The Moon Stands Still Read online

  Eleanor called out from the kitchen. “Marvelous, where are those blasted caterers! I can’t have people going hungry!”

  Dutiful as his pretend self, the marvelous pilgrim clacked back to the kitchen.

  I walked around the table, counting out the plates, moving the water goblets, wondering what effect these costumes would have on my mom. Maybe, given how weird everyone was on her ward, this meal would just seem like an extension of the asylum.

  The doorbell rang again, and a pit lodged under my ribcage. I tried to take a deep breath and heard someone exclaim, “Wow, what a cool outfit!”

  Lani.

  I relaxed and set out the champagne flutes. I wasn’t much of a drinker, but right now I’d guzzle an entire bottle of bubbly if it would get me through this dinner. In the background, Lani was introducing her husband Mike, and Eleanor was introducing Marvelous. I glanced at Madame. She lifted her sleepy dark eyes.

  “It’ll be fun.”

  She sighed.

  I went back to the plates.

  When the doorbell rang again, I set the silver butter knives next to the bread plates and whispered a prayer. “Please, no drama.”

  In the foyer, the voices fell to a low murmur. Polite. Formal. Here it comes. Lani and Mike Margolis had never met my mom. And with my bad habit of keeping my private life very, very private, my friend was probably going to be confused.

  “Raleigh!” Eleanor was trumpeting toward me. “Are you still in the dining room?”

  I released the remaining bread knives, leaving them in a pile on the table. Last thing I wanted my mom to see was me holding anything that resembled a weapon. I whispered another prayer and watched the open doorway, my heart twisting.

  But it wasn’t my mom.

  “Jack?”

  His face looked gaunt, pale. And his stance was off-balance, compensating for his wounded shoulder. But his eyes. Oh, Lord, his eyes. They grabbed me.

  “Jack, what are you doing here?”

  “Eleanor said I had to come.”

  I could kill that pilgrim. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. My mom’s—”

  “I have to talk to you.”

  “Now?”

  He stepped toward me. “It’s about us.”

  My heart twisted again. Madame raised her head. Everything in this room—the gleaming silver, the polished table, the dog and me—everything felt expectant, waiting. “Jack, now is not a good time.”

  “Just hear me out.”

  “Any second now, things are going to get really, really complicated. My mom—” I stopped. Hispanic jockeys, two Pilgrims—and now what if she recognized Jack from our fateful cruise to Alaska, when her mind snapped? Not good. “Can’t we talk later?”

  “No, you’ll run away. Again.”

  I took a step back. “I didn’t run away.”

  “Harmon, I know you’re mad at me. You think I should’ve told you how I suspected Grant. But think about it—what if I was wrong about him? What if I sent you down a rabbit trail that ruined any chance for you to make amends with the Bureau?”

  “Wrong.” I set a knife next to the bread dish. “You didn’t even ask me if I wanted to take that case.”

  “You had to take it.”

  My temper flared. “I had to?”

  “A guy jumps out of a plane at ten thousand feet and disappears with two hundred thousand dollars—and we can’t find any evidence? Not even a lost shoe? A parachute? Something was wrong with that case and somebody needed to do something.”

  “And you nominated me. Without asking.”

  “Yes. Because each time we got a break in the case, things swung back into Grant’s control. He’d work it for a couple months, then everything would come to another standstill. That made no sense. Grant, he was The Finder. So why couldn’t he find D.B. Cooper? But nobody questioned him. He was golden. He kept breaking the big artifacts cases. And now we know why.”

  I lifted my good arm, crossing it over my waist, feeling the need to hold something inside. Fear. Worry. Sadness. All the emotions that I refused to feel. And the emotions that refused to obey. I stared down at the beautiful plates. “Alright, you’ve explained. Now you can go.”

  “I can’t go.” He closed the distance between us.

  I looked up.

  He reached for my good hand. “Raleigh?”

  My first name. It sounded strange, he used it so rarely. Letting go of my hand, he reached into his pocket and held out a small square box covered in black velvet.

