But none of them made me feel like I was about to be shipped out on a boat to Russia in the dead of night. Or maybe I was just nervous to be out with Fen after dark. I wished I’d told someone where I’d gone. Not because I was actually worried about being out with Fen. But if I’d told someone, then I wouldn’t feel guilty.
I could text someone now. Not my dad. Maybe Starla?
“You okay?” Fen asked. “You’re checking your phone.…”
I shoved it in my pocket. “Nope, all good. What’s with all the security cameras? This isn’t a human trafficking ring, right? FYI, I’m worth nothing as a kidnapping victim.”
“Another thing we have in common. My dad would probably pay kidnappers to take me away.” He hit a buzzer on the back gate at the top of the deck’s stairs. “Yo! It’s us, man,” he said into a speaker. “Let us in.”
“Where’s my near-mint?” a low voice replied. “You promised me a rose garden, Fennec.”
“Let us in, and it’s yours.”
“You better hold the dog until we see how Peaches and Herb take to it,” he warned.
Didn’t like the sound of that. Frida stayed tucked under my arm as we entered the gate. I spotted Peaches and Herb—two longhair cats who quickly jumped to higher ground when Frida barked—and their owner, a biracial old hippie who looked a little like the man who ran the Sierra Mono Indian Museum near the giant sequoia tunnel tree where dad and I take our photo every summer.
“Moonbeam Bowland, this is Jane Marlow,” Fen said, walking us into an outdoor living room.
“Heard a lot about you,” the man said, giving me a reserved but kind smile.
Alot? That made me nervous. I glanced at Fen. He glanced at the lake. Frida barked at the cats, who were perched atop a bamboo shelf filled with plants. “Quiet!” I scolded. “It’s ten o’clock at night. You’ll wake the neighbors.”
“No neighbors to wake,” Moonbeam assured me.
“Welcome to hermit life, Jane,” Fen said, sitting on one of the couches. “Moonbeam is a vegan vampire who watches the lake all night,” he said, gesturing toward a telescope that sat near the deck’s railing, pointed toward the other side of the lake. “So if you need to know if anyone’s dumping bodies, he’s your man.”
“Condor’s been body-free for a decade,” Moonbeam assuredme, gesturing for me to have a seat. “All clear since Mrs. Abrams dumped her husband.”
I was pretty sure they were joking, but nottotallysure. “Should I ask…?” I sat next to Fen, letting Frida explore around our feet, but keeping her leash wrapped around my wrist.
“Abrams didn’t kill him. She was just cheap,” Fen explained. “No money for the funeral.”
I grimaced. “This town is so strange.”
“That’s what’s great about it,” Moonbeam said, sitting across from us in a recliner. He squinted at me, and it was a little awkward. Warm light spilled over his shoulders from his house, and I tried not to look inside, but there were shelves filled with records, and something was playing on his stereo that I didn’t recognize.
“Penguin Cafe Orchestra,” Fen volunteered. “Moonbeam doesn’t listen to anything past 1985. He’s a walking, talking time capsule.”
The man ignored that. Maybe he didn’t care because he was too busy staring at me, which was a little uncomfortable. Then he clapped his hands. “Breathless! Jean-Luc Godard. What was her name? Jean Seberg. That’s who you remind me of, with your hair.”
I touched the nape of my neck, fidgeting, before I realized what I was doing. “Oh? I haven’t seen that. I’ve heard of it. It’s important, or something? French.”
“French New Wave,” Moonbeam said, nodding. “Groundbreaking and shocking, about two lovers—an ugly young criminal who thinks he’s tougher than he is, and the girl he’s in love with, beautiful and bubbly on the surface, but actually might be as nihilistic as he is.”
I shook my head, unable to tell if he was paying me a compliment. “You’re not selling it to me.”
“Jane’s not big on nihilism. She likes fluff and Christmas lights,” Fen explained.
“What a coincidence, all your favorite things,” Moonbeam teased.
Fen flipped him off and leaned his head close to mine, pretending to talk conspiratorially but speaking loud enough for the man to hear: “Honestly, he’s like this all the time, so don’t expect his manners to get better. But he does subscribe to your no-selling-out philosophy. Moonbeam loves music and hates money.”
“Wrong. I don’t hate money,” Moonbeam said. “It pays for what I need, no more, no less. Beyond that, it’s useless. Why do I need gobs of it? I don’t leave here.”
“Ever?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Fen didn’t tell you about me?”
