Chapter Three

At dinner the next night, Nora looked up from her soup. "Oh, Allen—you still haven't changed your study safe password, have you? It's still Luna's—"

Glass shattered.

Everyone froze.

Red wine soaked into the white carpet.

"Don't say that name." Allen's voice was quiet, but every word came out like broken glass. "Don't ever say it again."

The room went dead silent.

I shut my eyes.

The memories hit me like a sledgehammer.

The design department basement.

Allen and I crammed into a closet-sized space, sharing one beat-up sewing machine. I sketched, he cut patterns. At 3 AM we'd eat instant noodles with cigarette ash floating on top.

"Luna, we're gonna make it," he said.

"Says who?"

He grabbed my hand and drew a wonky ring on my palm with a Sharpie. "Promise ring."

I laughed so hard I started crying.

Our first show.

A model tripped, her dress tore. Allen ran onstage and got on his knees in front of three hundred people to fix it. Cameras went nuts. Next day's headline: "New Designer's Desperate Save: Passion or Publicity Stunt?"

Backstage, I held his head against my chest. "Let's just quit."

"No." His eyes were bloodshot. "We keep going until nobody can laugh at us anymore."

The "Moonlight" collection took off.

At the party, Yvette threw her arms around both of us. "I knew you guys would make it!"

She was my college roommate. After graduation she went into fashion magazines. During our basement days, she was the only person who visited.

"Need money? Just ask," she always said. "I know people."

Allen didn't want to. "I don't like owing people."

"Yvette's family," I told him.

We got married and had Flora.

Yvette was my maid of honor. When she fixed my veil, her eyes got watery. "Luna, you better be happy."

That night, Allen held me drunk and said, "We finally have a real home."

Home.

Fast forward.

The brand expanded. Allen traveled all the time. Yvette quit her magazine job and joined us as PR director.

"Family's better," Allen said.

That's when I started hearing things.

Employees whispering: "Ms. Harper goes to business dinners with Mr. Allen until like 2 AM."

Suppliers joking: "Mr. Wilder and Ms. Harper make quite the team."

I asked Allen.

He got annoyed. "Yvette's helping us. Stop being paranoid."

I asked Yvette.

She grabbed my hands, looked me right in the eye. "Luna, you're my best friend. How could you even think that?"

I believed her.

Because she was Yvette. The girl who ran out in the rain to get me Advil when I had cramps. Who held me together at my dad's funeral.

I got pregnant again.

Yvette brought over a crib. While she was putting it together, she said, "Luna, doesn't it seem like Allen's been... distant lately?"

"He's just busy."

"Too busy to answer your calls for three days?" She kept screwing in bolts, not looking at me. "I saw him at Murphy's last week, totally wasted. His phone kept ringing and he just turned it off."

My stomach dropped.

When Allen got home that night, I confronted him.

He exploded. "Are you spying on me now?"

"Yvette saw—"

"Yvette again?" He laughed, but it wasn't funny. "How many things has she 'seen' that she just had to tell you about?"

We slept with our backs to each other that night.

Then came the worst night.

Pouring rain. I was four months pregnant, holding the ultrasound from my appointment.

My phone buzzed: "Come to the studio. We need to talk."

The studio was in this dead arts district outside the city. Allen rented the whole top floor for his sculpture work.

I pushed open the door. Everything was black.

I reached for the light switch.

Something cracked against the back of my skull.

I hit the floor. Blood ran down my neck.

Through the blur, I saw someone in the doorway.

It was...

"Why..." I tried to talk but something was crushing my throat.

Pain everywhere.

Couldn't breathe.

I opened my mouth to scream. Wet plaster poured in.

My chest was on fire.

My last thought—

The baby.

I'm sorry, baby.

Mama couldn't save you.

Allen's phone rang, snapping me back.

"Right now?" He stood up. "Yeah, okay. I'll be there."

He hung up and grabbed his jacket.

"The police?" Yvette asked.

"Yeah." Allen headed for the door. "They said it's urgent. Want me to come in again."

He opened the door. Cold air rushed in.

I floated in the doorway, listening to Yvette's voice from inside: "Flora, bath time. I'll tell you a story."

I slipped through the door and followed Allen's car.

The wind went right through me.

I knew that soon he'd be standing under those harsh police station lights, seeing what they'd pulled from my dead hand—the tiny recorder that caught everything. Including my last words: "I love you."