  “That night at El Gaucho,” he said. “The band, the perfect steak dinner, I had it all planned out. I even had Lani lean on you so you’d actually go. And there you were…in that dress. Smiling. Looking even more gorgeous than usual. Everything was perfect. Then you dropped that bag of money on the table.” His mouth quirked up. “You are the least romantic woman I’ve ever met.”

  He opened the box. The stone was a yellow diamond. It glittered like fire.

  “Jack, you were planning to…” I couldn’t finish the thought.

  “That night, I had this ring with me. But you kept on about the money, and I decided to wait. When the money came back connected to the Cooper case, I knew you needed to pursue it. And you’re right. I didn’t ask you whether you wanted to take the case. And yes, I agreed to be platonic because I wanted McLeod to hire you.” He gazed at me. “But I still want you to marry me. Now more than ever.”

  I stared into his eyes—pools of aquamarine. I wanted to plunge into that water, disappear forever in that warm sea of love.

  And yet, I looked away.

  “Raleigh, it’s okay. Married couples can work together in the Bureau. We wouldn’t be banned from workin—”

  “Oh. I see.” My heart closed its fist. “You want me to marry you for work?”

  “No—yes—oh, God. Raleigh Harmon, why are you so stubborn?”

  As if to answer, the doorbell rang.

  This time Madame barked, sensing the tension in this room. I wanted to take the dog and run—escape—get away from this whole grand Thanksgiving and eat burgers at McDonald’s. The temptation only deepened when I heard Eleanor exclaim in the other room, “And you must be Nadine!”

  I dropped my head. Please, God.

  Jack whispered. “Hey.”

  I kept my head down, eyes closed, listening as buckle shoes clacked closer and closer, carrying forward my imminent destruction.

  “Oh, my, Raleigh Ann.” My mom’s voice. That soft Virginia accent. “Would you look at this table.”

  Jack had moved to the side of the room, near where my mother stood in the doorway. Aunt Charlotte stood behind her, signaling me about something or other. My mom’s hair was still ragged, her skin that sickly indoor hue. But the look on her face, it was … soft. Kind.

  “Charlotte told me how you saved Madame.” She looked down, Madame was making a slow walk toward her, tail dragging. “Oh, my baby. My baby’s poor hip. Can I pick her up?”

  I shook my head.

  Even though the dog was moving, the room felt still. As if we were all holding our breath. Madame, God bless her, leaned against my mom’s leg and wagged, once. My mom bent down, stroking the dog, cooing over her. “You poor baby, you’ve been through so much.”

  I glanced at Jack and pressed back the blur in my eyes.

  “Mrs. Harmon.” He limped forward. “I’m Jack Stephanson.”

  My mother straightened.

  Here it comes. The end of Thanksgiving, right now.

  Jack offered her his hand.

  Tentatively, my mother shook it. “Have I seen you somewhere before?” she asked.

  This is it. This is where paranoia will launch. I stared at Jack, pleading with my eyes. Don’t mention the cruise. Do not—

  “Because you look quite familiar,” she continued, her Southern drawl stretching out, the way her accent did when her emotions ran high. I looked around for Eleanor, but she’d apparently retreated to the Mayflower. My aunt was gone too. No Lani, either. Wonde
rful, just leave me here alone with a lit fuse—

  “Mrs. Harmon,” Jack said. “I’m madly in love with your daughter.”

  I closed my eyes. Oh. Dear. God.

  “And I don’t think I can live without her.”

  I opened my eyes. My mother was turning, slowly, toward me. Inside a pent-up breath punched my hammering heart.

  “It’s his eyes,” she said.

  “Pardon?” I croaked.

  “His eyes, they remind me of your father’s eyes. That’s why he looks so familiar.”

  I glanced at Jack, the breath releasing from my lungs. That luminous gaze. Intelligent, focused, compassionate. But never with pity.

  My mother bent down again, once more cooing over the dog. “I have missed you so much. When I don’t see you, the world just doesn’t feel right.”

  “I know exactly what you mean, Mrs. Harmon.”

