“Truth,” Owen said, leaning forward and steepling his fingers like a villain. “Luna Grey is going to tell the truth.”
“My question,” Scarlet said.
Owen’s amusement quickly shifted to concern when he noted Scarlet’s greedy expression. Scarlet made a show of pondering her question. In truth, she didn’t have to think too hard.
“Go for it,” Luna said, sheepish and impatient.
“Who is sending you hate mail and why?” Scarlet asked.
The silence that followed wasn’t a simple lull in conversation. It was like a void, as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room.
Luna felt ice-cold and turned white as a sheet. Owen’s face morphed into a mask of pure hate. Scarlet caught a glimpse of his expression and turned away. She bit hard on the inside of her lip to mask the pain she felt inside. Griff prepared for the tidal wave that was about to break.
“You fucking bitch,” Owen said.
A tear slid down Scarlet’s cheek. She stumbled to her feet and raced up the stairs.
Luna kept her eyes on the rug. She knew that Owen was the only person she had ever left alone in her room. Digging deep enough to find the letters was enough of a violation. But he’d told Scarlet. That was a betrayal.
“Go after her,” Griff said to Owen.
“Luna, look at me,” Owen said.
Luna looked up. “Go after her,” Luna said. “I’m fine.”
Owen left. Luna sat as still as possible and willed herself not to cry. Griff took her wineglass, washed it out in the bathroom sink, and refilled it with water.
“Hydrate,” he said.
Luna gulped down the water. Griff refilled the glass.
“You probably want an explanation,” Luna said.
“No, I don’t,” said Griff.
“Why not?”
“Because I know who you are.”
October 9, 2019
Luna had already texted Owen a few times Wednesday morning. She hadn’t thought to check the tracking app, assuming he was still asleep. After a few hours, she grew worried and walked over to his house. His truck sat in the driveway. Luna rang the bell and put her ear to the door. Nothing. An engine purred behind her. Luna turned and saw a red Mini Cooper taking a slow roll down the street. The car paused for a moment in front of Owen’s place and proceeded to the end of the block. A brown-haired woman sat behind the wheel.
As Luna walked back home, she phoned Owen’s number again. This time, a female voice answered.
“Luna,” said the woman.
“Did I call the wrong number?” Luna said, checking the screen.
“This is Detective Burns. I apologize for the confusion. We’re processing Owen’s phone. I saw you were calling.”
“Where is Owen?”
“We have him here,” Burns said.
“Are you arresting him?”
“For what?”
Luna felt like she needed a lawyer for the impromptu conversation. Then she realized that so did Owen.
“Would you mind coming down to the station?” Burns asked. “I have just a few more questions. I promise it will take no more than ten minutes.”
* * *
—
Leo Whitman had been expecting a call from the police. When they did phone, he was as accommodating as he could be. As far as Leo was concerned, no one knew Irene as well as he did.
Whitman sat in an uncomfortable metal chair under hideous fluorescent lights, sipping from a cappuccino he’d grabbed on the way to the station. A tall, handsome woman in a gray suit entered the room. Leo loathed pantsuits, but this detective almost pulled it off. She sat across from him with her own mug of coffee.
“Thank you for coming in, Mr. Whitman.”
“Of course. Anything for Irene.”
“How did you know the deceased?”
“I was married to Irene’s mother. Chantal Boucher passed in 2011.”
“So, you were Irene’s stepfather?”
“Technically, I suppose. I hardly took on any paternal responsibilities. Irene was a grown-up when Chantal and I wed.”
Margot opened her notebook and wrote Leo’s name at the top. He was wearing a remarkably cloying cologne. She was curious if his sense of smell was impaired.
“Do you have allergies?” Margot asked.
“Excuse me?” Whitman said.
His neck straightened like a turtle’s, and his eyes registered confusion and offense.
“Not important. What was your relationship like with Irene, if not like a daughter?”
“Let’s say more like a little sister.”