The Accomplice(67)

“Where to?” said Officer Good.

“The corner of Locust and Main,” Owen said.



* * *



—

Officer Good pulled his car in front of Sam and Luna’s residence. Owen thanked the officer for the ride and climbed out of the vehicle. He was sobering up and didn’t like how it felt.

Owen rang the doorbell. It took a while for anyone inside to stir, but when he heard the footsteps approach, Owen realized that it was Sam. Owen’s eyes darted around as he considered a last-minute escape. Alas, it was too late. The doorbell took his picture. How would he explain the ding and ditch?

“Shit,” Sam said, after opening the door, clearly disappointed by the sight of Owen.

This confused Owen. It wasn’t like Owen and Sam were buddies, but Sam was friendly most of the time. Owen thought Sam liked him as much as he liked anyone. Maybe the problem was that Sam suspected Owen killed his wife. At least that’s what passed through Owen’s mind during those first few seconds.

“Hey, man,” Owen said.

“Sorry. Hi, Owen.”

“Apologies for the interruption,” Owen said. “Is Luna here?”

“No, she’s not,” Sam said.

“Oh, okay,” Owen said.

Owen felt like his feet were stuck in cement. Sam was waiting to see some signs of rage or fear or something that made sense.

“It’s been a really weird day,” Owen said. He seemed drunk and spacey, but nothing else.

“Yeah,” Sam said, nodding.

Owen was waiting for Sam to invite him inside. Then he thought that maybe Luna didn’t want to see him, that Sam was playing guard dog for her.

“When’s the last time you talked to Luna?” Sam said.

“I don’t know,” Owen said. “Yesterday?”

“Fuck,” Sam said.

“Did something happen?”

“Yeah.”

“Where is she? Is she back there?” Owen said, then shouted, “Hey, Luna, what’s going on?”

“Owen, she’s at a motel. She’s not here.”

Sam didn’t want to be the one who told Owen, but he also didn’t want Owen to get anyone else’s spin on it. “Why don’t you come in,” Sam said, turning his back on Owen.

Owen followed Sam down the hall. There was a game on. Sam was always watching some sporting event, shouting at the TV. Sam muted the sound and offered Owen a beer.

Sam pointed to the couch and told Owen to relax. Sam was being nicer to him now, and Owen was grateful. Sam perched on the edge of a giant reclining chair. It was a fancy easy-chair kind of thing. Comfortable, with an interior mechanism so you could practically sleep on it, with every angle in between. And it wasn’t an eyesore, like some others he’d seen.

“I didn’t kill her. That’s the most important thing you need to know,” Sam said.

Sam’s statement shook Owen’s attention away from the stupid chair.

“Wait, what?” Owen said. “Dude, that’s the last thing that would have crossed my mind.”

“You were going to find out eventually,” Sam said. “I was sleeping with Irene. The police know already. I talked to them today.”

Once Owen heard the words, he still didn’t get it. Not really. It took him a few long seconds to process the information. Then he had to say it out loud, to understand. “You and Irene? Really?”

“Yes.”

Then Owen was angry. “What the fuck, Sam. Why?”

“I don’t know,” Sam said. “It just happened.”

Owen couldn’t move or speak. He just stared at Sam, which was making Sam incredibly uncomfortable.

“I thought I should be the one to tell you,” Sam said. “Sorry. It’s not like you were the most faithful husband.”

Owen kept staring. Sam strode down the hall to the front door. Owen didn’t follow right away. Sam, impatient, opened the door and cleared his throat. Owen slowly got up and ambled toward the foyer. He felt unsteady, his psyche split between reality and dull hallucination. Sam noticed Owen’s strange gait and lack of focus.

“You cool?” Sam said.

Owen thought Sam was asking if they were cool, if Owen was cool with Sam fucking his now-dead wife. Owen never liked the guy, never understood why Luna would marry him. If he had been more lucid, didn’t have a potential murder charge on his back, he might have done something bold right then, like smash Sam’s head against the front door. Instead, Owen merely stepped outside. It was for the best. He would have lost just about any physical match against Sam.

“Where’s Luna?” Owen said.

“I told you. A motel. I guess we’re splitting up.”

“Sorry,” Owen said.

Owen cracked a smile. He wasn’t trying to be a jerk. He simply couldn’t control his subconscious response to the news. Then he started to laugh. It was nerves, sleep deprivation, and day drinking. But to Sam, it read as pure cruelty.

“Fuck you, Owen,” Sam said.

Even after he slammed the door, he could still hear Owen laughing.





March–August 2004


The official cause of Scarlet Hayes’s death was a subdural hematoma. The district attorney, after two months of poring over witness interviews, forensic data, and autopsy reports, decided not to pursue any criminal action. Detective Oslo knew Mrs. Hayes would not be satisfied. There was no convincing the bereft mother that her daughter’s death was a tragic accident. Mrs. Hayes would always believe that Scarlet was murdered by her ex-boyfriend, Owen Mann. And Scarlet’s mother was not alone. Despite articles in the local paper and repeated statements from authorities that contradicted her narrative, the consensus on campus was that Owen was a murderer who got away with it.