Ray — Wednesday, November 18, 2026, 11:05 a.m.–3:40 p.m.
The investigator asked whether he could hear her. Ray said yes. She had pulled a chair to the other side of the table and set down a recorder. He was looking at the door behind her.
“Is Detective Ortiz here?”
“Not here now. My name is Detective Sutton.”
She told him why she wanted to speak with him: they were looking for June. Before she asked him about her, she went through his rights. He could remain silent. Anything he said could be used against him in court. He had the right to talk to a lawyer before questioning and to have one present; if he couldn't afford one, one would be appointed before questioning if he wished. He didn't have to begin, and if he did begin he could stop or ask for a lawyer at any time.
She asked him to say whether he understood, not just nod. He said he did. She asked whether, understanding those rights, he was willing to speak without a lawyer present.
“Yes,” he said. “I want you to find her.”
He put his name on the form after she'd given him time to read it. His hand was less steady than he expected. There was a pale strip on his wrist where the cuff had pressed. She asked whether he needed anything before they began. He said no, then asked for water. She got it. He had expected someone else to bring it, someone he might ask about Lena while the investigator was occupied.
“When did you last see June?”
“This morning.”
“Where?”
“At the cabin.”
He gave the room, the time before he and Nadia had left. June had been awake. She had the coat. There had been water beside her chair.
“She couldn't walk properly,” he said. “You need to know that.”
“Tell me what she could do.”
He described her standing, holding the wall, putting her foot down and taking the weight off again. Last night the ankle had swollen. He hadn't known what kind of injury it was. He looked at the investigator, wanting her to understand that he hadn't known, then saw that she had written down the fact of it without looking up.
“And today?”
“The same. She got to the chair. Slowly.”
“Did she have the coat on when you left?”
“She'd pulled it over herself. One sleeve wasn't right. She wouldn't let me help.”
He described the coat and the clothes he remembered. She asked which of the clothes he'd seen that morning. He'd seen the sweatshirt clearly last night. This morning the coat and the way she sat had covered some of it. He said what he wasn't sure about, irritated by how little he could actually tell her. She asked who else was at the property when he left, whether anybody was supposed to come there, and where he'd gone.
“Home. Then to get some things.”
“Was anyone else supposed to go to the cabin?”
“Nadia. She said she'd be back.”
“Anybody else?”
“No.”
“Do you know where June is now?”
“No. Isn't she there?”
The investigator told him that officers had entered before he arrived. June wasn't inside. The low window was open. They were searching the surrounding ground.
Ray looked at the water. He hadn't taken a drink. He'd left her with it this morning, had watched Nadia put it close enough that June wouldn't have to get up. The low window was old. He knew it. He had looked at the frame more than once without doing the repair, and now there were people outside looking for a woman who had used it. He could see the places where he'd have started. The track, the rising boundary, the shallow ground behind it. She could have gone anywhere between them.
“Would she go toward the road?” Sutton asked.
“Nadia wanted the road.”
“What did June want?”
He told her about the wall and the light. She asked him to show the direction on the photograph she put down. He recognized the roof and marked above it. The picture was flattened, the hollow almost gone. He said so. She asked him to show where he meant rather than draw a route June hadn't taken in front of him.
“I don't know which way she went,” he said. “I wasn't there.”
“I understand. What did you tell them about that way?”
“That it wasn't near.”
He had said more than that, with an authority the room had allowed him. The investigator waited, and he gave her what he remembered saying: the road was easier, the light wasn't as close as it looked. She asked whether he knew of any occupied place nearer or any person June might go to. He named what he actually knew, the ordinary track and neighboring farm, and admitted what he didn't. He had no one waiting to collect June. He hadn't arranged for anyone to meet her.
Sutton sent the marked photograph and the answers out. Ray listened to her make clear which way June had preferred and which way he thought was easier. It was irritating to hear his knowledge separated into pieces small enough for somebody else to use. He waited for her to return to the table.
“I let Nadia go,” he said.
“You drove her into town this morning?”
“Yes. There's something about what happened last night.”
“Does it tell us where June might be now?”
“No.”
“Is there anything about her condition or anyone else who might be there that you haven't told me?”
“No. I've told you.”
He could tell this woman about the door. He had begun thinking how to make her hear it, the hand holding June inside, the promise to come back. But then she would write it, send it somewhere, and he would have given it away before Lena even came through the door. He wanted to see her face when she heard what Nadia had chosen. He wanted the chance to say it himself.
Sutton asked a last question about the last time he'd seen June drink. He answered it. She reviewed the details with him, then ended the exchange. She took the photograph with his mark on it, and he was left wishing he'd made her stay.
At about two he was brought before the issuing authority for the preliminary arraignment. The complaint was put before him. He heard the charges and the account on which they were based. Nadia Bell, June Farrell. The names were read without hesitation. He had kept June in a room for days and had not bothered to learn her last name.
He was told about the next proceeding and his right to counsel, how to obtain assistance if he couldn't afford it. He listened more closely when there was something he had to answer. The issuing authority ordered him held in custody. He listened to the date of the next proceeding and asked for it to be repeated.
