The Accomplice(61)

“Please don’t tell me she was also a good cook,” said Burns.

“No. Horrible.”

“That’s a relief. But still, she doesn’t sound like any woman—or man, for that matter—I’ve ever met. People need. All of them. There are no exceptions.”

“I agree,” said Burroughs. “Most of her other needs were met by Owen.”

“So, you’re saying that the primary relationship in Owen and Luna’s lives was not with their spouses but with each other.”

Sam nodded. Close enough.

“When was the last time you had sex with Ms. Boucher?” Margot asked.

He lifted his cup of coffee, took a sip, scowled. “The Sunday before,” Sam said.

“Where?”

“Motel 6, across the bridge.”

“Sunday, what time?”

“Afternoon. Two or three.”

“Who paid?”

“I did. Cash.”

“Did you always pay?”

“Yes.”

“What time did you leave your house Monday morning?”

“Six-thirty, maybe.”

“Where’d you go?”

“I drove to Chambliss Medical Center.”

“What time did you arrive?”

“It takes about a half hour.”

“So you would have arrived at the hospital around seven? And then what?”

“I was in my office for a few hours. Then I had a surgery at eleven.”

“Can anyone verify that?”

Sam shrugged. “Before the surgery? I don’t know. I was in my office for a while. Then I did rounds. I probably got a cup of coffee. I don’t know if there were cameras or witnesses. I’ll let you figure that out.”

Margot felt a slow ache build at the base of her neck. She rolled her shoulders to loosen up, which only made it worse.

“Can you write down the name of the contact person for your department?” Burns said, sliding paper and pen in front of him.

As Sam scribbled down the name of the contact, he asked, “You figured if you found the DNA, you’d find your killer?”

“That secret phone didn’t do you any favors,” Burns said. “Why’d you get it?”

“Have you ever sent a text to the wrong person?”

“Yes.”

“Even if it’s an utterly benign exchange, it’s unsettling. You feel naked, exposed. I don’t like to make mistakes. It was a simple way to be sure I wouldn’t.”

“But you didn’t send any texts,” Burns said.

“Yeah. It was too annoying on that phone.”

Burns leaned back in her chair. She felt a nagging sensation of something unfinished. A question at the tip of her tongue. She traveled back through their conversation, trying to pinpoint the snag.

“Anything else, Detective?” Sam said.

“Did you kill Irene Boucher?”

“No. Why would I?”

“Motive is not always ruled by logic. And logic isn’t always immediately evident.”

“You’re wasting your time looking at me,” Sam said.

“Then who should I look at?”

“Isn’t it always the husband?”





March 2004


Before Scarlet died, before Owen was called into a police station for questioning, before he settled for Markham U, and before he met Luna, Owen had a shine to him. Everyone saw it. If you’d asked anyone who knew him when he was young, they’d tell you he was going to be somebody. It was assumed that he’d be a working artist, maybe a famous one. There was no denying his talent. And he was handsome and charismatic. However isolated Owen felt, no one ever saw it. People liked him, wanted to be around him. He had nineteen years to get used to that feeling.

Right after talking to the red-haired detective, Owen returned to his dorm and slept. It was early evening when he finally got out of bed. He didn’t notice the shift in his universe as he walked down the hallway to the showers, but it had already happened.

Just as the news of Scarlet’s death had been disseminated and transformed, so had Owen’s police interview. As far as anyone knew, it was not an interview but an arrest, in handcuffs, no less. If, during the first few weeks after Scarlet’s death, you’d asked a student of Markham U what had happened to her, they would have told you that she was murdered by her boyfriend or ex-boyfriend, Owen Mann.

After his shower, Owen headed over to the dining hall. He’d made it halfway across the quad when he noticed the way some students would stop and stare. Once or twice, he’d wave or say hello. The moment he acknowledged their presence, they’d look away. Sleep-deprived, his mental reserves used up from the interview, he couldn’t comprehend what was happening. He kept walking until he ran into Amber and Bobbi. He started to walk around them, but Amber stepped to the side, blocking his path. Then he saw the look in their red-rimmed eyes. Amber wore a sneer; Bobbi’s hands were balled into fists. Amber got right up in front of him. She was so close he thought she was going to hug him, but she was just eye-fucking him. Still, Owen did not understand.

“What are you doing here, Owen?” Amber said.

“I was going to get some dinner,” Owen said.