Owen, eventually: “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Looking for a weapon,” Luna said, as if that was the most obvious of things.
Griff felt like he was the only adult for miles, and the weight of that burden exhausted him. He knew he had to set a tone. “Luna, sit down. No weapons.”
Miraculously, Luna listened. She sat in Owen’s desk chair. Griff found Owen’s suitcase on the top shelf of the closet. He opened it on the bed and told Owen to pack. Owen moved the suitcase to the floor and climbed under the covers.
“No,” Owen said. “I’m too tired.”
Luna started to pack for him. She figured he’d be gone for a few days, tops. Griff sat down on the edge of the bed and watched Owen pretend to sleep. He could always tell when his brother was faking.
“Who did this, Owen?” Griff said.
Griff repeated the question. Luna was watching, attentively waiting for an answer. Owen’s eyes opened at half-mast. He shook his head and said, “Doesn’t matter.”
Then he looked at Luna for the briefest moment. She nodded slightly. An understanding was reached. Neither ever spoke of it outright, but they were very much on the same page and it all boiled down to this: What happened to Owen was ultimately Luna’s fault. Luna accepted blame and would pay off the tab.
There was one problem with this unspoken contract: The two parties had very different ideas about the size of the debt.
October 13, 2019
Owen wanted nothing more than to be alone. Being in the empty house, without distractions, allowed his mind to wander. Naturally, it wandered to Irene. He’d been not thinking about her as much as possible, which he knew wasn’t normal. He wasn’t ready to think of her being dead. There were still times when he could almost pretend that his wife was just freezing him out and would be home in a day or two.
Owen showered, dressed, drank a flat mimosa, then another. When Amy texted him to see if he could come over to talk, he decided he should get that conversation over with, whatever it was. He texted her that he’d come as soon as he said goodbye to his brother.
The doorbell rang. Owen didn’t bother checking the peephole, assuming it was Griff and Sam returning from their walk. Instead, he found Maya, hugging another casserole dish. Owen was glad to take it off her hands, but he did think it was overkill and worried that accepting the plate meant he also had to accept her company.
“You’re being watched,” Maya said. “There’s an unmarked police car a few yards down.”
Owen leaned outside to look. There was indeed a plain sedan parked across the street, with a man sitting behind the wheel. Owen realized that Maya had slipped past him and was already inside. Panicked, Owen rushed into the kitchen to find Maya elbows deep in the kitchen sink. There was still quite a mess from the night before.
“You don’t have to do that, Maya. Our housekeeper will come later.”
“I don’t mind,” Maya said.
“No, really, please don’t,” Owen said. “I was actually on my way out.”
“Oh. I see,” Maya said. “I’m all out of baking dishes. Doesn’t your door have an automatic lock?”
“Uh, yeah?”
“You go. Do whatever you have to do. I’ll just wash my plates and leave. That okay?”
“Okay,” Owen said.
He grabbed his wallet and keys and left. He climbed into his truck in the driveway and was trying to decide where to go when he caught a glimpse of the cop car. How many mimosas had he had? He felt buzzed but not drunk. If there were no cops on his tail, he would have driven in his current condition without a second thought. Instead, he called an Uber and waited in the cab of his truck until the car arrived. He jumped out as soon as the Uber pulled up. The cop had to hustle to stay on his tail.
Owen knew that visiting his mistress after his wife’s murder looked bad, really bad. But he wasn’t really trying to evade the cops. He didn’t want to put on a show. He was doing what he had to do. If the police wanted to watch, that was their choice. Amy lived in a spacious first-floor apartment in an old Victorian on Willowbrook Lane in Red Hook.
“Two hours,” Amy said, blocking the door. “I waited two hours at Poets’ Walk for you.”
That was the place they had agreed to meet on Wednesday, before Detective Goldman dropped by for another interview.
“I already explained,” Owen said. “I’m sorry. This was the first chance I had to get away, and I think I’m being followed.”
Amy let Owen inside, first peering onto the street to see the unmarked car with her own eyes. It was indeed there.
She softened a bit when she saw the state he was in.
“How have you been?” Amy asked.
Owen shrugged. “How do you think?”
“I’m sorry,” Amy said.
“Thanks.”
“Want a drink?”
Owen didn’t need another drink. However, a drink was the only thing that sounded good to him. He didn’t want to be there. Everything in Amy’s apartment was a hand-me-down from her grandmother. It was all so oppressively floral. Amy opened a bottle of white wine and poured two generous glasses.
Owen took a seat on the couch. Amy sat right next to him, even though there was ample room on the other end. She was pushing hard for an intimacy that Owen didn’t feel. He couldn’t remember what they were like before. He could barely remember any conversations. They would drink, fuck, drink, and then he’d leave. But he also felt like he had to manage her, to make sure they were on the same page.
“What was she like?” Amy asked.
“Who?”
“Irene,” Amy said. “Who else?”
“She was smart and beautiful and strange and ridiculously blunt,” Owen said.
“What happened?”
“I don’t understand the question,” Owen said.
“When did things go wrong?”
“Your question is based on a faulty premise. Who says there was something wrong with the marriage?”