“No!” Phoebe said, feigning shock.
Having used the Canadian bluff herself, she didn’t hold it against him. Still, she maintained her heavy northern accent and never suggested that they had a country of origin in common. She didn’t want to be herself, especially that night.
Owen watched Phoebe devour another bowl of pretzels.
“Why don’t we get some real food?” Owen suggested.
The new friends left the bar and found a chip shop down the road. Phoebe inhaled her order—so fast that Owen briefly wondered if she’d slyly tossed the newspaper cone of potatoes when he wasn’t looking.
“That was impressive,” he said.
“I know,” she said. “What should we do now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Want to come back to my place? We’ve got a good liquor cabinet.”
Owen hesitated. The we threw him. He thought she might be trying to get even with a boyfriend.
“No pressure. Just to hang,” Phoebe clarified, noting his pause.
Owen asked about the first-person plural. Phoebe clarified that her mother owned the apartment but she wouldn’t be home. Owen and Phoebe left the shop and headed back to the apartment. Phoebe picked up a couple of bags of crisps on the way.
“This is it,” Phoebe said, nodding at a well-kept Edwardian structure surrounded by a wrought-iron fence. Owen followed Phoebe through a pristine foyer that had a couch and coffee table and then up two flights of stairs. She stopped in front of a door and put her ear to it, listening. Owen thought he might have heard a male voice inside. Phoebe said, “Run,” in an urgent whisper, and they raced down the hall and took the stairs.
Outside, as they caught their breath, Phoebe apologized. “We can’t stay there. Sorry,” she said.
“Come back with me,” Owen said. “My place is small, but I don’t have any roommates.”
“Okay,” she said. She didn’t know where else she’d go.
On the way to the tube station, Phoebe suggested they get one for the road. They dashed down a few whiskeys and then headed for the train. It was a thirty-minute ride to Owen’s stop. The brightness of the train made them feel exposed. They hardly said a word. When they arrived at Owen’s studio apartment, Phoebe asked if he had anything to eat.
Owen poured the bags of crisps into a bowl and reviewed the contents of his refrigerator. He offered to scramble eggs. She declined. Owen then crawled under his bed to retrieve a bottle of Macallan. He remembered hiding it there when he had a few friends over. He’d been tired and figured they would leave once he ran out of booze.
“What else have you got under there?” Phoebe asked.
“Just this,” Owen said, uncorking the bottle and pouring two glasses.
“Cheers,” she said.
They clinked glasses and drank.
“What were we running from at the apartment? Was that your boyfriend? Or your ex?” Owen asked.
“No,” she said. “That was the bloke my mum plans to marry.”
“Why’d we run?” Owen asked.
She topped off her glass, then his. “It’s a long story,” she said. “And fucking dull.”
“Try me,” Owen said.
She told Owen the whole sorry saga. It helped that Owen didn’t react with horror or shock. He didn’t judge.
“That was definitely not boring.”
“Good to know,” Phoebe said.
“You told your mother only part of the story,” Owen said.
“I told her what she needed to know to make the right choice.”
“Maybe she needed to know everything,” Owen said.
Phoebe kept shaking her head. That was not ever going to happen.
“I can’t do that,” Phoebe said.
“Why not?”
“Because if I told her the whole truth and she still married him, I don’t think I could ever forgive her.”
Owen wrapped his arm around Phoebe. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Thanks,” she said.
Phoebe reached for the Macallan.
“Haven’t you had enough?” Owen asked.
“I haven’t had nearly enough,” Phoebe said.
Owen took the bottle away from her, replaced the cork, and rolled it back under his bed. “I think we’ve had enough.”
“Now what are we gonna do?” Phoebe asked.
He kissed her, began to unbutton her blouse. Phoebe loosened his tie and freed the knot.
“Where are you from again?” Owen asked.
“Sheffield,” Phoebe said.
“Really?” Owen said. His brain tripped over a recent memory. He thought the bartender said something else.
“Why?”
“Your accent is killing me.”
Phoebe laughed. Not like she was dismissing a compliment but more like she thought something was funny. He liked her laugh almost as much as her accent. He didn’t know what was so funny, though. It didn’t matter.
They had sex. Owen remembered having a pretty good time. Most of the night was a blur. They both crashed sometime after two a.m.
Owen woke the next morning as Phoebe was rushing out. He recalled that she had the wedding that day. He wished her luck. She thanked him for his hospitality. Owen asked for her number. She scribbled it on the back of a coaster and kissed him goodbye. Owen waited a few days to call.
A woman with a slight French accent answered the phone.
“May I speak to Phoebe?” he asked.
“Sorry, wrong number.”
October 15, 2019
Goldman thought he was just dotting a few i’s when he rang Maya Wilton’s doorbell. He could hear someone inside moving around. When Maya finally answered, she was wearing a coat and carrying her purse in one hand and a metal box in the other.
“Hello, Mrs. Wilton. Noah Goldman. We spoke a few days ago.”
Maya stepped outside, handed the box to Noah, and locked the front door behind her.
“In my defense,” Maya said, voice quivering, “I was planning on turning myself in.”
“Good to know,” Goldman said.
Back at the station, he put Maya in an interview room and delivered the box to his partner in the bullpen.
“What’s this?” Burns asked.