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"Tricky?"
It's not her. It's Luna. Why the fuck is Luna calling me?
"I'm out front. Open up," she says.
"How did you get my address?" I ask.
"It's in your file," she says. "Buzz me in first."
"Go away."
"Try again."
I give her the code. I end the call. I check for any contact from Imogen.
There's something.
An entry on her site.
The notification is there, in my email, on my home screen.
Blazed into my brain.
I get up, move through my morning routine, meet Luna at the front door.
She's standing in the sun, the same vivacious, easy to tease, impossibly hip friend (she's rocking a floral sundress and white kicks). "Since I owe you one." She holds out a takeout tray of coffee.
She's the same as always.
I'm the one who's different.
I let her in.
She steps inside, sets the coffee on the table, takes in the place with wide eyes. "Wow, Tricky, this is nice."
"It was Deidre's."
"I figured."
"The books?"
"Yeah."
"'Cause I don't read?" I ask.
"Don't act offended." She slips into a chair and turns to face me. "I've never seen you read, so I found the stocked shelf strange, then I saw the books teenage girls love, and I… guessed."
"I've read most of them."
"I'm sorry," she says.
"It's okay. You're right—"
"About Deidre. Dare told me what happened last night. That it wasn't an accidental overdose. I… I'm really sorry."
"Dare knows?"
She looks at me funny. "Yeah, he said you used to cry about it when you got drunk."
