharing a twin bed. Roughly the same scenario happened two more times.

After the third time, Scarlet sought Luna’s counsel.

“I probably shouldn’t have fucked him that first night, right?”

Luna never wanted to play anyone’s confidante. Secrets were generally perceived as barter, and Luna could never reciprocate.

“I know he likes me, because we keep hooking up. Why won’t he make a regular date with me?”

“I don’t know,” Luna said.

Oh, she knew. She’d gotten Owen’s side of the matter. Luna hated the way Owen used Scarlet. And she hated that Scarlet let him. They were both idiots as far as Luna was concerned. But Scarlet was so obviously at a disadvantage, Luna wanted to even the playing field. That’s why she helped her.

“Sit down,” Luna said, guiding Scarlet onto the edge of her bed. “Listen to me very carefully. Owen needs to be off-balance. He likes people to be puzzles. If he’s solved you, then he’s no longer interested.”

“So what am I supposed to do? Be mysterious?”

Luna hated the sound of that, a woman changing her ways to please a man. But it was the correct advice for Scarlet’s endgame.

“Don’t be anything you’re not. But don’t tell him everything that’s on your mind. Wait, stop. This isn’t good advice,” Luna said, again recalibrating. “If you have things on your mind that you want to express, you should say them.”

“No, this is great,” Scarlet said, already setting in motion a plan of action. “He doesn’t have to know everything I’m thinking, right?”

“That’s my motto,” Luna said.

If Scarlet was going to adopt any of her advice, Luna hoped it was that.

Scarlet played with her hair incessantly—scooping it behind her ears, grasping it in a ponytail and dropping it back down, twirling it around a finger and draping it over her shoulder. The touching, the stroking, the fidgeting, began to annoy Luna so deeply she had to stare at a distant wall.

“I have a paper to write,” Luna said, eyeing the door, hoping that Scarlet would get the hint.

“What do I do if he doesn’t call?” Scarlet asked.

“Wait him out,” Luna said.

“So I shouldn’t sleep with him again. At least not the next time he calls?”