The Accomplice(12)
Owen raised his arms above the gravestone, as if someone had a gun trained on him. “I’m here. I’m sorry.”
Luna silently counted to ten as she caught her breath. Owen approached her cautiously, as if she were a stray dog baring its teeth. Then he pulled her into an embrace. Luna tried to shake him off at first, as punishment, but then she gave in. Owen could feel Luna’s fear as a quiet vibration in his arms.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“You’re an asshole.”
“I know,” Owen said.
Luna broke away and summoned that steely guard that hovered around her body like the moon’s corona. Owen could’ve sworn he’d seen its physical return. He was about to ask her a question—one he thought important—when a beam of light blinded them.
Before the officer spoke, Luna heard the static on his radio.
“Sir. Ma’am. This cemetery is closed after ten p.m.”
Owen turned to approach the officer, prepared to offer his apologies for their trespass, when Luna whispered, “Run!” and booked it out of the graveyard, down Bellwood to Hunter Avenue, where their car was parked. Owen followed Luna’s lead and chased after her. Luna reached the car ahead of Owen and shouted, “Unlock, unlock!” As soon as Owen clicked his remote, Luna jumped into the driver’s seat. Owen, at a more leisurely pace, climbed into the car and handed Luna the key.
Luna turned the ignition, released the parking brake, gunned the engine, and took off up Riverside Drive before Owen had buckled his seatbelt. Soon, they were safely back on Route 9, heading north. For the next fifteen minutes, Luna continued to check her rearview mirror for flashing red lights.
“I think we’re safe now,” said Owen.
Luna tried to keep her gaze on the road ahead of her.
“That was…” Owen said, searching for the right word to describe what happened.
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.”