  “Yes.” My mother didn’t look up at him. “I do believe you do. I can see that. Written on your face.”

  She just kept talking, but it was for the dog again. And when my aunt trundled down the hall, talking about some crystal we should all place on the table for good digestion, Lani was right behind her, asking pointed chemistry questions about this crystal because Lani had never met my aunt. Behind them both, Mike Margolis held a bottle of beer. He already looked overwhelmed. The doorbell rang one more time. The horse people.

  Now everyone was here.

  And Jack.

  “So.” Lani looked at him. “Did you finally ask her?”

  Jack nodded.

  A tussle of people milled into the room. My aunt, oblivious as always, was marveling over the place settings and the crystal goblets and telling us all how the ancient Greeks drank wine from amethyst goblets because amethyst could keep people from getting drunk. Mike Margolis nodded and smiled, politely, like my aunt might actually make sense. Lani took his hand. And my mother continued to baby-coo at Madame.

  I looked over at Jack. Amid all the noise and distraction and introductions, I stared into those passionate eyes and dove beneath that aquamarine grace. Once more I heard his voice, whispering in my hair, telling me it would all work out, eventually. Comforting me, protecting me. Loving me. Only me.

  He moved toward me. “Raleigh?”

  The question lingered. And one word pulsed up with my heartbeat. One word that flung open the escape hatch. One word that would change my life, forever.

  “Yes,” I said.

  And then he kissed me.

  There was nothing platonic about it….

  A Note From Sibella

  The D.B. Cooper case has always fascinated me. Not just how he hijacked that plane, but that he left almost no trace—he seems to have literally disappeared into thin air. But his legend lives on. After hearing that some of the stolen money was discovered on the banks of the Columbia River—yes, that really happened—I started wondering. What if Raleigh Harmon was investigating the Cooper case? She has the forensic geology skills, in the right part of the country.

  In telling this story, I trued ti keep as many factual elements as possible. But as a novelist, I took some liberties, such as with the D.B. Cooper festival. There is a festival but nothing like what I described here. Also the second bundle of bills. Nobody’s dug that up. Yet…

  Thank you for reading.

  With great affection,

  Sibella

  Want to leave a review of The Moon Stands Still? Click HERE.

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  As a teenager, Raleigh started figuring out how to use geology to solve crime. Her dad was still alive—and her mom was still crazy. The first book in the series, Stone and Spark kicks off this prequel series. And here is Chapter One from that book.

  Keep reading!

  Stone and Spark

  CHAPTER 1

  I’m avoiding every floorboard that creaks, tiptoeing across my bedroom, standing at the armoire, counting to fifteen. Because ten is never long enough.

  At sixteen, I pull out the antique drawer beneath the wardrobe’s double doors and listen again.

  The seconds tick like they’re attached to time bombs. But when nothing detonates, I slip the hammer into my open backpack, then my notebook. Two pens, some Ziploc bags.

  I do another count to fifteen, listening. Then I grab my flashlight, camera—

  “Are you in there?”

  I freeze. Her voice shrills like a fire alarm, piercing the thick wood of my bedroom door.

  “I know you’re in there.”

  Crap.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I answer. My heart feels like a clenched fist pounding on my ribcage. “I’m in here.”

  “What are you doing?”

  I glance down. My backpack, which contains my rock kit, is covered with dirt. So are my jeans and my blue Converse All Stars.

  “It’s Friday. I’m getting ready for dinner” I say to the closed door, telling myself, This is not a lie.

  “Three-oh-three!” Her voice pitches with suspicion, so sharp and pointed it pierces my room. “The clock in the kitchen says three-oh-three and I believe it, I believe it. Why are you going to dinner at three-oh-three?”

  I glance at my watch. It’s three ten. But splitting hairs with my mom is pure suicide. I take a deep breath. The air tastes of dust and antiques, the dirt on my clothes.

  “Drew wanted help with her homework,” I say, hoping she will go away.

  Nope.

