𝙼𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝙾𝚝𝚒𝚜 𝚁𝚎𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚜 | ONC 2024

𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝙽𝚒𝚗𝚎

Weston Otis sat in his study, the ticking of the old grandfather clock in the corner echoing the meticulous rhythm of his thoughts. He felt a strange mixture of betrayal and lack of surprise toward his wife, Camilla. The woman he had adored and cherished once upon a time was now entangled in a scandal that seemed pulled straight from the sordid pages of a dime novel. What had she been thinking, committing a crime in such a brash, public manner? They had their list of indiscretions, the both of them, but he always looked the other way for Camilla's, and she always looked the other way for his. That had been their unspoken arrangement for years. And it had worked.

But now all of New York knew she'd been dallying with the juvenile son of an Italian mob boss behind his back. The murder, the affair, the name of the other man, it was all public knowledge, thanks to that revealing Times article. Whatever happened to discretion? Camilla's affair with Mario Castellano, Weston could forgive. In truth, he had long since stopped caring who his promiscuous wife took to bed. But her behavior turning him into a known cuckold? That he could not and would not absolve. She was finished. He could wash his hands of her. At last.

A vase of long-stemmed yellow roses sat on the corner of his desk. Those were new. Perhaps the maid had put them there. Yellow: the color of sunshine and cowardice. Weston sniffed, unable to decide if the hue was fitting or insulting.

Just then, a sharp knock on the door jolted him from his brooding. “Señor Otis?” called the voice of the maid, Elena. “Los Oficiales are here to speak with you. About Señora Otis.”

“Right,” Weston huffed. He glanced at his reflection in the large oval mirror on the wall. Although advancing in years, he was still a handsome man. Resembled James Stewart, some said. Satiated at the thought, he smoothed his hand over his silver hair and straightened his tie. “Yes, send them in.”

As the pair of officers (comically named Jack Marlowe and Jack Spade — again, so very dime novel-esque) entered his study, he briefly wondered why it was Elena who had escorted them through the manor rather than the butler. But what did it matter? Elena likely had little to do now that Camilla was incarcerated.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Otis,” the dark-complected policeman greeted him. “We spoke on the telephone earlier. I'm Officer Marlowe, this is Officer Spade.” He gestured to the sandy-haired man next to him. “Is now a good time for a few quick questions?”

Weston scrutinized the men in front of him. Both looked athletic and capable, yet far too young to be questioning him. It was rather insulting. But better to just get this over with. He had little to say on the matter, anyway.

Rising from his chair, Weston adjusted the lapel of his navy suit jacket and gestured for Marlowe and Spade to make themselves comfortable. As they settled onto the plush leather armchairs across from him, he couldn't help but notice the keen intelligence that flickered behind their eyes. Their chiseled faces were etched with a curious mix of skepticism and determination. Perhaps not such greenhorn imbeciles after all. He must play the part of the dutiful, wronged husband.

“You've come at a tumultuous time, gentlemen,” Weston began, his voice steady and authoritative. “My wife's actions have cast a dark shadow over everything I once thought I knew.”

Marlowe leaned forward, his gaze unwavering as he spoke, “Don't worry, Mr. Otis. We're here to uncover the truth, no matter where it may lead.”

“The truth?” Weston echoed.

“That's right. We're looking for the truth. Nothing more, nothing less,” Spade added.

Weston nodded. The truth was good. The truth would make Camilla look like the lying ingrate that she was. The truth could help him. Just not the whole truth.