The Granite Moth Read Online Free

one’s trouble, mark my words. Manhattan born and raised, slinking into all the clubs with batted eyelashes and a fake driver’s license.”
    Not one to call the kettle black, I approached the boy with a cup of coffee. His eyes were bloodshot from a combination of tears and booze. The tears I could verify; the booze was an educated guess. He was wearing artfully ripped jeans with a plaid button-up and leather boots. From far away, he might have looked like a thrift store addict, but up close, he reeked of designer threads even more than clove cigarettes. Eithera kleptomaniac or someone’s beloved son. I glanced at Ellis before I began speaking.
    â€œMs. Burstyn asked me—”
    Ellis put up his hand to stop me. He got up from his seat and gestured for me to take his place. His graciousness came from frustration, but I take what I can get.
    â€œGood luck. Kathleen, this is Martin. Martin, Kathleen.”
    Ellis approached the nurse at the front desk, rubbing the space between his eyebrows. I held the Styrofoam cup out to Martin, but he didn’t take it and turned his attention to what was left of his pinky nail, ripping at his cuticles. His index finger was bleeding around the edges, and it was unclear how the others had survived their assaults.
    â€œI’m so sorry,” I started. “You and Bobbie were together awhile?”
    Martin shrugged, and I sat back in my chair, estimating how long I had before his parents arrived, lawyering up their son if required. Long enough to give the kid a minute to collect himself , I decided.
    How many Pink Parrot employees had been present? Mamma Burstyn could give me the exact number, but I was thinking around eight. Six performers on and off the float, plus the man driving and Big Mamma herself. Which performer had left after hearing that his coworkers had died, I wondered, watching the others give their statements to various police officers.
    â€œWhere’d you meet?” I tried again, receiving another shrug in response.
    â€œAh, I see. A romantic. Doesn’t want to blab his story. I can appreciate that.” Martin sighed, and I considered any response a small victory. “Not the ending I would have wished for you.”
    That elicited another sigh, and the boy sat up straighter, tucking his hands underneath his pants. The thing about being nondescript is that people don’t tend to be suspicious of you; you don’t remind them of anyone else, not a cranky aunt or aloathed hall monitor. They might as well be talking to a ghost, and a ghost can keep a secret, let me tell you.
    â€œI wasn’t in love with him,” Martin said so fast that I couldn’t be sure that he had said “wasn’t” as opposed to “was.” I didn’t interrupt to verify. “I mean, I’m seventeen. We weren’t getting married or anything.”
    He dropped into another silence, sliding a hand out from under himself and eyeing the nails again. I resisted the urge to grab the offending digits and let him self-mutilate instead.
    â€œBut he was fun, you know? And fucking cute.”
    The boy’s voice broke on “cute,” and I found myself having difficulty breathing again. For a moment, I forgot to ask anything at all.
    â€œI’m here with Dolly,” I said.
    â€œI know. I saw you two together. After.”
    I was afraid to push my luck, but needed to. “Did you see anything else, Martin?”
    â€œSome asshole shoved the juggler. I wish I could kill him,” he said, and I had a sinking feeling Martin—with or without knowing it himself—was playing two truths and a lie with me. One, he wasn’t in love with Bobbie. Two, the juggler wasn’t to blame. Three, revenge wasn’t unthinkable. Problem was, I had no clue which statement to trust. I wrote down my number and told him that he could call me if he needed anything. “Or remember anything,” I hinted. I would be