The Last of the Moon Girls

by Barbara Davis

  The taller of the two, Landry, switched on his Mag, aiming the beam straight at Andrew’s face. When he was satisfied, he flipped it off again. “Hey, Andrew. Ms. Moon around?”

  “She’s at my place. She’s a little shaken up. She didn’t actually see the guy’s face, just his silhouette, but it scared the hell out of her. She thinks he may have cut the power.”

  “Looks like he pulled the main disconnect at the fuse box. We can’t reconnect it until the fingerprint team does their thing, but we went through the place room by room. No one inside. Probably took off the minute he knew he’d been seen. Most of them do. But he did leave us a souvenir.”

  Andrew felt an uneasy prickle slide up the back of his neck. “What kind of souvenir?”

  “The sharp, pointy kind,” Clark chimed in. “Must have dropped it on his way out. Nasty thing too. Come have a look.”

  Andrew followed Landry and Clark around back. The mudroom door was still open, presumably awaiting the print team. Landry flipped on his Mag again, aiming the beam at the base of the stone steps. “There ya go. Like I said, nasty thing.”

  Andrew followed Landry’s light. Nasty was right. It was an unusual knife, nine or ten inches in length, slender with a stainless handle and a curved, sinister-looking blade.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “It’s called a breaking knife,” Landry supplied. “Hunters use them to butcher game. They’re good for severing cartilage and bone.”

  Andrew shoved away the images suddenly flooding his brain. “And he was carrying it?”

  “Unless it belongs to the Moons. It could, I suppose.”

  “They’re vegetarians.”

  Landry cocked his head. “Come again?”

  “The Moons—they’re vegetarians. They’d have no need for a knife that breaks bone.”

  “Gotcha. I’ll make a note of that. The techs should be here soon to process the scene. They’ll take it with them, run it for prints, ID the manufacturer. We’ll check out local suppliers, though I doubt it’ll tell us much. This is deer country. There are probably dozens of these around town. Then again, we might get lucky.”

  A white SUV pulled in behind the squad cars and cut its lights. Clark nodded toward the drive. “I’ll go brief ’em on what we’ve got.”

  Andrew watched him go, then turned back to Landry. “You guys know what’s been going on, right? The threats Lizzy’s been getting?”

  Landry nodded. “Everyone knows. It’s all over the papers. Summers isn’t any too happy about it either. Says it’s not good for the town’s image.” He paused, watching the print team file in through the mudroom door with their equipment, then turned his attention back to Andrew. “About Ms. Moon. I know you said she’s all shook up, and didn’t really get a good look at the guy, but we’ll need a statement for the report.”

  “Sure. We’ll set something up tomorrow. I’m going to try to convince her to stay at my place tonight. I don’t think she should be alone.”

  “Good plan until we’ve got a better handle on what this was. Could just be some punk looking to pinch a stereo for meth money.”

  Andrew eyed Landry squarely. “It wasn’t, though, was it?”

  Landry’s chin dropped a notch. “No. Probably not. We’ve got a car sweeping the neighborhood, but so far nothing. Tomorrow we’ll knock on some doors. Maybe we get lucky and somebody saw something, but it’s probably going to come down to whatever the scene techs find. We’ll lock up best as we can when they’re through, and have someone keep an eye on the place overnight. You never know, the guy might realize he dropped his knife and come back.”

  Andrew took his time walking back to the house. He needed time to digest what he knew so far. He couldn’t get past the fact that the intruder had waited until Evvie and Rhanna were away. The break-in could have been random, but did a guy looking for stereos and pocket change go to the trouble of cutting the power? Or come equipped with a hunting knife?

  No, this was personal.

  Whoever it was had been hunting Lizzy, and he’d come much too close to catching her.

  She was asleep when he returned, curled awkwardly in the chair with the blanket tucked under her chin, her face relaxed in slumber. He should wake her, fill her in on what he knew. But after the night she’d had, he wasn’t sure he had the heart. There was nothing more to be done until morning. He was still weighing the decision when her eyes opened.

  “You’re back,” she said, her voice thick with sleep.

  “I’m sorry I woke you.”