On the journey afterward he recognized an intersection and almost felt better. He could tell Ruth about the cupboard, the board cut to the right length. There was no need to start the job again.
At admission he answered the medical and intake questions. A member of staff waited when he didn't finish. Then his clothes and property became things to be handled by other people. He asked where the keys were going. The answer included the list, so he didn't have to ask for that separately.
When he was told he could make the first call, he asked whether he could call his wife. The staff member showed him what to do. One free admission call, no more than ten minutes. There was a notice about ordinary calls being monitored and recorded. Ray read it, thought of the things he didn't intend to say and entered the number he knew without looking it up.
It was half past three. Ruth answered after several rings.
“It's me,” he said when the connection allowed him to speak.
“I know.”
“Are you home?”
“Yes.”
“Is Jamie there?”
“He's out at the garage. Getting his things.”
For a moment Ray thought of their garage, then understood she meant Jamie's workspace. He wanted the call to begin again with something he hadn't mistaken.
“They've brought me in here.”
“They told me.”
“I've not been able to call.”
“You're calling now.”
There was a sound at her end, a drawer or a door closing. He asked whether she was all right.
“No.”
He had been going to ask her to sit down. He couldn't see her; she might be sitting already. She had sat on the kitchen stool that morning, no, they had stood by the toaster. He kept putting her in the wrong place.
“Did they tell you about the pickup?”
“What about it?”
“The things are in the back. The board. If Jamie can get—”
“They have the pickup.”
“I know. When they let you have it.”
“I don't want it here.”
He waited. She hadn't said she didn't want him there. The difference offered itself and then became a way of hurting her he hadn't even spoken.
“You need your car,” he said.
“I've got my car. I need to know what I can pay this month.”
He started to tell her. The account, what was due, where she'd find the paper about the payment he had made. She asked him to slow down and repeated a number. He could hear her writing. For almost a minute they were doing something together. She asked which payment had already gone out, and he knew. He was grateful enough to offer two more things she hadn't asked, and she told him to wait until she'd finished this one.
“I'm still taking the job,” she said.
“I didn't say you shouldn't.”
“I told them. I called them today. I don't know what people are going to say, but I've told them I'm coming.”
“Good.”
“Don't.”
He said nothing.
“You don't need to say that.”
He could hear her breathing, close to the phone. He had said good because it was good. Yesterday she'd wanted something from him; now even the small answer was something she wouldn't have. He wanted to get to the part of the call where he could ask her for help.
She spoke first.
“That woman. June. Have they found her?”
“I don't know.”
“Have you told them where to look?”
“Everything I know.”
“Where is she?”
“I don't know, Ruth.”
He'd raised his voice. He turned away from the people near him and lowered it.
“She was there when I left this morning.”
Ruth made a sound that wasn't a word.
“I didn't know she'd get out,” he said.
He had meant that he hadn't known it had happened. He heard the other meaning after the words were gone and wanted to change them. Ruth was quiet.
“Yesterday,” she said at last. “When you came in for lunch.”
“Yes.”
“They were there then?”
“Yes.”
“Both of them.”
He said yes again.
He could hear the refrigerator at her end. He knew its hum well enough to place her in the kitchen now. She had stood beside him and turned the tap on. They'd listened, and she'd looked pleased when the pipe stayed dry. Before that they'd laughed about the room with the sea view. He tried to remember whether he'd said anything else about the vacation, something she might be thinking of now.
“I thought we'd had a nice day,” she said.
“We did.”
“I did.”
He almost told her it had been nice for him too. She was there in the kitchen that had existed yesterday, and he was trying to find a sentence she could leave in it. The one he had said had made it worse.
“When you came back,” she said, “did you just come home to sleep? Is that what it was?”
“No.”
“Because you could be here with me and go back there.”
He held the receiver tighter. He wanted to tell her how little sleep he'd had, and the wanting was so stupid that he shut his eyes. He had things to say about Nadia, things that mattered. The call was getting away from him.
“Ruth. Listen to me. Nadia wasn't—there's something she hasn't told them. About last night.”
“I don't want you telling me.”
“You don't know what I'm going to say.”
“Then tell the police.”
“If she understood I wasn't going to—if somebody could speak to her.”
Ruth didn't answer.
“Not tell her what to say. Just tell her I know what happened too.”
“No.”
“You could ask them.”
“I'm not asking anybody to do that.”
He looked up. A man was waiting farther away, not looking at him. It was unbearable that the room went on being a room while his wife refused him.
“She has a little girl,” Ruth said.
“I know.”
“I said that to you yesterday.”
“I remember.”
She began to say his name, then stopped. He heard a brief movement and thought she'd put the phone down. Then she said she had written the payment information and would check it, and if she needed something else she would find out how to send the question. She didn't ask him what he needed to be brought.
“Will you answer if I call?”
“I don't know.”
“Ruth.”
“I don't know, Ray.”
The call ended before the ten minutes were up. He kept the receiver where it was until the line told him there was no one on it. Then he put it back. He had meant to ask her to leave his phone charging. The thought came so plainly that he nearly reached for the receiver again.