“We didn’t really fight.”
“Really?” Burns said. “So, if you weren’t fighting, then why the extended departure?”
“We both liked our space sometimes.”
Margot nodded, trying to convey understanding. “I get that. But why wouldn’t she leave a note, so you wouldn’t worry?”
“I don’t know. We didn’t do that,” he said.
“So, again, when was the last time you saw your wife alive?”
Owen had gone to bed late on Sunday. Irene was already in bed, talking in her sleep. Owen enjoyed Irene’s somniloquies. She always sounded like she was giving directions to a jerk. Thinking about it, he almost laughed.
“Sunday night,” Owen said.
“How did she seem?” Burns asked.
“Asleep,” Owen said.
“So, you and your wife shared a bed.”
“Of course.”
“Let’s go back to yesterday morning—Monday—when you first noticed your wife wasn’t home. What time did you wake up?”
“Around nine or ten.”
“What did you do after you woke up?”
“I drank coffee and read the paper.”
“How long did that take?”
“About an hour or so.”
“And then what did you do?”
“I took a shower.”
“After the shower…?”
“I went to work.”
“Where is your work?”
“St. Michael’s College. Art Department.”
“What do you do there?”
“I teach. Painting.”
“So, you’re an artist?”
“I guess. I was. I dunno. I teach,” Owen said.
That was a loaded response, Margot thought. “You arrived at St. Michael’s around what time?”
“After eleven. Before noon. My first class was at one p.m.”
Owen watched as the detective jotted down Owen’s hazy schedule.
“I assume someone saw you on campus?” the detective asked.
“Sure,” Owen said.
Owen was always surrounded by clusters of students, although he couldn’t recall a single interaction that day until class.
“Your wife was in bed when you went to sleep. When you woke up, she was gone. And you assumed she went for a run?”
“Yes.”
“What time did your wife normally go running?”
“In the morning. Before eight.”
Owen felt a dull pounding in his head, with the rhythm of his heartbeat.
“When did you realize that your wife probably wasn’t still jogging?”
“When I left for work.”
“Did you try to call her?”
“Yes, several times.”
“And at no point were you concerned about her silence?”
“Not really,” Owen said. “We weren’t the kind of couple who communicated all the time.”
“That’s an understatement,” the detective said.
Owen, more than most men in his situation, was cognizant of the optics.
“Can you write down the names of anyone who might have seen you yesterday?” Burns said, sliding a notepad in front of Owen.
“Sure, okay.”
Owen stared down at the blank page. He felt a tightening in his chest.
“What am I doing?” Owen said.
“The names of anyone who saw you yesterday.”
Owen struggled to recall a single name. Even Amy hadn’t dropped by his office. Then he remembered his classroom. “I had the one o’clock painting class. There’s an Alison and an Oliver. I can’t remember all their names. We haven’t been in session that long. I need my roster.”
“You can email it later,” Burns said. “How long was that class?”
“Two hours. One to three.”
“So, you arrived at the campus before noon. And you taught from one to three. What did you do after that?”
“I returned to my office. Answered emails for a while. I left at four-thirty to meet Luna for a drink.”
“That’s Luna Grey? The woman who found your wife’s body?”
“Yes.”
* * *
—
Luna arrived at the station an hour after Owen, having been allowed to go home and take a quick shower and change. Sam had already left for work. She knew he was in surgery, so a call was out of the question. She tried to compose a text but couldn’t figure out how to condense what had happened into a concise message.
It was Noah Goldman, the younger male detective, who met Luna when she arrived. He greeted her with a smile and a warm handshake. This is the good cop, Luna thought. Goldman offered Luna some coffee and cautioned her about the quality. She accepted it because she knew she’d need something to do with her hands.
The chair Goldman had given her was lopsided. She remembered reading somewhere that an unbalanced chair was part of an interrogation technique. She thought about asking for a new one while things were still friendly.
Goldman thanked Luna for coming in and asked her to go over the events of that morning.
“I went out for a run around eight-fifteen. I saw Irene at the cemetery maybe ten minutes later.”
“Is Dover Cemetery a common running area for locals?”
“No. Most people use the river trail. It’s flat.”
“But you and Irene used the cemetery?”
“Yes.”
“Would you ever go running together?” Goldman asked.
“We used to. Not much recently. I didn’t like running with her. She was too fast.”
“Did Irene always go to the cemetery at the same time?”
“She wasn’t on a schedule, but she was fairly consistent.”
“And how often do you go running?”
“Not that often.”
“So, it was just a coincidence that you went for a run this morning?”
“I texted her yesterday—was it yesterday? Yes. I texted her to see if she wanted to go running this morning.”
“I thought you didn’t like running with her?”
Luna recognized that her story wasn’t adding up. She wasn’t saying anything that was untrue and yet it read like a lie. “I thought if I made a plan, maybe I could trick myself into it.”
“Got it,” Goldman said. “Did you make a plan with Irene?”
“No. She didn’t answer that text. Owen messaged me this morning and asked if I’d heard from Irene. That’s when I went out for a jog, thinking that maybe Irene was already at Dover.”
“Okay,” said Detective Goldman. “You went out this morning. What did you do right after you found the body?”
“I ran straight to Owen’s house and told him. Then I dialed 911.”
“From Mr. Mann’s house?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t have your phone on you?”