He went with weird.
Luna shrugged and acted like it was no big deal.
“Why did you run?” Owen asked.
“I don’t know. It seemed like the right move,” Luna said.
“Running from a police officer seemed like the right thing to do?” Owen said.
“At the time.”
“You do know that when you run, you look guilty.”
“We already looked guilty,” said Luna.
Owen thought that an odd position for a white woman to take.
“He was going to ask us to leave. That’s all,” Owen said.
“I didn’t want to take that chance,” said Luna.
“Do you have a criminal record or something?”
“No,” Luna said, after a brief pause.
“There’s something you’re not telling me,” Owen said.
He wasn’t going to press Luna for what that something was. But he wanted her to know that he knew this thing was there.
“There’s always something I’m not telling you.”
October 8, 2019
Owen was taken directly to the Deerkill station in his bathrobe and slippers. Underneath the robe, he had on a ratty T-shirt and pajama bottoms adorned with cigar-smoking rabbits. Later, he’d have vague recollections of being fingerprinted and photographed and relieved of his paltry attire. A woman in protective hospital gear put his pajamas and robe in a plastic bag and gave him gray jersey sweatpants and a sweatshirt in exchange. Another man or two could have fit inside those sweats. The odor suggested one or two had. Owen wanted to ask if they had any other clothing options, but he was too exhausted to make the effort. Someone else showed Owen to the men’s bathroom. At the sink, he waved his hands in front of the sensor until water flowed. But the water kept stopping, as if he were invisible. Owen switched sinks, washed his hands repeatedly. He wasn’t sure what he was trying to clean off them. The male detective, Noah Goldman, leaned in to check on him. Owen was wiping down the sink, trying to clean up the mess. He needed a shower. Goldman took him to an interview room, disappeared, and returned with a warm cup of coffee, packets of creamer and sugar on the side.
“You need anything?” Detective Goldman said.
Owen shook his head. He was cold and wanted a blanket, but he didn’t want the kind of blanket that would be lying around a police station.
“My partner will be with you in a minute,” Goldman said, stepping into the hallway.
Goldman joined his partner in the adjacent room. Margot was watching the man on a monitor. Owen wiped his face with the back of his hand. Margot leaned in for closer inspection. Those were quality tears, she thought. It takes a special talent to summon that much actual fluid from the lacrimal gland.
Margot Burns entered the interview room, dropped her notebook and coffee on the bolted-down table, and asked if she could get Owen anything. He was hunched over, on the verge of shivering. He had a sour taste in the back of his mouth, and his tongue felt like stucco. The list was too long. He wouldn’t know where to begin.
“No,” Owen said.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Burns said.
Her tone was sincere, not rote, which made it worse for Owen. He found himself coming in and out of a daze. Each time he resurfaced, he had to tell himself it was real. Irene was dead.
“It is Tuesday, October 8, 2019. Eleven hundred and five hours. Detective Margot Burns interviewing Owen Mann.”
Burns pointed to a camera mounted in the high corner of the room.
“We’re being recorded. That’s as much for your protection as mine,” the detective said.
Owen peeked at the camera, turned back to the detective, and then looked at the camera again. He’d been advised of his rights when they arrived at the station. He didn’t think he needed a lawyer, though he also knew he might not be at his most rational at a time like this. Ultimately, the thought of dragging things out any longer than necessary was too repugnant to bear. He’d talk. Carefully.
“Did you hear me?” Burns asked.
“Yes. We’re being recorded,” Owen said.
Burns opened her notebook and casually leaned back in her chair.
“Were you and Irene legally married?”
“Yes.”
“She never took your name? She always went by Irene Boucher?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you been married?”
“Um, four years,” Owen said.
“How long have you known each other?”
“Five years, maybe.”
“That was quick.”
Owen wasn’t sure how to respond so he said nothing.
“What was Irene’s occupation?”
“She ran a nonprofit arts education program.”
“Was that a full-time job?”
“Her employees handle most of the day to day. She’d go in a few times a week, I guess.”
“When was the last time you saw your wife?” Burns asked.
“I’m—I’m not sure,” Owen said.
“Did you see her yesterday?”
“No. When I woke up she was gone. I thought she went for a run.”
Burns leaned back in her chair, squinted slightly with a head tilt. “Your wife left for a run yesterday morning and never came back. Weren’t you concerned by her absence?” she said.
Owen didn’t like the way the detective raised an eyebrow, as if he was already her prime suspect.
“No. I don’t know. She left sometimes. It was something she did.”
“So, it was not unusual for your wife to be gone for a twenty-four-hour stretch without alerting you to her whereabouts?”
“No.”
“No, it wasn’t unusual? Sorry. The double-negative confusion is my fault. So, was the disappearance unusual or not unusual?”
“Not unusual,” Owen said.
“Now, that’s unusual,” Burns said.
“I guess,” Owen said.
He stared at the floor, focusing on the speckled pattern of the linoleum. The image of Irene’s blood-drained face kept flashing in front of him.
“If your wife didn’t come home at night—or at all—where would she go?”
“A hotel or motel. She wasn’t gone overnight that often.”
“But it happened enough that you weren’t concerned.”
“I was a little concerned. But that was mostly this morning.”
“Would these…disappearances happen after a fight?”