The Perfect Marriage(66)

Every time his parents came to visit, the first thing they asked was how he felt. Owen understood why they did it. It was the standard question under the circumstances. The problem was that he didn’t know how to answer. At this point, it was almost a metaphysical query.

He felt terrible. About as bad as someone could be and still be alive. And yet, life continued to cling to him.

Telling that to his parents didn’t seem right, though. So he made something up about getting stronger, or not feeling too bad, or whatever else he thought they wanted to hear.

He did, in fact, reek of garlic. And just like Dr. Cammerman had suggested what now seemed like eons ago, Owen sucked on Life Savers to get that god-awful taste out of his mouth. And he remained terribly weak.

Despite how he felt, the doctors claimed that he was getting better. The stem cells were “taking” and “reproducing,” whatever that meant. Sometimes he wondered if they weren’t just feeding him the same sort of BS he was telling his parents. A never-ending cycle of lies.



“Every day that goes by is a good day,” Wayne told Jessica one afternoon at the hospital.

Four weeks had passed since James’s death. Two and a half since Owen’s operation.

It was typical Wayne, Jessica thought. Putting a happy face on a situation that was anything but.

“That’s one way of thinking about it,” she said. “The other is that the day of reckoning is that much closer.”

“I prefer my way,” Wayne said with a smile. “Maybe you should try it too.”

“Maybe,” she said.

“Focus on the positive, Jess. We’ve fully paid for Owen’s treatment. We didn’t think we’d be able to at the beginning of all this. Remember how desperate we were back then? And now the doctor says Owen’s doing great. He might be able to come home in a couple of weeks.”

The statement made Jessica’s blood boil. She knew Wayne hadn’t meant to directly equate James’s death with Owen’s life, but that’s all she heard out of his little pep talk.

“We paid for his treatment with James’s life insurance,” she said loud enough that the others in the waiting room took notice.

Wayne tried to calm her, but it was too late. That dam had broken, and feelings Jessica had held inside for weeks burst through. “I never begrudged you for hating him. And I give you high marks for always putting those feelings aside and doing what’s in Owen’s best interest. Not every man would. But you can’t imagine what it’s like to lose someone you loved so much, suddenly, and under such terrible circumstances. Someone that you thought you’d grow old with.”

She knew she had gone too far the moment the words left her mouth. Maybe even before, which was why she’d said them.

“I think I do,” Wayne said, then walked away.



Wayne told himself he needed to remain in control. Sometimes he felt like Bruce Banner, struggling with his alter ego, the Hulk. He had to control that beast within him.

As much as he told himself that he and Jessica were going through this together, today’s rebuke revealed it for the fantasy it was.

He was alone.

If that was the case, he might as well get used to it. So, after leaving Jessica at the hospital, he went home, popped open a beer, and turned on a college basketball game.

Shortly before the first half ended, Wayne heard the sound of cars in his driveway. Then the slamming of multiple car doors.

They were coming for him.

The knocks on the door were followed by, “Mr. Fiske, this is Lieutenant Velasquez of the NYPD. We have a warrant and will forcibly enter if you do not immediately open the door.”

From the window his eyes confirmed what his ears had already told him. There were two cars in his driveway. One a dark sedan, the other a marked police vehicle.

Opening the door, Wayne saw that his visitors matched their modes of transportation. Lieutenant Velasquez and Detective Jamali were in plain clothes. Behind them were two uniformed cops.

“Mr. Fiske, you’re under arrest for the murder of James Sommers.”

The cop kept talking, reciting the Miranda warning that Wayne knew by heart from television. As the lieutenant uttered the words, the female officer grabbed his arms and applied handcuffs.

Wayne didn’t say a word.

“Does the name Howard Fiske ring any bells?” Lieutenant Velasquez said.

Wayne remained mute. When Lieutenant Velasquez realized that Wayne was not rising to the bait, he smiled, and said, “He lives in Portland, Oregon. We found him courtesy of a genealogy database. Unfortunately for you, your cousin Howard’s DNA was a partial match for the blood left at the crime scene.

“This is your last chance to get out in front of this thing,” Lieutenant Velasquez continued. “Admit what you did. Accept responsibility. Explain how it happened. Show some remorse. All of that will help you, come sentencing time. But if you keep quiet, once your blood matches the blood found at the crime scene, there’ll be no coming back from that.”

Wayne wanted to say something like he imagined they would in a movie: You’re way off base, maybe. Or, You don’t scare me.

But neither of those really applied, so he kept silent.

They were on the right track. And he was scared. Petrified actually.

Goddamn cousin Howard.