He woke but a few minutes later to the sound of the alarm clock. The nausea and headache were nothing compared to the fact that, as he was dressing for work, he remembered that today was going to be a ceremony for Helen. The body was still in the custody of the police for autopsy and would be for a few more days. Helen’s parents didn’t want to wait for the inevitable closure. Her father had mentioned it before leaving the library. “Awfully quick,” Owen had thought, and put it out of his mind. The sudden, returning thought of it froze him where he sat on the edge of his bed, holding a pair of socks. He knew there was no way he could make it through the memorial and the looks and words, no matter how kind the citizens of Westwend. Owen was revealing himself to be more of a coward than even he’d suspected. Still, he dressed in his blue-gray suit and went to work, taking the new, secret route. He prayed no one would see him, and no one did.

His suffering induced by the bourbon subsided around midday. There were patrons at a steady pace, and a pile of kids came in after school to work on projects together. Some of the adults mentioned the robbery to him. The older folks knew better than to blurt it out in conversation but smiled wistfully and patted him on the shoulder as he checked out their books. For the first time in a long time, he left early. It’s not like there was anyone around to evict, but he killed the lights and locked the door twenty minutes before closing.

After making it home without being spotted, Owen grabbed the rolled-up newspaper from where it was shoved into the iron scroll work of the porch banister. He staggered inside and shut and locked the door behind him. He dressed in his shorts and T-shirt. Curling up in a corner of the living room couch, he propped himself with his elbow against the pillowed arm, and turned on the light above his head. The front page of the Westwend Tattler had a large photo of the ceremony for Helen Roan from earlier in the day. Owen skipped it. On page two was his “confession” that he was no hero.

He felt so wronged by that one word—confession—as if he’d been leading the community on, been boasting about how he’d tried to disarm the murderer. He’d never claimed such a thing. All he was really guilty about was not telling everyone he was a straight-up coward, and who would go out of their way to say such a thing? The paper fell from his hands onto the floor. He rolled onto his back and stretched his legs out. His fingers just reached the light switch. In minutes he was mercifully out and lightly snoring.

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