was time to confirm a husband’s worst fear: his wife was dead.
CHAPTER FOUR
Matt followed Bree into the condo. The place smelled like stale grease and whiskey.
Deputy Oscar had opened the front door. With a heft of his duty belt, he gestured down the hall. “He’s in the kitchen. I’ve made coffee, but now he’s just a more awake drunk.”
A man sat at a small table, sobbing into his folded arms.
The second Bree and Matt entered the room, Mr. Thorpe jerked upright. He wore ripped jeans and an old university sweatshirt. Both were wrinkled and stained, as if they’d been slept in for days—maybe the entire weekend. His bloodshot eyes locked on Bree without blinking.
“Mr. Thorpe . . . ,” she began.
“Call me Owen, please.” He drew in a shaky breath. “Deputy Oscar said my wife jumped off the bridge, and you found her body in the river.”
Bree stiffened. “We’re not sure what happened.” She tried for a measured tone, but her frustration was palpable. “The medical examiner hasn’t issued a cause of death. All I can tell you is that your wife’s car was parked near the bridge, and we found a body we believe to be Holly nearby in the river.”
The glance she cast at her deputy was sharp enough to have sliced him in two. Oscar had clearly been in contact with deputies at the scene, and he’d relayed their assumptions to Owen. But assumptions were not facts. Death was hard enough on families without receiving conflicting information, and suicide was particularly difficult to accept.
Matt scrutinized Oscar. The deputy looked away, his mouth tight. He knew he’d fucked up.
“You can go back to your patrol duties now, Deputy Oscar.” Bree’s tone was dismissive, and the deputy slunk out of the kitchen.
“What do you mean ‘believe to be Holly’?” Owen looked confused. He reached behind him for a framed snapshot. He held the picture in both hands and turned it toward them. “Is it her or not?”
In the snapshot, a close-up of Holly was framed by a brilliant blue sky. She was looking over her shoulder at the camera. One eyebrow arched, her expression flirty and mock-serious, as if she and the photographer were sharing a private, sexy joke. Matt guessed that Owen had taken the picture from the almost reverent way he held the frame.
Oh, no.
Either Owen didn’t know his wife had been in the water for three days or he wasn’t thinking about the effects—that submersion and the beginnings of decomposition had distorted his wife’s face.
Holly didn’t look like that anymore.
Bree was going to have to explain it to him. Her face went grimmer. “May we sit down?”
Owen nodded, fear clouding his eyes. Matt and Bree slid into chairs facing him.
Bree began, “Owen, the remains were found at the edge of the river. She had been in the water for several days. Submersion and time change the physical appearance—”
He groaned, interrupting Bree. Resting his elbows on the table, Owen dropped his head into his hands. If he was crying, it was silent. Maybe he’d reached the end of his ability to absorb the gruesome truth. The quiet ticked by, punctuated only by Owen’s deep, quivering inhalations. Finally, he lifted his head and swallowed. “Does this mean there’s a chance that Holly might still be alive?”
Pity shone in Bree’s eyes. “That’s extremely unlikely. I’m sorry. But in order to complete a death certificate, the medical examiner will need verification. Does your wife wear any jewelry?”
“Her wedding band.” Owen coughed, then swallowed.
“Can you describe it?” Bree pulled out her phone.
“It’s silver with a stripe.” He lifted his hand and showed them his own. “It matches mine.”
Bree opened her phone and showed it to him. “Is this it?”
He closed his eyes for a few seconds. Opening them, he nodded.
Matt glanced at the picture. The rings matched.
“Does your wife have a local dentist?” she asked.
“No,” Owen answered. “She’s terrified of them. She hasn’t seen one since she was a kid.”
Bree frowned. “Does she have a doctor?”
Owen gave her a name.
Bree made a note in her phone. “Either the medical examiner or I will keep you apprised on the official identification process. I’d like to take your wife’s hairbrush and toothbrush with us.”
He nodded, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. He gestured toward the nearby stairwell and choked out, “Sure. Her stuff is on the left side of the sink.” His shoulders slumped, and his hands fell into his lap.
She took a small notepad and pen from her pocket. “When was the