  She sat up, wincing. “Did the police come?”

  “Yes, but whoever broke in was long gone. They’ll need you to go through the house in the morning, see if anything’s missing. The fingerprint team was still there when I left.” He paused, wishing he didn’t have to tell her the rest. “They’re pretty sure he was carrying a knife.”

  Lizzy wound her fists into the blanket, cinching it tight to her throat.

  “The police found it on the ground. They thought it might be from the house, but I told them that was unlikely.”

  “Why unlikely?”

  “It was a breaking knife. The kind hunters use to butcher deer after they shoot them.”

  Lizzy nodded slowly.

  Andrew watched as her eyes glazed over, fairly sure he could guess what was going through her head. She was imagining what might have happened if she hadn’t gotten away, if he’d chased her into the woods, if he’d caught her. He’d been imagining it too.

  “You’ll stay here tonight,” he told her firmly. “The police will be watching the house for a few days, on the off chance that he comes back. No one thinks he will, but it’s what they do after this sort of thing. Tomorrow we’ll go down to the station and see what else they found. Summers has to take this seriously now.”

  “You think the man in my kitchen tonight killed Heather and Darcy Gilman.”

  Andrew’s first instinct was to say no, but there was no point in sugarcoating things. “I think it’s hard, given everything that’s happened, not to put two and two together.”

  “And you think he wanted to kill me.”

  “I think what happened tonight was about more than just wanting to scare you, Lizzy.”

  Her eyes flicked away from his, but he could tell she thought so too. She may not have a name yet, but she’d apparently found her killer.

  Or, rather, he’d found her.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Lizzy winced as she patted her skinned knee dry. It had begun to smart in earnest now. In fact, every inch of her seemed to be feeling the effects of her panicked dash through the woods. She was bone weary, her limbs sore and quivering like jelly, but at least she was clean.

  And safe.

  She hadn’t bothered to fight Andrew on spending the night. Nothing short of a shotgun—and probably not even that—would have convinced him to let her go back to the house. Not that she’d wanted to. He’d been as solicitous as any nursemaid, offering to make her tea, or scrambled eggs and toast. She had declined both; the mere thought of food left her queasy. But he’d hit on something when he suggested a long, hot shower.

  He’d shown her to the guest room and bath, then bid her good night, only to reappear moments later with a pair of men’s pajamas, a toothbrush, Band-Aids, and antibiotic ointment. Now, as she buttoned herself into his borrowed pajamas, she found herself wishing she’d taken him up on the eggs. Not because she was hungry, but because she wasn’t ready to turn off the light and close her eyes. She was too skittish for sleep, her nerves like overtuned violin strings.

  A man in her house. And a knife. The kind used to butcher deer. What if she hadn’t awakened when she did? She shoved the thought away, looking around for a distraction, something to help her wind down. Sadly, Andrew’s guest room had little to offer. She went to the door and peered out. A slice of light showed beneath one of the doors at the end of the hall. Andrew’s room, presumably. She padded down the hall, pajama bottoms clutched in her fist to keep them f
rom sliding down around her ankles.

  The door opened as soon as she knocked. “Is something wrong?”

  “No. I just . . .” She glanced away, feeling awkward at having encroached on his personal space. “I don’t think I can sleep. I was wondering if you had something I could read. A magazine, maybe.”

  “Sure. Yeah.” He scraped a thumb back and forth over his chin, darkened now with a shadow of stubble. “Most of my books are packed up in the basement, waiting for me to build some shelves, but I should have something lying around. Come on in while I look.”

  Lizzy stepped into the room, making a quick and—she hoped—discreet survey. It was sparsely furnished: a king-size bed with a tufted suede headboard, a single nightstand and lamp, a chest of drawers with a mirror to match, and, stationed near the window, a drafting table with an adjustable lamp clamped to one end.

  “Slim pickings, I’m afraid,” he called over his shoulder, as he sorted through the stack of magazines on the nightstand. “You have your choice between last month’s Architectural Digest or a dated issue of Old-House Journal, which features an absolutely fascinating article on brownstone restoration.”

