Owen couldn’t move or speak. He just stared at Sam, which was making Sam incredibly uncomfortable.
“I thought I should be the one to tell you,” Sam said. “Sorry. It’s not like you were the most faithful husband.”
Owen kept staring. Sam strode down the hall to the front door. Owen didn’t follow right away. Sam, impatient, opened the door and cleared his throat. Owen slowly got up and ambled toward the foyer. He felt unsteady, his psyche split between reality and dull hallucination. Sam noticed Owen’s strange gait and lack of focus.
“You cool?” Sam said.
Owen thought Sam was asking if they were cool, if Owen was cool with Sam fucking his now-dead wife. Owen never liked the guy, never understood why Luna would marry him. If he had been more lucid, didn’t have a potential murder charge on his back, he might have done something bold right then, like smash Sam’s head against the front door. Instead, Owen merely stepped outside. It was for the best. He would have lost just about any physical match against Sam.
“Where’s Luna?” Owen said.
“I told you. A motel. I guess we’re splitting up.”
“Sorry,” Owen said.
Owen cracked a smile. He wasn’t trying to be a jerk. He simply couldn’t control his subconscious response to the news. Then he started to laugh. It was nerves, sleep deprivation, and day drinking. But to Sam, it read as pure cruelty.
“Fuck you, Owen,” Sam said.
Even after he slammed the door, he could still hear Owen laughing.
March–August 2004
The official cause of Scarlet Hayes’s death was a subdural hematoma. The district attorney, after two months of poring over witness interviews, forensic data, and autopsy reports, decided not to pursue any criminal action. Detective Oslo knew Mrs. Hayes would not be satisfied. There was no convincing the bereft mother that her daughter’s death was a tragic accident. Mrs. Hayes would always believe that Scarlet was murdered by her ex-boyfriend, Owen Mann. And Scarlet’s mother was not alone. Despite articles in the local paper and repeated statements from authorities that contradicted her narrative, the consensus on campus was that Owen was a murderer who got away with it.
Owen spent a night in the hospital after the assault. His parents came out and hired an attorney. A lawsuit was filed. Owen refused to return to campus. Arrangements were made for him to finish up the semester remotely. Vera and Tom decided that Owen and Griff would live in the Berkshires house while Griff studied for the bar and Owen finished his sophomore year. Luna offered to deliver classwork—notes, assignments, tests—from campus to the lake house on weekends. Casey was generous about loaning her car. Mi Peugeot es su Peugeot, she liked to say.
While Owen recovered from his wounds, Luna and Griff packed up his dorm room. As they carried boxes to and from Watson Hall, no one offered to help. Griff felt the tension, the simmering anger that hovered nearby. He’d never experienced that kind of thing before. Luna and he worked at a breakneck pace to get it over with. There was a lot of staring and hovering near the car. Luna kept reminding Griff that he had to lock it between loads. They were just about done, heading back into the dorm, when a beefy guy knocked shoulders with Griff.
“Sorry,” Griff said, assuming it was an accident.
“Fuck you,” the guy said.
Griff spun around and caught sight of the very large man. He was young, face budding with zits, but big enough to do some damage.
“Is there a problem?” Griff asked, not in that tough-guy way but earnestly.
The guy stood there sizing him up. Luna had a bad feeling. She yanked Griff’s arm. Told him they had to go. Now. They rushed upstairs and locked the door to Owen’s room behind them. They performed one final check of the closets, dresser, under the bed, took the last two boxes down the stairs, and loaded them into the car. The large man and a few of his friends were loitering near the driveway, watching them. As they approached, Luna leaned into the car and grabbed a tiny canister from her purse. Her palm wrapped around it, index finger hovering on the trigger. Luna, arm outstretched, waved the threat in front of her.
“Have you ever been pepper-sprayed?” she said, lunging forward, forcing their retreat.
Griff circled the car, opened the passenger door, and whispered to Luna, “Get in the car now.”
She backed into the passenger seat, waving her arm back and forth. She only released her grip on the canister when she closed the door. Griff jumped into the driver’s seat, hit the locks, started the engine, and quickly pulled out of the driveway, lead-footing it as soon as they hit the road.