The Measure of the Moon

by Lisa Preston

  PRAISE FOR THE MEASURE OF THE MOON

  “A powerful follow-up to Orchids and Stone, Lisa Preston’s The Measure of the Moon is a beautifully rendered story—in fact, two stories—which weave together the certainty of how our actions and choices affect one another with far-reaching consequences.”

  —Lisa Scottoline, New York Times bestselling author

  “No good deed goes unpunished: that’s the moral of the story in The Measure of the Moon by Lisa Preston. Young Greer Donner helps a desperate stranger, and that brave act sends his life and the lives of everyone around him spiraling out of control. Atmospheric and suspenseful, this noir thriller will keep you turning the pages well past your bedtime. I thoroughly enjoyed it!”

  —New York Times bestselling author Karen Robards

  “The Measure of the Moon is the mesmerizing and deeply moving story about family and the secrets that spill out when one little boy happens to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. With spare and lovely writing, Lisa Preston asks whether we can ever truly overcome the ghosts of our past in order to reshape our future.”

  —Carla Buckley, bestselling author of The Good Goodbye

  “Part mystery, part domestic suspense, The Measure of the Moon is a compelling story of love, lies, and stunning revelations that will remain in the reader’s mind long after the last page is turned.”

  —A. J. Banner, bestselling author of The Good Neighbor and The Twilight Wife

  PRAISE FOR ORCHIDS AND STONE

  “a riveting tale … intertwining the past with the present”

  —Booklist

  “mesmerizing”

  —Carol Cassella

  “gritty and powerful”

  —Jo-Ann Mapson

  “lyrical writing and nuanced characterization”

  —Kate Moretti

  “fast-paced, gripping read”

  —Laura Moriarty

  OTHER TITLES BY LISA PRESTON

  Orchids and Stone

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2017 by Lisa Preston

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503937574

  ISBN-10: 1503937577

  Cover design by Damonza

  For Jessica

  CONTENTS

  THE STRAIT

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  READER’S GUIDE TO The Measure of the Moon

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  THE STRAIT

  CHAPTER 1

  Joyriding done right meant stealing home when nobody suspected, then slipping away for a solo backcountry gallop. When miles passed with no one in sight, it felt like the high point of eight-going-on-nine-year-old Greer’s life. He laced his fingers through Clipper’s mane, leaned forward, and drummed his heels on the sweating horse’s bare ribs.

  Being a man would feel like this, he guessed, hoping to spy a hawk from the summit. They earned a view of faraway fields dotted with homes. He could see his school beyond the woods and farms across the distant two-lane highway. Fifteen miles north, the ground gave way to the Strait of Juan de Fuca, and from where Greer sat, the lighthouse looked like a ship. The strait did more than separate land from sky. Cold salt water under the horizon buffeted islands belonging to two countries. Beyond lay endless Canadian soil. Behind him, countless American mountains stacked their way to the Salish Sea.

  Clipper snorted and stamped one front hoof. Greer steadied him with the two lead ropes he used as reins, then closed his eyes to soak in the scents. A breeze stirred, skittering leaves across the trail. The gelding blew and jumped sideways, flinging Greer from its back.

  In the split second as the ropes pulled through his fingers and he went airborne, Greer heard hoofbeats signal the horse’s mad dash. Several thoughts crashed through his mind. The fall was going to hurt. He shouldn’t have lied and taken Clipper without permission. That morning, Papa had made him promise to be cleaned up and presentable by dinnertime because everyone was going to be there for the big gathering. And there wasn’t a kid on earth in more trouble.

  Wincing, he brushed the dirt from his shoulder and hip. The hard landing, a launch into the willows tossing him smack onto his side, smarted. On the inside of his calves and thighs, his jeans were wet from the horse’s sweat, and the wind chilled him.

  Holding his breath, Greer heard nothing. The telltale sound of flung rocks no longer echoed. Please let the horse be okay. He’d catch an earful when he got home.

  There was another problem. Golden, crunchy maple leaves drifting trailside warned of waning days. In November, daylight died early, pitch by five o’clock. Greer couldn’t make the many miles home before dark. Walking would take three or four hours.

  Wishing his boots were better broken in, he started jogging down the mountain trail, summing things up with what he planned to be his last words for hours so he could save his wind for the task at hand. “Dang it, Clip.”

  Ever since he could remember, everyone made it clear to Greer that the best thing about being the baby of the family was having plenty of big brothers and sisters to help him out. It seemed to him more like he had a dozen parents. His three brothers and two sisters were all grown-ups and had husbands or wives or boyfriends or girlfriends, which brought all sorts of other people to the table for the big dinners. Caroline, the mother of his sister-in-law Maddie, acted like an aunty, too, because she was Momma’s best friend. Even though Momma and Papa were the only ones he lived with, it was hard to get a moment’s peace.

