The Last Thing He Told Me

“Apparently not well,” I say. “We’ll be on a plane home tomorrow.”

I hate hearing how those words sound. And the thought of going home to an Owen-less house is terrible. At least here I’m able to harbor the illusion that I can help bring Owen back to me, that Bailey and I, together, can do that.

“Well, look, I need to talk to you,” Jake says. “And you’re not going to like it.”

“You’re going to need to start by telling me something I will like, Jake,” I say. “Or I’m hanging up on you.”

“Your friend Grady Bradford is legitimate. Great reputation in the service. He’s one of the go-to guys in the Texas bureau. The FBI often brings him on when a suspect goes missing. And if he wants to find Owen, I’m guessing he will.”

“How is that good news?”

“I’m not sure anyone else can find him,” Jake says.

“What do you mean?”

“Owen Michaels doesn’t exist,” he says.

I almost laugh. That’s how ridiculous those words sound—ridiculous and, of course, wrong.

“I’m not saying you don’t know what you’re talking about, Jake, but I can assure you, he exists. His daughter is sleeping fifteen feet from me.”

“Let me rephrase,” he says, “your Owen Michaels doesn’t ex

ist. Besides a birth certificate and social security number that match, for both Owen and his daughter, the rest of the details are inconsistent.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The investigator I was telling you about, and he knows what he is doing, says that no Owen Michaels exists that fits your husband’s biography. There are several Owen Michaels who grew up in Newton, Massachusetts, and a few who attended Princeton University. But the only Owen Michaels on record who grew up in Owen’s hometown and attended Princeton is seventy-eight years old and lives with his partner, Theo Silverstein, in Provincetown, out on Cape Cod.”

I’m having troubling breathing. I sit down on the hallway carpet, my back against the wall. I can feel it. A knocking in my head, a knocking in my heart. No Owen Michaels is your Owen Michaels. The words moving through me, unable to find a home.

“Should I go on?” he says.

“No thank you.”

“No Owen Michaels purchased or owned a home in Seattle, Washington, in 2006 or enrolled his daughter, Bailey, in preschool that year or had a registered income tax return anytime before 2009…”

That stops me. “That was the year he and Bailey moved to Sausalito.”

“Exactly. That’s where the record for your Owen Michaels starts. And from then on pretty much what you told me matches up. Their home, Bailey’s schooling. Owen’s work. And, of course, it was smart of him to purchase a floating home as opposed to a real house. Less of a paper trail. He doesn’t even own the land. It’s more like a rental. Harder to trace.”

I put my hands over my eyes, trying to stop the spinning in my head, trying to get steadier.

“Before they arrived in Sausalito, I haven’t found one piece of data that supports the story your husband has told you about his life. He went by another name or he went by his current name and just lied to you about every other thing. He lied about who he was.”

I don’t say anything at first. Then I manage to get out the question. “Why?” I say.

“Why would Owen change his name? The details of his life?” he asks.

I nod as though he can see me.

“I asked the investigator the same thing,” Jake says. “He says there are usually two reasons why someone changes his identity, and you’re not going to like either of them.”

“No kidding?”

“The most common reason, believe it or not, is the person has a second family somewhere. Another wife. Another child. Or children. And he’s trying to keep the two lives separate.”

“It’s not possible, Jake,” I say.