  Lizzy put a finger to her lips, pretending to weigh her options. “Let’s go with Old-House Journal. I adore a good brownstone restoration article.”

  “Well, then.” Andrew handed her the magazine with a flourish. “You’re in luck. Though I feel I should warn you. It’s pretty steamy stuff.”

  “Thanks,” Lizzy said, suddenly shy. “I was surprised your light was still on. You’ve got Boston tomorrow.”

  “I had a few last-minute details to clean up.”

  “At four in the morning?”

  He shrugged. “I do some of my best work late at night.”

  “Right. Sorry. I’ll leave you to it.”

  She was almost to the door when he stopped her. “You could stay if you want. Stretch out with your magazine and read for a while. You won’t bother me.”

  Her eyes slid to the bed, then back to Andrew, hating that he’d sensed her reluctance to be alone. “Are you sure?”

  “I am. As long as you promise to turn the pages quietly.”

  Lizzy smiled, grateful for his attempt at levity. “I promise.”

  She waited until Andrew was back behind his drafting table to lie back against the pillows and open the magazine. She wouldn’t stay long. Just until she felt drowsy. As it turned out, it wouldn’t take long. She struggled through the benefits of in-kind repair versus patching, and the various components required to create a proper patching mix, but when it came to the specific parts of lime versus mica, her eyes began to glaze over.

  She looked at Andrew, head bent over his blueprints, the stubby end of a drafting pencil caught between his teeth. He was the hero she never wanted, the friend she had come to trust, the risk she was still afraid to take. And yet there was a part of her that found the thought of him—of them—tantalizing. With Andrew, there would be no need to keep any part of herself hidden. He knew exactly who she was—and he wanted her anyway.

  He was staring at her, she realized, a crease between his brows. “Everything okay?”

  Lizzy felt her cheeks color, embarrassed to have been caught staring. “Everything’s fine.” She closed the magazine, set it aside, and swung her feet to the floor. “I think I’ll be able to sleep now.” She pushed to her feet, preparing to leave, then stopped. “Thank you, Andrew.”

  He stood and came around to the front of the drafting table wearing a lopsided smile. “Glad it did the trick. Next time I’ll try to have something a little more interesting on hand.”

  “I didn’t mean for the magazine. I meant for tonight. And the day before yesterday, at your office.” She glanced down at her toes, peeking out from under the borrowed pajamas. “And for the night at the fountain. I never said it, and I should have.”

  “I meant what I said on the steps last night, Lizzy. About being here for you. You never have to say thank you to me.”

  “But I want to.” She looked away, speaking quickly, before she lost her nerve. “The other night in the barn, you said you’d waited twenty years. Did you mean it, or were you just flirting?”

  “You told me I wasn’t allowed to flirt with you.”

  “So . . .”

  “Yes. I meant it. I have been waiting, and I’ll keep waiting, because I can’t seem to help myself.”

  Lizzy held up a hand, afraid of what else he might say, and even more afraid of what she might say. How had it happened? She’d been so careful, so determined to keep him at arm’s length. But it had happened. Somehow, while she wasn’t looking, she’d dropped her guard and let him in.

  “Talk to me, Lizzy.”

  Her eyes skittered away from his. What was there to say that she hadn’t said already? And yet none of it had mattered, because here she was—here they both were. She shook her head, trying to comprehend what was happening. “It feels like I’ve been pushing you away for half my life. You’d come over with your dad and I’d disappear until I knew you were gone. The night at the fountain, when you pulled me away from the crowd, and I said all those terrible things. The time at homecoming assembly when you came and sat next to me, and I bolted like you had the plague.” She shook her head again, cheeks warming at the memory. “You were always trying to rescue me.”

  He smiled sheepishly. “I wasn’t trying to rescue you. I was trying to pluck up the courage to ask you out. Never got around to it, though. You had a real knack for shutting me down.”

  “You scared me to death. I guess you still do. The idea of you—of us. I don’t think I knew that until tonight. But I know it now, and . . .” Her eyes shifted back to his, mere inches from her own. “What if it turns out to be a mistake, Andrew? What if we turn out to be a mistake?”