  A long hour later, Greer realized that too much thinking took away his stride and home wasn’t getting closer quick enough to suit him. The river crossing was coming up and he’d still have a few miles to go.

  Maybe the forest roads would be faster than the skinny trails. The old logging roads that his big brother Doug called scars in the land were a lot longer, but flatter. He could probably make better time on them, and they weren’t as confusing as all the intersecting dirt trails. If he were in a hurry and a-horseback, he’d definitely ride forest roads and push the horse. He nodded, pleased to have a way to make better progress and by dusk, was enveloped in the sound of the river’s riffles, scouting a place to ford.

  The water ran wider here but shallower, not as fast as above the foothills. Greer slid one foot at a time in the cold crossing. In a knee-deep hole, his boots filled, but he stayed methodical even as the din of rushing water roared in his head.

  Scrambling up the east bank, he couldn’t help but think how much he’d have fel
t like a man if he had Clipper under him, riding through the water like it was nothing. Shivering, he sat between two giant ferns to dump the water out of his boots. The sound of tires crunching on gravel then spinning caught his attention.

  An expanse of dying daylight beyond heavy tree trunks made him realize that one of the dead-end forest roads lay just forty yards ahead. Maybe he could get a ride or, if the driver had a cell phone and could get service out here, he could call his parents.

  Screams. He heard terrified screams, angry shouts, and more odd sounds. Frozen, Greer held his breath to hear better, but couldn’t understand the noises and felt a sudden pang about the creep of nightfall. He pulled his boots on, paused to listen, then stalked to the last of the trees bordering the forest road’s ditch.

  The gravel track was a dead end. A big black SUV, its driver’s door gaping open and headlights on, blocked a small passenger car in the dead end. Two voices came from between those cars, a man and a woman. Shouts and cries.

  Hunkered in the ditch, Greer saw and heard it all. The glare of the SUV’s headlights lit up the sight of a man in a suit roaring at a woman in a dress and a turtleneck. She cowered. He drew back one hand and belted her solidly across the right side of her face, deflating her last cry, sending her to the ground. Greer’s stomach clenched.

  Realizing that the SUV’s headlights protected him from being seen, Greer crept closer, pausing at the open driver’s door. A silver pistol lay tucked between the floor and the leather driver’s seat.

  This SUV was the kind of truck-like beast Doug called an urban assault vehicle, whatever that meant. New and fancy—without knowing how he knew this, Greer could be sure of it all the same—it seemed too clean to have ever before been on the dirt roads that laced these mountains. From the backseat of the other car came the sound of a baby crying.

  The woman squealed, “No, no, no,” her cries increasing until the man buried his boot in her belly, muffling her pleas to a grunting bleat.

  Someone ought to say something, Greer thought. Someone ought to do something. But there was no one else. Averting his gaze from the beating, Greer heard another kick, another groan. He eyed the shiny revolver, thinking about a rule, a big one: Never pick up a gun without direct, immediate permission from the adult in his family who stood right there that minute.

  There were lots of rules with guns. Think of all guns as always loaded. That was another rule. Sure, he knew the rules. And he knew double-action revolvers cold. He knew this heavy one would take both hands to fire, and even then, he wouldn’t be a good shot. He just wasn’t big enough yet, not for this gun. This was like not being able to help Gram into the saddle. Someday, he’d be big enough for everything, like his brothers and sisters. That someday wasn’t now, but now a big man was beating a woman into the ground. Now was when somebody should do something.

  Greer frowned. Only a minute ago, he’d been carefully crossing the river and thought he was alone in the woods. He’d have liked to run into some other people.

  Thud. The next kick was followed by the woman retching. The baby in the car screamed. This had to stop.

  Greer took the revolver, kneed the driver’s door shut, and walked toward them, both hands pointing the pistol at the man’s belly.

  “Sir, you shouldn’t do that.”

  The man lurched without moving his feet, jerking his fists back as he gaped.

  Greer stepped past the woman and didn’t let himself wonder too long about the wet spots and dirt on her clothes. He swiveled and stopped beside her car, the revolver’s muzzle never faltering from the mean man’s stomach. Wasn’t gut-shooting the worst? He didn’t want to do it. He’d never pointed a gun at a living thing before. He knew better, like knowing better than to fight with someone smaller. Like knowing not to kick someone, especially someone on the ground, especially a girl. Everybody knew better than that.

  The man stared openmouthed, blinking at the business end of his own pistol.

  Finding the man too big to stare back at, Greer kept his focus where he kept the pistol pointed, on the center of the man’s body. Still, the man didn’t speak. Neither of the grown-ups talked, but gosh, that baby in the car’s backseat was a screamer.

  “You go on now, ma’am.” Greer felt the tension in his jaw, heard the catch in his voice. He tightened his two-handed grip on the pistol.

  She made a choking gasp, heaving for breath between sobs. Her hair hung in her face and she swayed as she pushed herself onto her bleeding knees.

