“I was cleared a few days ago.”
“Be careful,” Mason said.
Luna thought he was talking about more than her driving. “I will,” she said.
Mason carried luggage to the car. Casey turned back at the foyer and leveled her gaze at Luna.
“There’s a full moon tonight. Don’t forget to look up. You never know when it might be your last,” Casey said.
Casey was telling Luna to live in the moment, to enjoy the easy gifts that life offered. But Luna couldn’t help but feel a faint threat in the subtext.
November 2019
Leo Whitman had no idea who had killed Irene. He’d hoped it was Owen. If convicted, Owen would lose his claim on Irene’s estate and Leo might have a better chance at contesting the will. After hiring Amy Johnson as his assistant, Leo managed to convince her that Owen was the most likely suspect. Leo suggested Amy record her conversations with Owen.
“If you got him to confess, you’d be a hero,” Leo had said.
Amy tried, that one time. Owen didn’t confess. And he never spoke to her again. Amy wasn’t sure what the old guy’s angle was. She worked for him for two weeks and quit when her first paycheck bounced.
No one had called Leo Whitman to tell him that Luna was shot, Irene’s killer was apprehended, or that the case was closed and the police would stop knocking on his door, suggesting he was capable of murder. He had to read about the gunman in the paper. For Leo, the story boiled down to one clear fact: Irene was dead because of Luna. As he’d said, where there’s Luna, there’s Owen. He blamed both of them. At least Luna paid a price. She was shot. Leo got drunk one night and called Owen. Leo had a few things to get off his chest. Before he could say a word, Owen interrupted.
“Irene told me about you. A long time ago. I remember now. You fucked her when she was a teenager. Then you married her mother. Don’t ever call me again.”
The police came to Leo’s house a few weeks later. That awful middle-aged woman and that boy.
“What can I do for you, Detectives?” Leo said.
“It’s what we can do for you,” said Noah.
“I just want to give you a quick refresher on the law,” said Burns. “Blackmail is illegal.”
“What is your point?”
“We know you were blackmailing Irene. The DA is currently deciding whether to press charges.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Leo said. His hand tremor increased, like the signal on a metal detector.
“You found out that Irene was having an affair with Sam Burroughs,” Noah said.
“And?” said Whitman.
“You used that information to extort money from her,” Burns said.
“No. I simply asked for what was rightfully mine,” Leo said.
“If that’s your defense, you should discuss it with your attorney. It’s not our business,” Noah said.
Before the detectives departed, Burns said, “In case you were curious, the statute of limitations for felony blackmail is five years.”
In the car, heading back to the station, Goldman said, “Feel better?”
“I do,” said Burns.
Irene
On October 7, 2019, at seven twenty-three a.m., Irene left the house without a word to her husband. This was not how she wanted it. Irene liked niceties, customs, simple rituals. She thought couples should kiss on the lips before they parted, even if the return was imminent. But Owen had set a precedent for something very different.
The first time Owen disappeared on Irene was six months into their marriage. Irene had last seen him in the kitchen. She went upstairs to take a shower and when she returned, he was gone. A mug of lukewarm coffee sat on the island; the sliding glass door to their back porch was slightly ajar; even the shoes she thought he was wearing lay marooned down the hallway. His car sat cold to the touch in the driveway. It seemed to Irene that Owen had simply vanished, taken by a supernatural entity. Owen had said nothing about an appointment or heading to the studio. When Irene called his number, it went straight to voicemail.
Whenever Irene needed Owen’s behavior explained, she’d go to Luna.
“Owen likes to disappear,” Luna said. “It can take some getting used to. If he’s not getting in touch, don’t assume he’s dead. That’s the best advice I can give.”
It took a full year for Irene to accept the fact that there was no curing Owen of this condition. Irene retaliated by disappearing herself, finding a small thrill in not having to tell someone where she was going or when she was coming back. When Irene and Sam started their affair, it was a seamless arrangement. She didn’t have to account for time or arrange alibis. It required no extra effort whatsoever. It was too easy, Irene thought. Then Leo found out by chance. He was driving by the Sleep Chalet and spotted her car. He parked and waited, because there was no good reason for her to be at a motel. He tried to take a photo of Irene and Sam leaving together, but he was terrible with his camera phone. Leo had the nerve to spend Irene’s money to hire an investigator to take proper, incriminating photos.