  “Drew?” Her voice rings with disbelief. “Drew Levinson,” she adds, as if clarifying, even though we both know there’s only one Drew. “She wants help with her homework?”

  “For English.” I shove the backpack inside the drawer. I raise my voice so she won’t hear me closing it. “We’re memorizing a poem. By Christina Rossetti.”

  I wait, hands on the drawer, eyes closed. I’m hoping the Rossetti reference will send my mom down a rabbit trail. She likes Rossetti. The kinship of tortured souls.

  When there’s no response, my mind starts ransacking through possible responses, scrambling for those just-right words that never seem to arrive in time.

  She says, “I saw Brevaire Teager today.”

  Oh, crap.

  “Good,” I say.

  “So you know Brevaire?”

  I close my eyes. “Tinsley, her daughter. She’s in my class. Remember?”

  “Of course I remember.” She pauses, making sure I understand what she’s saying. “Brevaire also said there’s a dance tonight. At school. Tinsley’s going with that Fielding boy. They’re an item.”

  Waiting . . .

  Waiting, waiting, waiting.

  I can sense the next thing rolling toward me like a rumble of thunder right before lightning strikes. Carefully, I open the armoire doors. My school uniform lays on the floor, bunched into a ball, like some polyester meteorite hurled to earth.

  “You didn’t tell me there’s a dance,” she says. “Did you.”

  I scoop up the white blouse, plaid skirt, sliding off my shoes, shimmying out of my jeans and T-shirt.

  “Raleigh always liked going to dances. She was always happy. The sweetest girl in the whole world.”

  My fingers shake as I button the white blouse. My mouth twists. If I could, I would shout at the door—Yes, I liked going to dances because it got me out of this house!

  The door knob rattles.

  “You locked the door?! Raleigh never locked her door!”

  I lunge for the knob and whip open the door to see my mother. She is beautiful. But today the color in her hazel eyes is cloudy and she’s holding a pen and notepad.

  My eyes start to burn.

  “Let me see your foot,” she says. “Socks off.”

  She drops the notepad. It slaps the old wooden floor. I obediently yank my socks off and step on it.

  “Not that foot.” She narrows her eyes as though she’s caught me. “The oth
er foot.”

  I switch feet and she kneels down. With the pen, she traces around my heel, my instep, brushing over every toe. I hold my breath until she stands up.

  “Raleigh would be going to the dance,” she says.

  “I’m busy.”

  She flips through the pages, studying each. “What fifteen-year-old is so busy she can’t go to a school dance?”

  Do not cry. I tell the burn in my eyes to leave. Do. Not. Cry.

  “What have you done with her?” she demands.

  My hands go numb.

  “Look at your shirt!”

  I glance down.

  “It wasn’t wrinkled when you came home—what have you done with Raleigh?”

  “It’s Friday.” My voice sounds dead. “I’m meeting Drew. For dinner. Like always.”

  “You’re not fooling us.” She turns the notebook, holding up the page so I can see it, showing me my own foot which is somehow evidence that I’m not me. “We know you’re not Raleigh.”

  We. Not the royal We.

  The crazy We.

  In my eyes, the burn is too hot, ready to break through. I force myself to stare at her tracing of my foot until it’s only a blurry blue line on yellow paper, until I see nothing more than a sketch, nothing that matters, nothing that can hurt me.

  “Mom, I—”

  “How dare you call me that!” She backs away from me, eyes wild. “We’re watching you. Whoever you are.”

  To continue Raleigh’s story, click HERE.

  Also, sign up for Sibella’s newsletter and receive a Raleigh Harmon short story, plus all the latest news about the series. Click HERE

  Also by Sibella Giorello

  THE STONES CRY OUT

  THE RIVERS RUN DRY

  THE CLOUDS ROLL AWAY

  THE MOUNTAINS BOW DOWN

  THE STARS SHINE BRIGHT

  THE WAVES BREAK GRAY

  THE MOON STANDS STILL

  PREQUEL SERIES

  STONE AND SPARK

  STONE AND SNOW

  STONE AND SAND

  STONE AND SUNSET

  About the Author