“When did Luna tell you about her brother?”
“Maybe six months in. She’d gotten a letter from the brother of one of Brown’s victims. Luna couldn’t figure out how the guy found her address. She was quite upset and considered moving. I suggested she move in with me. We got married about six months later.”
“Did she get many letters of that nature?”
“No. That’s the only one I can think of. Nothing since we’ve been married. The house and most of the bills are in my name.”
“You and Irene. How did it begin?” the detective asked.
“Irene called the house, looking for Owen. He wasn’t answering his phone. I called Luna and couldn’t reach her. Irene came over. We waited. Started talking and comparing notes. We had a similar sense of being the third wheel in our own marriages. We kept talking and then—it just happened.”
Sam looked at the detective and nodded slightly to convey that he was not elaborating any further.
“So much for the seven-year itch,” Margot said.
“What?”
“You’d been married to Luna for just over a year at that point, right?”
“And?”
“Didn’t take you long, did it?”
“Being both married and lonely is an uncomfortable combination,” said Sam.
“Why were you lonely?”
“I’d—I’d never met a woman who asked so little of me. She never needed to talk. She never burdened me with her problems. The only thing she ever wanted was sex. At first, it seemed perfect.”
“Please don’t tell me she was also a good cook,” said Burns.
“No. Horrible.”
“That’s a relief. But still, she doesn’t sound like any woman—or man, for that matter—I’ve ever met. People need. All of them. There are no exceptions.”
“I agree,” said Burroughs. “Most of her other needs were met by Owen.”
“So, you’re saying that the primary relationship in Owen and Luna’s lives was not with their spouses but with each other.”
Sam nodded. Close enough.
“When was the last time you had sex with Ms. Boucher?” Margot asked.
He lifted his cup of coffee, took a sip, scowled. “The Sunday before,” Sam said.
“Where?”
“Motel 6, across the bridge.”
“Sunday, what time?”
“Afternoon. Two or three.”
“Who paid?”
“I did. Cash.”
“Did you always pay?”
“Yes.”
“What time did you leave your house Monday morning?”
“Six-thirty, maybe.”
“Where’d you go?”
“I drove to Chambliss Medical Center.”
“What time did you arrive?”
“It takes about a half hour.”
“So you would have arrived at the hospital around seven? And then what?”
“I was in my office for a few hours. Then I had a surgery at eleven.”
“Can anyone verify that?”
Sam shrugged. “Before the surgery? I don’t know. I was in my office for a while. Then I did rounds. I probably got a cup of coffee. I don’t know if there were cameras or witnesses. I’ll let you figure that out.”
Margot felt a slow ache build at the base of her neck. She rolled her shoulders to loosen up, which only made it worse.
“Can you write down the name of the contact person for your department?” Burns said, sliding paper and pen in front of him.
As Sam scribbled down the name of the contact, he asked, “You figured if you found the DNA, you’d find your killer?”
“That secret phone didn’t do you any favors,” Burns said. “Why’d you get it?”
“Have you ever sent a text to the wrong person?”
“Yes.”
“Even if it’s an utterly benign exchange, it’s unsettling. You feel naked, exposed. I don’t like to make mistakes. It was a simple way to be sure I wouldn’t.”
“But you didn’t send any texts,” Burns said.
“Yeah. It was too annoying on that phone.”
Burns leaned back in her chair. She felt a nagging sensation of something unfinished. A question at the tip of her tongue. She traveled back through their conversation, trying to pinpoint the snag.
“Anything else, Detective?” Sam said.
“Did you kill Irene Boucher?”
“No. Why would I?”
“Motive is not always ruled by logic. And logic isn’t always immediately evident.”