  Sick. The smell of someone being sick filtered out her mouth when she stumbled close. Greer felt his stomach turn, but things seemed a little better when she slumped into the car’s driver’s seat.

  Her sudden stillness and silence made him nervous. She should leave, go home. Like he wanted to.

  “You have a safe trip,” Greer said. That’s what Momma and Papa always said when someone drove away. His peripheral vision caught her mouthing something incomprehensible, shaking her head then freezing.

  Nothing happened.

  Desperate, Greer asked in soft terror, “Don’t you have people, ma’am?”

  Her tires spun and the car rocketed forward, the right wheels crumbling the edge of the ditch, the left mirror an inch from scraping the big SUV as she fled. If Greer hadn’t already shut the door, she’d have hit it. Or stayed behind.

  The man yelled an unholy shriek and kicked gravel as the car’s taillights disappeared. “You, you little fucker!”

  Keeping his body very still, Greer chewed his lower lip.

  The man pointed at him. “Put that gun down right now.”

  Greer didn’t think about whether or not to obey. He crossed the distance to the SUV’s grille, felt the headlights’ heat on his body, and noticed the overbright blaze on his guts while setting the pistol on the hood. Something cut into the beam right behind him. A large hand came down on his shoulder, spun him around.

  “Where the fuck did you come from? What are you doing out here, you little shit?”

  The man rocked with fury, the stunning effect of looking at the bore of his own revolver evaporated. Greer found himself now the one with no idea of what to do or say.

  “What’s your name?” The man grabbed the pistol with one hand, flicked the other against Greer’s chest.

  Greer took a sideways, balancing step against the SUV’s grille, scared to silence.

  “I said, what the fuck is your name?”

  He could pretend the man hadn’t meant to push him. “I … I’m Greer Donner.”

  “Oh, Greer Donner, is it?” The man’s voice sneered, mocked.

  Greer wondered what he’d said wrong. He knew what to do when a grown-up caught him at something and wanted to know his name. Give it all up. He nodded. “My parents are Ardy and Bella Donner. We live over on the old Ingle place by the end of—”

  He gasped as the man grabbed the front of his shirt and shoved him sideways, sent him staggering across the road, tripping into the ditch. The man kept coming, and Greer scrambled backward until he hit a tree. His back rubbed against a big fir now, and he liked that more than a car grille against his spine.

  The man shoved the gun’s barrel into the front of his slacks. Greer knew that this wasn’t an okay way to carry a gun, but he didn’t say anything, even when the man demanded, “Do you know who I am?” And then a two-word shout that sounded like a threat. “Do you?”

  “No, sir. I … I’ve seen you in town, I think. Maybe.” Greer’s uncertainty was honest confusion. Was he being called out for his manners, for not knowing the man’s name? For interfering?

  “What did she say to you?”

  Greer shook his head. “I didn’t understand.”

  “Greer Donner,” the man said, in a way that seemed bad, like it wasn’t enough and he was owed more. “Say your family’s names again.”

  Greer repeated his parents’ names. He gave up his brothers’ names—Ben, Doug, and Frankie. He named his sisters—Clara and Emma—and told the man about the ext
ra kind-of sister he had because Doug was married to Maddie who was called a sister-in-law, but seemed like another big sister or an aunty. Then he remembered to add Clara’s husband, Wes, even though Clara and Wes lived in Seattle, so he didn’t see them as much as he saw Ben or Doug or Maddie. Greer wondered if he should mention Emma’s boyfriend or Ben’s boyfriend, or any of Frankie’s girlfriends who came to holiday dinners when Frankie wasn’t in California. Should he name Maddie’s mother, since Caroline was like an aunty? Should he mention his gram? He tried for a smile instead. It would pay off, this being good, giving respectful answers to the mean man. It had to.

  “If you ever speak of this to anyone, I’ll hurt them all.”

  The man’s gaze mesmerized Greer as much as the words dropped his jaw. He knew a man speaking the truth when he heard it. This man was telling the truth. And it seemed the man had more talking to do. “You understand me?”

  Greer held his breath. His head whipped because the man yanked his shirtfront, twisting the fabric, forcing a fist into Greer’s chest. Thrust against the tree this hard, Greer couldn’t breathe.

  “I asked, do you understand me?” The man leaned his face into Greer’s. The rosy nose, framed by thick eyebrows and a bristling moustache, had black hairs curling from the nostrils.

  Greer nodded because he’d cry if he spoke.

  “Answer me. If you ever say anything to anyone, they all die.”

  Greer wished the man would quit saying it. He got it. His chest shook and tears rained down his cheeks as he nodded, his lips helpless to form a whimpering response. When the man released his shirt, Greer crumpled to the forest floor and felt his guts rumble in the most warning way. He hoped he didn’t mess himself.

  “Nothing happened here. Got me?”