Owen typed: Yes.
Owen deleted all texts exchanged that day and the notification of Griff’s call. He hung on to the phone for the rest of the night, waiting for Griff to send one final message, leave a voicemail, make one more attempt at repairing the relationship. Owen was split in two regarding his own behavior. One side experienced the natural guilt and fear of doing something so utterly wrong. The other side was so angry at Griff that he just didn’t care. Owen didn’t think Griff and Luna would last anyway. If they were over, really over, he might save her some future heartache. That’s what he told himself.
It was so simple. Too simple, Owen thought. For months after, he was afraid of being caught. With time, he recognized the depths of his betrayal. One thing comforted him, though. If they were meant to be together, it shouldn’t have been that easy to break them up.
October 16, 2019
As Luna drove away from Griff, she scrolled through the past seventeen years, revisiting key memories, reconfiguring them with a new set of parameters.
Sending that text was so calculating, such an extreme betrayal, that it briefly eclipsed the whole murder thing. That text changed her life, Griff’s life. Why? What was the point of it? Because Owen liked having Luna all to himself? The leap from liar to murderer isn’t easy or obvious, but lying was a crime that Luna could deal with head-on.
When she showed up at Owen’s front door, her cheeks ruddy from tears, her eyes narrowed in rage, he couldn’t register what was happening. His brain was still tripping over his forgotten night with Irene. What it meant. Why she never told him.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Owen said, turning back inside his house, waiting for Luna to follow. “I got a copy of the picture. You need to see it.”
He picked up his phone and found the photo.
“I know,” Luna said, pacing back and forth in his living room. “I know what you did. Griff told me.”
It took Owen a moment to get out of his own head, his own skewed timeline.
“What did I do?” Owen asked.
He wasn’t sure what Griff had told her. He didn’t know whether to confess or deny.
“You—you broke us up,” Luna said. “You sent a text from my phone.”
Owen had dreaded this moment for so long. He should have been more prepared. “Let me explain,” Owen said, even though he wasn’t sure he could.
“How could you do that?”
“You were twenty-one. It was going to end eventually.”
“That wasn’t for you to decide. Why’d you do it?”
“I don’t know. There was a lot going on back then. I thought I was doing you a favor.”
Luna was trying to get a read on Owen’s behavior. He was explaining, but it was all matter-of-fact. Sometimes you’re too tired for panic. That was the stage Owen had reached.
“You didn’t feel guilty?” Luna asked.
“Not that guilty,” Owen said.
What Owen would have said if he’d had time to think about it was that Luna thought too hard about being good. Thinking about being good didn’t make you good. Sacrificing individual happiness didn’t make the world a better place.
Luna felt dizzy, an anger so intense that she almost understood a murderous urge. Was that how it worked?
“How did you know what Scarlet was wearing the night she died?” Luna asked.
Owen shook his head, disappointed. He wasn’t sure until that point how much past dirt Griff had kicked up. “Who’s asking? You or Griff?”
“I’m asking,” Luna said. “How did you know?”
“One conversation with Griff and now you think I’m a murderer?” Owen asked.
“Why won’t you answer the question?”
“Because you’re not asking me what you really want to know. If you’re going to accuse me of something, have the fucking balls to say it.”
“Fine,” Luna said. “Did you kill Scarlet?”
“No,” he said.
“Did you kill Irene?”
Owen wasn’t expecting that. Clearly, Griff had gotten into her head.
“You’re the only murderer in this room,” Owen said. “You’re still Luna Brown, and at least one girl would be alive if it weren’t for you.”
Owen felt like an asshole. Not once in their entire friendship had he picked at the scabs of her past. But Luna didn’t care anymore. There are only so many blows you can absorb before you stop feeling the individual punches and all the pain melts together.
Luna turned around and stumbled toward the front door. Everything was coming out wrong, Owen thought. Watching her leave, Owen wondered if this was really the end. To lose Irene and then Luna, in less than two weeks. He wasn’t sure he could handle that. But he also wasn’t sure if he loved Luna enough to forgive her for the accusation.
Luna opened the door. The day was so bright, you could see the dust particles in the air. She stepped outside, blinded by the sun and her own tears. She walked down the steps to the street. She didn’t see the man standing behind his car until he shouted at her.
“Luna Brown,” the man said.
That’s what she would remember later—hearing the name she’d tried so long to escape, twice in one day.
She turned in the direction of the voice, squinting. She heard the shot before she saw the gun or hit the ground. Her perception of time went askew. Like each individual moment was on a card and then those cards were shuffled. She stared at the last card, diagonal stripes of cirrus clouds on a bright-blue sky.
* * *