Burns opened her notebook and casually leaned back in her chair.
“Were you and Irene legally married?”
“Yes.”
“She never took your name? She always went by Irene Boucher?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you been married?”
“Um, four years,” Owen said.
“How long have you known each other?”
“Five years, maybe.”
“That was quick.”
Owen wasn’t sure how to respond so he said nothing.
“What was Irene’s occupation?”
“She ran a nonprofit arts education program.”
“Was that a full-time job?”
“Her employees handle most of the day to day. She’d go in a few times a week, I guess.”
“When was the last time you saw your wife?” Burns asked.
“I’m—I’m not sure,” Owen said.
“Did you see her yesterday?”
“No. When I woke up she was gone. I thought she went for a run.”
Burns leaned back in her chair, squinted slightly with a head tilt. “Your wife left for a run yesterday morning and never came back. Weren’t you concerned by her absence?” she said.
Owen didn’t like the way the detective raised an eyebrow, as if he was already her prime suspect.
“No. I don’t know. She left sometimes. It was something she did.”
“So, it was not unusual for your wife to be gone for a twenty-four-hour stretch without alerting you to her whereabouts?”
“No.”
“No, it wasn’t unusual? Sorry. The double-negative confusion is my fault. So, was the disappearance unusual or not unusual?”
“Not unusual,” Owen said.
“Now, that’s unusual,” Burns said.
“I guess,” Owen said.
He stared at the floor, focusing on the speckled pattern of the linoleum. The image of Irene’s blood-drained face kept flashing in front of him.
“If your wife didn’t come home at night—or at all—where would she go?”
“A hotel or motel. She wasn’t gone overnight that often.”
“But it happened enough that you weren’t concerned.”
“I was a little concerned. But that was mostly this morning.”
“Would these…disappearances happen after a fight?”
“We didn’t really fight.”
“Really?” Burns said. “So, if you weren’t fighting, then why the extended departure?”
“We both liked our space sometimes.”
Margot nodded, trying to convey understanding. “I get that. But why wouldn’t she leave a note, so you wouldn’t worry?”
“I don’t know. We didn’t do that,” he said.
“So, again, when was the last time you saw your wife alive?”
Owen had gone to bed late on Sunday. Irene was already in bed, talking in her sleep. Owen enjoyed Irene’s somniloquies. She always sounded like she was giving directions to a jerk. Thinking about it, he almost laughed.
“Sunday night,” Owen said.
“How did she seem?” Burns asked.
“Asleep,” Owen said.
“So, you and your wife shared a bed.”
“Of course.”
“Let’s go back to yesterday morning—Monday—when you first noticed your wife wasn’t home. What time did you wake up?”
“Around nine or ten.”
“What did you do after you woke up?”
“I drank coffee and read the paper.”
“How long did that take?”
“About an hour or so.”
“And then what did you do?”
“I took a shower.”
“After the shower…？”
“I went to work.”
“Where is your work?”
“St. Michael’s College. Art Department.”
“What do you do there?”
“I teach. Painting.”
“So, you’re an artist?”
“I guess. I was. I dunno. I teach,” Owen said.
That was a loaded response, Margot thought. “You arrived at St. Michael’s around what time?”
“After eleven. Before noon. My first class was at one p.m.”
Owen watched as the detective jotted down Owen’s hazy schedule.
“I assume someone saw you on campus?” the detective asked.
“Sure,” Owen said.
Owen was always surrounded by clusters of students, although he couldn’t recall a single interaction that day until class.