The Accomplice(5)

“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.