The Killing Moon: A Novel

She squinted, nearly blind, the day so bright. "Sleeping alone is so boring."

"Look at me."

She couldn't. Her eyes were stinging and watering over.

He handed back her glasses. She put them on and waited until she could see him good again. He was looking at her forearm. The sweatbands. He reached for her wrist, and she pulled back before he could touch it.

He didn't like that.

"You listen now," he said. "Don't ever come to my house again. But especially don't think you can hit up and then come by. That's not how I live here. You want me to bust you right now?"

"Oh, that would be good. Yeah, go ahead. Rookie cop busting his sergeant's girl."

"You want to talk, and I mean talk, you page me. You have the number. Otherwise you wait for me to get in touch with you. Understood?"

"Understood," she said back at him, with sixth-grade petulance. She took out some aggression swatting at a fly buzzing around her head. "So, what, am I even going to get a ride back home?"

He looked at her like she knew better.

"Hard-ass," she said. "Can I at least use your bathroom first? I'm serious, the toilet's stopped up at my dad's. The plumbing quit—I'm serious. He dug a latrine outside last night. Don't make me pee in the woods. Pretty please? You can wait out here, where it's safe."

Maddox stepped aside. "Make it fast," he said.

She curtsied and flipped him off and walked up the steps past him.

8

TRACY

TRACY MITHERS SAW Donny Maddox out in front of his house, so she left her pickup in the driveway rather than use the remote garage door opener he had given her. She followed the flagstones to where he waited with his hands in his pockets, a tank shirt baring his arms, shorts baring his legs.

My man.

Seeing him at the parade that morning and not being able to talk to him was murder, and how the day had dragged on since. The hours she stole each week to be with him were her life now. The rest of the time was just waiting. She wanted to bound up to him and leap into his arms, but something about the way he was standing outside alone in the sun slowed her.

"What's wrong?" she said.

He shook his head, a strange look on his face, a tension. He glanced at his screen door. "Nothing's wrong," he said. "But I don't know if you'll agree."

"Okay," she said, still smiling but confused. "What does that mean?"

"Remember what I said to you when we first started this? That I would be straight with you? That I would never lie to you, no matter what?"

She remembered, all right. They had been in his bed. He had been studying her hand, fingers entwined with his. He had kissed the underside of her wrist, her beating pulse.

He said, "I promised you that, right?"

Now she was getting scared. "Yes."

His screen door opened and a woman stepped out, wiping wetness from her chin as though she had just slurped water from a sink tap.

A bomb went off. The planet cracked open with a tremendous, shuddering roar, and Tracy stood in a deep crater of earth now, the heated air buzzing around her with smoke and steam.

The woman saw Tracy and stopped. They recognized each other.

Oh my God.

Wanda Tedmond.

"Ha," said Wanda, stopping. "What do you know?" She looked at Donny with surprise that, by the time she looked back at Tracy, turned mocking. "Tracy Mithers, right? The llama girl."

Tracy stared at the skinny girl's filthy bare feet.

Wanda walked down the steps and across the stone landing to the grass. "I helped myself to some water, hope that was okay."

She was talking to Donny. Familiar with him.

Her toes were wide-spaced and short and ugly. The nails were unpainted and ground down. The dirt around the bottoms of her heels looked congealed with blood.

Wanda said to him, "You should have told me you were expecting someone."

Her collarbone stood out like a hanger on which her overwashed blue tank top hung, her bony legs rising into beige, Juniors-department Adidas shorts with white piping held up by no hips at all. She wore sweatbands on her forearms like she was a rapper, and a pair of men's sunglasses sat perched on the bridge of her nose, chrome-rimmed, wide and obnoxious on her underfed face.

Tracy looked at Maddox. He looked right back at her.

"Tomboy cutoffs," Wanda said, eyeing Tracy. She wasn't at all flummoxed by the awkwardness of their encounter. "The farm girl look. That works, huh? Once you scrub all that llama shit off your knees, I guess."

The artlessness of the insult stunned Tracy. They had no history Tracy was aware of, good or bad, none at all. If she was exacting revenge, it was not at Tracy's expense: it was at Donny's. And that shocked Tracy even more.

"Anyways," said Wanda, "I wouldn't want to intrude. Just stopped by to say hi." She smiled at Donny and started away, passing a few steps wide of Tracy. "Bye."