  “We might. But I think it’s worth finding out, don’t you? If I’m not what you want, I’ll walk away, and that’s that. But not because it’s scary.” He paused, reaching for her hand. “We’re all scared, Lizzy. And we all make mistakes. That’s how it works. We just keep trying until we get it right.”

  “What about you?” She searched his face, not sure what she was looking for. “Have you ever . . . gotten it right?”

  He glanced down at the carpet, then back up again. “Almost.”

  It wasn’t the answer she’d been expecting. “What does almost look like?”

  “Like a girl I met in college. Dianna. She was smart, pretty, fun. Perfect, really.”

  “What happened?”

  He shrugged. “She wasn’t you.”

  Lizzy stared at him, too startled to reply. He’d said it without batting an eye.

  “It’s always been you, Lizzy. Since the day I saw you coming out of the woods with your hair full of leaves, like something from a fairy tale. You didn’t say a word. You just stood there staring at me. And that was it. I was in love with the girl next door.”

  “Andrew, I can’t . . .”

  “I know,” he said quietly. “I’m not asking you to. But stay with me. Even if it’s just for tonight.”

  Lizzy looked down at their hands, his fingers and hers warmly woven. It would be so easy to let this happen, to simply disappear into him for the night. “Just for tonight,” she whispered. “That would be enough for you?”

  “No. But it’s more of you than I ever thought I’d have.” He touched her face, his palm warm against her cheek. “Stay with me.”

  He kissed her then, with bone-melting slowness, laying waste to the last of her resistance. Something in her let go, like the snick of a lock springing open, the moment of decision suddenly behind her. It was happening. This reckless, glorious, disastrous thing was happening.

  His hands were in her hair, his breath a ragged half moan as his mouth blazed a slow, sweet trail down the slope of her neck, the soft, pulsing hollow of her throat. She reached for his shirt, dragging it up over his head, then let her hands roam his chest, the hard, flat planes of his belly. He smelled of soap and shampoo
, but there was no missing the earthy musk of sandalwood and warm amber radiating from his skin. She breathed him in as he undressed her, pausing to kiss her between buttons, until the pajamas he’d lent her an hour before lay puddled on the carpet. There was only desire between them now, a searing hunger that left no room for words.

  They eased down onto the bed, a tangle of need and clinging limbs. His eyes never left hers as he laid her back, palms, smooth and warm, skimming the hollow of her belly, the curve of her hip, the smooth, soft slope of her inner thigh, as if he were trying to memorize every inch of her. She closed her eyes, wanting to pretend none of it meant anything, but it would be a lie. This wasn’t Luc. Or any other man she’d ever been with.

  She heard her name, and felt it too, rasped warmly against her throat, pulling down the last of her barriers. She would regret it all in the morning. Perhaps they both would. But in this moment there was nothing but the feel and smell and taste of him. And the abandon of a moment that might never come again.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Andrew pulled the truck to the top of the drive and cut the engine. “Sit tight while I go in and look around. Until we know more, I think we should err on the side of caution.”

  Lizzy watched as he disappeared around the side of the house, relieved to have a moment alone with her thoughts. The last twelve hours were still such a jumble. Waking to find a prowler in the house, her panicked flight through the woods, falling into bed with Andrew.

  Her cheeks tingled as she remembered their bodies in the darkness, the dizzying sense of inevitability, like a tide rushing toward shore. She’d been swept away, drowned in the moment. But now, in the light of day, the tide had gone out again, leaving her to navigate the aftermath of last night’s weakness.

  He had awakened her with coffee and a plate of scrambled eggs. She’d never had a man make her breakfast, let alone bring it to her in bed, unless she counted Luc showing up on the occasional Sunday morning with bagels from Luesden’s bakery.

  They had eaten in silence at first, sitting cross-legged on Andrew’s bed, with her doing her best to keep her mouth full, and Andrew sneaking sidelong glances between bites of toast. He was being tactful, she realized, waiting for her to bring up what had happened between them. Because at some point they would need to talk about it—about what it meant, and what it didn’t—but so far, she’d been spared that conversation.