“Try me,” Owen said.
She told Owen the whole sorry saga. It helped that Owen didn’t react with horror or shock. He didn’t judge.
“That was definitely not boring.”
“Good to know,” Phoebe said.
“You told your mother only part of the story,” Owen said.
“I told her what she needed to know to make the right choice.”
“Maybe she needed to know everything,” Owen said.
Phoebe kept shaking her head. That was not ever going to happen.
“I can’t do that,” Phoebe said.
“Why not?”
“Because if I told her the whole truth and she still married him, I don’t think I could ever forgive her.”
Owen wrapped his arm around Phoebe. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Thanks,” she said.
Phoebe reached for the Macallan.
“Haven’t you had enough?” Owen asked.
“I haven’t had nearly enough,” Phoebe said.
Owen took the bottle away from her, replaced the cork, and rolled it back under his bed. “I think we’ve had enough.”
“Now what are we gonna do?” Phoebe asked.
He kissed her, began to unbutton her blouse. Phoebe loosened his tie and freed the knot.
“Where are you from again?” Owen asked.
“Sheffield,” Phoebe said.
“Really?” Owen said. His brain tripped over a recent memory. He thought the bartender said something else.
“Why?”
“Your accent is killing me.”
Phoebe laughed. Not like she was dismissing a compliment but more like she thought something was funny. He liked her laugh almost as much as her accent. He didn’t know what was so funny, though. It didn’t matter.
They had sex. Owen remembered having a pretty good time. Most of the night was a blur. They both crashed sometime after two a.m.
Owen woke the next morning as Phoebe was rushing out. He recalled that she had the wedding that day. He wished her luck. She thanked him for his hospitality. Owen asked for her number. She scribbled it on the back of a coaster and kissed him goodbye. Owen waited a few days to call.
A woman with a slight French accent answered the phone.
“May I speak to Phoebe?” he asked.
“Sorry, wrong number.”
October 15, 2019
Goldman thought he was just dotting a few i’s when he rang Maya Wilton’s doorbell. He could hear someone inside moving around. When Maya finally answered, she was wearing a coat and carrying her purse in one hand and a metal box in the other.
“Hello, Mrs. Wilton. Noah Goldman. We spoke a few days ago.”
Maya stepped outside, handed the box to Noah, and locked the front door behind her.
“In my defense,” Maya said, voice quivering, “I was planning on turning myself in.”
“Good to know,” Goldman said.
Back at the station, he put Maya in an interview room and delivered the box to his partner in the bullpen.
“What’s this?” Burns asked.
“Maya Wilton gained access to Owen Mann’s house two days ago and searched it. Then she stole this box, took it home, and watched YouTube videos on how to pick a lock with a paper clip. She thought I came to her house to arrest her. She was stunned when I let her sit in the front seat.”
“What’s in the box?” Burns asked.
Goldman lifted the lid. A messy pile of photos sat inside. “We should be grateful that she didn’t find the murder weapon. No judge would have allowed it.”
“I’ll look through these,” Margot said. “Make sure Maya is alibied for Monday morning.”
Goldman returned to the interview room.
“Do I need a lawyer?” Maya asked when Goldman entered.
“For what?”
“I didn’t realize until after I took the box that it might be construed as theft.”
“Well, technically, it was theft,” Goldman said.
“I know. I don’t know what I was thinking,” Maya said. “I’ve never done anything like that in my life. What could happen to me?”
“For stealing the box?” Goldman asked. “I wouldn’t worry about it. Owen would have to press charges. To be clear, I’m only interested in finding Irene’s killer.”
“I did not kill Irene,” Maya said. “I adored her.”
“Good to know,” Goldman said. “You said you found the box in Irene’s closet.”
“Yes. In the back. Behind a stack of shoeboxes.”
“What were you looking for?” Goldman asked.