Owen texted Mason after that.
Weird shit is going on here. Mind warp kinda shit.
Sorry, man. In a meeting. Call you later?
Owen, desperate, texted his brother.
Where are you?
Still upstate. Get an attorney yet?
No.
Jesus, Owen.
Call you later.
Owen drove down to Rhinebeck to meet with Irene’s financial adviser, Cliff Easter. The office was on the second floor above a health-food store. Owen climbed a narrow staircase and was greeted by a middle-aged man with shaggy brown hair. He wore a Grateful Dead T-shirt and an old green cardigan.
“Owen. Nice to see you. So sorry about Irene. Come in.”
Owen followed Cliff into a modest office that was equipped with a mismatched collection of standard office furniture. It felt like a statement about how one should use one’s money.
“Have a seat,” Cliff said, after clearing a stack of papers from a beat-up swivel chair.
“Thanks,” Owen said, sinking into the chair and rolling back a bit.
“I can’t fucking believe she was shot,” Cliff said.
Owen, so startled to hear someone say anything beyond the standard sorry for your loss, could only manage to blurt out, “Yeah.”
Easter got right to it: “I know you’ve been in touch with Mr. Bloom. Probate should take under a year, depending on the timeline for the art auction. I assume there were no surprises.”
“No,” Owen said.
“Was she buying the art for you?”
“Excuse me?” Owen said.
“Irene had made a number of large cash withdrawals from her personal brokerage account in the last year.”
“How large?”
“About thirty thousand, total.”
“In cash? Why?” Owen asked.
“She said she was buying art.”
“She wasn’t,” Owen said. “At least I don’t think she was. And why would she pay cash?”
“I asked her that same question.”
* * *
—
Owen’s mind swirled with vague conspiracy theories as he sat in his car outside Cliff’s office. There was no obvious reason why Irene would need large sums of cash. She wasn’t the kind of person who hid money in a shoebox. Then again, Owen also hadn’t thought Irene was the kind of person to have an affair. Or the kind of person who wouldn’t remind you that you’d actually met them fourteen years ago.
Owen needed Luna. He texted her, waited five minutes, and texted again. Nothing. He drove to a pub nearby, parked, and entered the dim establishment.
Owen was halfway through his first beer, and Luna still hadn’t replied. He knew she wasn’t busy. Maybe she was driving, he thought. He remembered that Luna had recently tracked his location. He opened the app and saw her somewhere on Route 9. At first he thought she was at the Sleep Chalet, but the icon traveled south. In fact, Luna appeared to be heading right toward his current location. Knowing she wouldn’t text while driving, he called. The phone rang four times and went to voicemail.
* * *
—
Luna heard her phone ringing as she drove to Griff’s place. She stopped along the way to pick up a bottle of wine and noticed that it was Owen who’d called. She didn’t bother to check the message. Back on the road, her mind drifted to the past, to subjects she hadn’t thought about in ages. The memories had a power that was both thrilling and deeply uncomfortable. At some point along Route 9, Luna noticed the car behind her. It was dark out, but Luna could still see that the headlights behind her belonged to an SUV. The driver kept a safe distance between them, which she noted because she always felt like people were either tailgating or damming up the roadway. The SUV also got her attention because Owen had mentioned his police escort. She wondered if they were now following her. Maybe the cops thought she and Owen were in on it together. She wondered when all of this would be over. Luna’s GPS told her to turn left in half a mile. After the turn, she checked her mirror again. The SUV was gone.
Luna followed a narrow country road for half a mile. A full moon cast a glow over the heavily wooded lane. Her GPS told her she’d reach her destination in a quarter mile, then in eight hundred feet. Then it told her she had reached her destination. She spotted a reflector and a narrow private drive. Luna slowed to a crawl and made a sharp right turn onto an unpaved path. After a jostling ride surrounded by dense brush, she came into a clearing with a two-story yellow farmhouse lit up in the center.
Luna parked the car and killed the engine. Griff stepped outside and waited on the porch. Sam the dog greeted her as she strolled up to the house.