“I had to get an abortion. The next day,” Luna said.
Griff took a step back. His face went slack. It was impossible to read.
“I’m sorry,” Luna said. “I don’t know what you would have wanted or said—”
“You should have told me,” Griff said.
“Maybe, but it wasn’t about you and me. It was only a few months after Denver, after seeing him. All I could think was that I had his DNA. I could never, ever have a kid. I was coming to terms with that, trying to figure out a way to deal. The only thing I could think of to feel better was to have that surgery to—”
“What? You did that?”
“Not back then. I was too young. I couldn’t find anyone. I just had the abortion. The whole thing messed me up. I didn’t want to tell you, because you were dealing with your dad. Then Owen and I were talking and he said you’d want kids and I knew I wouldn’t have any.”
“You see any kids, Luna?” Griff said, angry.
Luna was still trying to make sense of it all. “We hadn’t spoken in a while. I sent you a text when I was starting to feel better. I figured you were done with me, but I wanted to be sure. I thought maybe you were just busy. I think I texted you and asked if you wanted to talk. You replied. I remember. It was something like We don’t have to be friends.”
“That was a week after you ended it.”
“How did I end it?” Luna asked.
“You sent me a breakup text. Something like This isn’t working. I tried to call you and you wouldn’t answer. It was a long time ago. I don’t remember all the details, but you definitely broke up with me,” Griff said.
“I didn’t send that text,” Luna said.
Luna felt nauseous. Griff’s anger surged. Both had drawn the same conclusion.
“Are you sure?” Griff said. “Because if you didn’t—”
“Fuck,” Luna said, wiping a tear from her eye.
“You believe me now? Owen did this. You see that, right?”
“I don’t know,” Luna said.
“He didn’t want me in his life anymore. I doubted him. He was worried that my doubt was contagious. He was okay without me. He wasn’t okay without you,” Griff said.
If Luna believed Griff’s accusation, it wasn’t just a blight on Owen’s character. Luna would have to reckon with her own role in the matter. Had she given an alibi to yet another murderer? She dug in her pockets for her keys and stumbled toward her car. She could hear her own breathing, like she was wearing earplugs. She felt faint and couldn’t decide if she needed more or less oxygen.
Luna had, once again, been forced to reconfigure her image of Owen. She finally had to accept that she’d gotten him all wrong. Liar and manipulator didn’t necessarily signal murderer, but she couldn’t stop herself from making that mental leap. It was the first time in her life she’d ever really doubted Owen. The doubt crept into everything.
Griff kept saying Luna’s name. He felt invisible. Luna opened the car door, then turned back to Griff.
“Do you really think Owen has it in him? You think he killed her?”
“Which one?” Griff said.
August–September 2005
Owen suddenly became the golden child—or, perhaps, the only child—after Griff accused his mother of murder, manslaughter, or illegal euthanasia. Whatever it was, Griff wanted to know. He hadn’t bothered tiptoeing around the issue. He’d asked point-blank. And based on Vera’s defensive response, her conscience was not clear. What was clear to Vera was that Griff was a monster for accusing her of such a thing. How dare he? Even after Griff explained how his suspicion came about—from Owen—Vera’s ire remained focused on her elder son.
The brothers’ dispute didn’t arise from a misunderstanding. They understood each other just fine. Their conflict was based on two different worldviews.
Owen’s: Let’s say Mom did kill Dad. It sucks, but what are we gonna do about it? Turn her in? Dad was about to die anyway. And maybe she didn’t want him to suffer.
Griff’s: WTF? If Mom killed Dad, that’s not okay. I’m not suggesting we call 911 and have her taken away in cuffs, but we should, at the very least, get to the bottom of it and make sure she knows that offing people isn’t okay.
* * *
—
Owen didn’t have a solid post-London plan. He thought about applying to art schools as a transfer student, but they all required letters of recommendation. He couldn’t even imagine reaching out to anyone from Markham. After two months under the same roof as Vera, Owen’s priority was just getting out of Boston.