The Last of the Moon Girls

a crease between her brows. “You think so?”
“I don’t know, but it’s worth a try. Eight years isn’t that long. Someone in this town knows something, maybe something they don’t realize they know. Asking questions might jog some memories.”
“Might jog a lot of things.”
Lizzy glowered at her. “What does that mean?”
“It means there are two sides to every sword. You’ll be digging those girls up for everyone to look at all over again. Folks might not take kindly to that.”
“Maybe not, but I can’t tiptoe around the truth because it might make someone uncomfortable. I did that once. I stuck my head in the sand and let this town bully my grandmother. I’m not doing that again.”
Evvie smothered a snort. “Your gran said you were feisty. She wasn’t lying.”
“Do you think I’m wrong?”
“No, I don’t. In fact, I know you’re dead right. But what you’re talking about—poking around, asking a lot of questions—could get messy, and the odds of getting at the truth are pretty low.”
“I know. But when I leave here, I’ll at least be able to say I tried.”
Evvie returned her glasses to the end of her nose and picked up the half-strung thong of beads. “Any idea where you might start?”
Lizzy blew out a long breath, mulling the question seriously for the first time. “I hadn’t really gotten that far, but I suppose the police station is as good a place as any. I need to get a sense of where the police left things, and how open Chief Summers might be to reopening the investigation.”
“Him,” Evvie grunted.
“I know. Good luck getting any help on that front. But I need to try. I’ll go tomorrow—before I lose my nerve.”
“Your gran would be proud.”
Lizzy’s throat tightened. How she wanted to believe that. “Would she?”
Evvie reached across the table to give her fingers a squeeze. “Don’t you ever doubt it.”
Lizzy had plenty to think about as she slipped out the mudroom door with a pair of secateurs in her pocket and a basket over her arm. Evvie was right. Things would get messy when people found out she was back, and intent on raking up the murders.
Salem Creek had always prided itself on its reputation, proud to be dubbed a “true slice of Americana” by Yankee magazine, and perennially named to New England Journal’s “Best Tiny Towns” list. But a pair of dead girls had put an end to that. She couldn’t imagine the locals being particularly happy to be reminded of Salem Creek’s abrupt fall from grace—or that the blame had been laid squarely at her grandmother’s door. But now that the idea of clearing Althea’s name had taken root, there was no walking away. There were broken things that needed mending—and no one left but her to see to them.
As she crossed the yard, she spotted Andrew down on one knee in front of the greenhouse, rooting through his toolbox. He lifted his head. Their eyes met briefly. Lizzy looked away, quickening her pace on the way to what remained of Althea’s wildflower garden. She’d spotted a few blooms among the weeds and thought it might be nice to bring a few inside.
The pickings were slim, not enough for a full arrangement, but they would do for a few small jars on the kitchen sill. She foraged through the overgrowth, gathering speedwell and crane’s-bill, wild clary and musk mallow, dropping the blooms into her basket. She would have liked a few cornflowers—the deep blue would be a nice contrast to the pinks and fuchsias—but there were none to be had.
It made her sad to see this particular garden so neglected. Althea had always had a particular affinity for wildflowers, perhaps because they gave so much and asked so little. For those on the Path—often dubbed pagans by the uninitiated—everything was sentient, fully aware of its role in the divine circle of birth, growth, life, and death. Althea had taken comfort in that, in the tides and seasons that made up their year, the belief that nothing was wasted or useless, that everything had a time and a purpose, and when that time was over, that purpose fulfilled, their essence lived on, and embraced some new purpose.
It was why the Moons chose to scatter their ashes on their own land, so that a part of them would always live on in the soil. Lizzy had never given much thought to the custom but took comfort in the knowledge that Althea had become an enduring part of the ground beneath her feet. Still, she deserved better than a dismal patch of weed-choked earth. She ran an eye around the garden. It wouldn’t take much, a few hours and a handful of tools. Maybe it was silly—like Andrew repairing the greenhouse—but it felt right somehow, a labor of love for the woman who had raised her when her mother couldn’t be bothered.
Before Lizzy could talk herself out of it, she was crossing the field toward the drying barn, where Althea kept an assortment of rakes and spades. She dragged the crossbar from its bracket and yanked at the door. It gave finally, with a rusty groan. She stepped inside, inhaling the ghosts of a thousand harvested flowers. They were gone now, the drying racks and screen frames all empty, but their memories remained, hovering like spirits in the cool, dry air.
It took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust, but eventually she was able to make out shapes in the gloom. The tools she had come for hung just inside the door, but she ignored them, moving instead to the long wooden counter along the back wall, where she used to make her perfumes.
It was an amateur’s work space, a dusty collection of borrowed supplies and makeshift equipment, but seeing it again made her strangely nostalgic. The truth was she missed those early days of trial and error, the delicious serendipity of discovering something new and utterly unexpected. There weren’t many surprises at Chenier. In fact, she