The Accomplice(63)

“Stitch you up. Did you learn that in the clink?”

“I don’t know. A movie?” Luna said.

“I don’t want to have to keep saying this. Do. Not. Speak. To. The. Police. Without. A. Lawyer. Present. Got it?”

“Okay. But I think Detective Oslo believed me,” Luna said.

“Doesn’t matter. Don’t do it.”

“Let me break it down for you,” Luna said. “What happened when I was a kid was that I lied, not that I didn’t have good counsel. I don’t lie anymore. At least, not about important things.”

Griff made a right turn onto the road that led to the main campus.

“Left up ahead,” Luna said. “This is a shortcut to the parking lot.”

Griff guided his Prius onto a gravel road.

“I didn’t kill her,” Luna whispered. “In case you were wondering.”

“For fuck’s sake, Luna. I know that.”

Griff didn’t say anything else until he’d found a space in the four-level parking garage. Griff cut the engine. The car was already so quiet, you could barely tell.

“You’re going to have to forgive yourself one day,” Griff said.

Luna disagreed. She believed that she had to think about it. Every. Single. Day. Luna believed that part of her penance was never letting her guilt subside. And trying, whenever possible, to compensate for her sins. Her past, her secrets, had transferred to Owen like a virus. For the rest of his life he’d have some variation of her condition. She didn’t know it that morning, when Owen was taken in. Or later, when she was talking to Detective Oslo. It became unmistakably clear ten minutes later, when she and Griff walked into Owen’s dorm.

Murderer, painted red, fresh, and fragrant on his door. There was other graffiti in black, green, and purple Sharpie. Killer, monster, evil, and redrum, just because.

“Fuck,” Griff said, as he scanned the hallway, looking for possible culprits. Luna said nothing, because she instantly and completely understood what was happening.

Luna pounded on Owen’s door. “Open up,” she said.

Griff was surprised how forceful she sounded.

“Owen,” Griff said in a more modulated tone, “please open the door.”

“Go away,” Owen mumbled from the other side.

Luna kept up her knuckle-bruising racket. Griff tried to speak to Owen through the walls.

“Come on, man, let us in.”

Some guy named Joe or Jim who lived next door peered out of his room and shouted, “Hey. Keep it down.”

Luna lasered in on the guy. “Who did this?” she said, charging toward Joe or Jim.

“I dunno,” the guy said, his ire muted by his fear of Luna and the look of boundless fury in her eyes.

“Luna,” Griff said, turning her name into a word of caution.

Everything felt dangerous right then.

“Whatever,” Joe/Jim said, shutting the door when Luna got too close.

Griff knocked on Owen’s door again. Quietly. Luna started banging on other doors, random doors, shouting, “Open up. Who did this?”

“Luna, stop,” Griff said. Then, pleading to the door: “Owen. Let us in.”

It wasn’t Griff’s quiet appeal that prompted Owen to unlock his door. It was the sound of Luna, feral and dangerous. She could make it worse, he thought, and he didn’t think he could live through worse.

Luna heard the deadbolt unlatch and stopped yelling. Griff was waiting for the door to open. But Luna knew they wouldn’t receive a more overt invitation. She turned the doorknob and entered Owen’s room. Griff followed. Neither of them could have imagined what they would find.

Owen’s left eye was swollen shut. His nose was red and blue, small drops of blood trickling like a leaky faucet, his lip split and doubled in size. There were other injuries that they would learn about later, at the hospital. Two broken ribs, a mild concussion, and a fractured patella from something metal hitting his knee.

Luna’s rage was so powerful, she felt like it could fuel two of her, maybe three. Her eyes darted around the small room. She checked the closet, searched the corners, even ducked down and checked beneath the bed.

Owen, eventually: “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Looking for a weapon,” Luna said, as if that was the most obvious of things.

Griff felt like he was the only adult for miles, and the weight of that burden exhausted him. He knew he had to set a tone. “Luna, sit down. No weapons.”

Miraculously, Luna listened. She sat in Owen’s desk chair. Griff found Owen’s suitcase on the top shelf of the closet. He opened it on the bed and told Owen to pack. Owen moved the suitcase to the floor and climbed under the covers.

“No,” Owen said. “I’m too tired.”

Luna started to pack for him. She figured he’d be gone for a few days, tops. Griff sat down on the edge of the bed and watched Owen pretend to sleep. He could always tell when his brother was faking.

“Who did this, Owen?” Griff said.

Griff repeated the question. Luna was watching, attentively waiting for an answer. Owen’s eyes opened at half-mast. He shook his head and said, “Doesn’t matter.”

Then he looked at Luna for the briefest moment. She nodded slightly. An understanding was reached. Neither ever spoke of it outright, but they were very much on the same page and it all boiled down to this: What happened to Owen was ultimately Luna’s fault. Luna accepted blame and would pay off the tab.