“We thought you might know,” said one of the cops.
That’s when Owen’s nerves took over.
* * *
—
The news began to spread across campus as soon as the police knocked on Owen’s door. An hour later, Scarlet’s death of a likely subdural hematoma had become a slit throat; the suspicious death was now a sex crime and murder.
Luna remembered feeling it first, the way the news came to her. It wasn’t spoken; it was a collage of sounds that evoked a feeling. Like the chatter of an audience right before a movie begins, but instead of quieting when the screen went dark, the volume slowly increased. Shrill voices saying, Oh my god. Random swear words. Then there was a loud knock at the door, not a secret knock.
Luna crawled out of bed and opened the door. It was Casey. She had an expression that Luna had never seen before. It was like fear combined with a mild flu.
“Have you heard?” Casey said.
Luna could only imagine that her secret was out. She felt like a hand was squeezing her heart. She thought she might vomit again and swallowed sour saliva. “Heard what?”
“Scarlet is dead.”
“？‘Dead,’？” Luna repeated.
The word didn’t make sense at first. Luna had prepared for other unfortunate news. Not this. Not death. Not Scarlet.
* * *
—
Detective Oslo had instructed the officers to bring Owen Mann around to the back door of the Deerkill precinct, but they instead marched him right through the front door, past the waiting area, where Scarlet’s mother and father had been sitting all night. A woman Owen had never met charged at him, screaming, “What did you do? What did you do?”
Owen felt her hands grasp at him. Then more pulling and pushing. Men were shouting. The woman, screaming. A door opened and Owen was shoved into a long corridor. Another man in uniform led him into a smaller room with walls made of tiles and holes. None of it felt real except the sick twist in his gut.
“Detective Oslo will be with you in a minute,” the officer said, shutting the door.
Owen’s throat burned, his head throbbed, and his tongue felt like gravel. He knew there were things he should be thinking about, but he was too tired and hungover to form coherent thoughts. All he could do was look around and take in details of the room. As he was observing the patina of handmade grooves that lined the desk, which was bolted to the floor, Detective Miles Oslo entered, knocking on the way in. He was tall and wiry—the opposite of the pudgy slob in a rumpled suit Owen had expected. He had the hollowed-out cheeks of a long-distance runner, his face splattered with freckles. His hair was almost red but sun-bleached closer to blond. Oslo explained that Owen wasn’t being arrested, that they were just having a conversation, which he would be recording. He placed a digital recorder on the table and pressed a button.
“Your neck okay?” Detective Oslo asked.
“What?” Owen said.
“Got a little scratch,” Oslo said.
“Who was that woman?”
“Scarlet’s mother. I apologize. You were supposed to come in the back door.”
“How did she know who I was?” Owen asked.
“She’d seen photos.”
“From who?”
“Who do you think?”
Owen thought for a moment that he might vomit. He hadn’t fully processed what was happening. The detective asked Owen if he needed anything.
“Like what?” Owen said.
He wasn’t sure what he could ask for. Owen had smoked a fair amount of weed the night before.
“Water or coffee?” Oslo said.
Owen wanted both, but he didn’t think he could ask for that. “Coffee, please,” Owen said.
Detective Oslo stepped out. Owen looked around the room. There were pockmarked panels on the walls. A mirror. Owen’s reflection startled him because it didn’t look like him. He turned away, thinking that there might be someone on the other side.
To be fair, in the quiet moments when he could truly consider Scarlet’s death, Owen felt a deep sadness. However, he was in a police station, in a room that smelled like sour sweat and stale coffee, and he had a basic understanding that a part of his life was over, the good part. It was hard to feel anything other than the panic of his current predicament. He’d had it easy so far. It would never be that easy again. He experienced his first true moment of nostalgia, thinking back just one week.
Owen’s phone buzzed in his pocket. It was Luna. He told her where he was. He had more to say. He wanted her to call his brother. But then the tall man came back inside. What was his name? He said it, but Owen couldn’t remember.