The Last Thing She Ever Did(78)

Amanda started to close the door, but he stuck his foot in the gap.

“You never want to just talk, Owen,” she said.

“Not when there are other things we can do.”

Amanda had made a big mistake in sleeping with Owen and had kicked herself a thousand times since their affair ended. He’d played her. He’d used her for sexual release. As a quasi confidante. He’d told her time and again how Liz was so wrapped up in her “loser dreams” of pursuing a law degree. “She should be focusing on me,” he’d said. “I’m her ticket.”

Encounters with Owen had been one massive dose of self-importance after another that, looking back, were laughable. Sure, he was handsome. He was confident. He seemed so smart. But he was a liar. A narcissist who saw the world as a place that existed solely for his pleasure. Amanda, with her beautiful red hair, ivory skin, and green eyes, was nothing but an attractive accessory.

It was true that their sex had been dangerous and exciting. Owen liked to take risks. He complained that Liz was too white bread, too tightly wound. “Amanda, you know how to let go. I like that,” he’d said.

Being adventurous was one thing. Being stupid was another.

They’d had sex in his office at Lumatyx. At the restaurant after hours. Owen’s favorite place to have sex was on the Franklins’ property when they weren’t home. One time, Owen held her from behind when they were on the Franklins’ deck overlooking the river as a group of paddleboarders passed by. She’d braced her hands on the deck rail and tried to contain her ecstasy.

“I think that old man knows what we’re doing,” she whispered, indicating a silhouetted figure across the river.

Owen looked over at Dr. Miller.

“Doubt it,” he said. “The old coot’s blind as a bat.”



Amanda started to shove the door closed, but Owen’s foot stayed firmly wedged between it and the jamb.

“We’re done, Owen,” she said. “I’ve told you that over and over. I’m not doing this anymore.”

“But I need you,” he said. “I’m going through a lot.”

“You need help, Owen,” Amanda told him, flatly. “You’re selfish. Being with you was destructive. The biggest mistake I’ve made in my life. Every time I see your face, I get sick inside. You’re like whiskey to me. I got drunk on it so bad that whenever I smell it now, it all comes back to me. You’re human whiskey.”

“You’re so dramatic, Amanda.”

“Go away,” she said, raising her voice only a little. She didn’t want the neighbors to hear.

“Can’t we have one last time?” he said, pleading now, a little desperate. It was hard to say with Owen: Was he pretending or was it real?

Amanda was never going there again.

“I’ll tell your wife,” she said.

He stared at her, letting her wonder what he was thinking. Finally, he spoke. “I wish you would,” he said. “She’s suicidal.”

Was he really hoping she’d tell? Did he actually want her to push the woman over the edge?

“Did you just say what I think you did?” she asked.

Owen just grinned. It was a smile that she used to think was sexy. At the moment it seemed dark, evil. It was the kind of look that he’d flash at her, and she’d come running.

“I feel sorry for Liz,” Amanda said. “But I don’t feel sorry for myself anymore. I’m better than this. Now get the hell out before I call the police.”

Owen stepped back, and Amanda slammed the door.





CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

MISSING: NINETEEN DAYS

The man in the hospital bed was unrecognizable. His face had been rearranged by a brutal attack the likes of which was seldom seen in mostly quiet Bend. The city had its share of brewpub and barroom brawls, but this beating went far beyond that. It was all but certain that whoever had done this to the man in the hospital bed had meant to kill him. The victim’s eyes had puffed up to the size of clamshells and his lower lip was torn so badly that it took a surgeon more than an hour to stitch it—and his left ear—into place.

The man lay motionless while tubes crisscrossed the space behind him before plunging into his arms and his mouth. A respirator forced air into his lungs with the sick sound of machine against man. Up and down the device pulsed.

“He had your card in his pocket, Detective,” said Della Cortez, the attending physician. “That’s why I called you. I was hoping you could identify him. No wallet. No ID.”

If Esther Nguyen had to go by the man’s face alone, her answer would have been an emphatic no. As she stood there, she could see things that indicated familiarity. Yes, she knew him by the Ohio State Buckeye tattoo visible on his exposed shoulder.

“I’m pretty sure it’s Brad Collins,” she said. “He’s a tourist from the Midwest.”

“How come he has your card?” the doctor asked.

Esther’s mind raced back to the interview she’d conducted. She’d asked him to let her know if he left Bend. She didn’t tell him that she thought he was a guilty party in the abduction of Charlie Franklin. At the same time, she hadn’t told him she thought he was innocent, either.

“I talked to him about a case we’re working,” she said somewhat stiffly. “Asked him to stay close.”