FOGOU: 8

He hears the voice, then, speaking his name.  The woman’s voice.  But it comes from behind him.

He turns to see the detective from the town, hands in her jacket against the cold, studying him.

He considers her face, the micro-expressions of a woman who wants to say, “returning to the scene of the crime?” 

Instead, she says his name again, and looks around at the grounds.  “This really is a wonderful place. I’m not surprised you decided to stay.”

He speaks.  His voice comes out dry.  It gets little exercise these days.  He asks her what she wants.

“I’m here to tell you we’ve closed your wife’s case.  Therefore, the case we developed against you.  It’s over.”

Nothing’s over, he thinks.  He looks back at the fogou. 

“It’ll be a few years before you can apply for a declaration of death certificate.  After that, you can ask for a certificate of presumed death and start probate and all that.  We’re satisfied that…”  She pauses, follows his gaze to the fogou.

“Satisfied?”  he says.

“Well.  Some of us aren’t satisfied as such.  But we find no evidence linking you to your wife’s disappearance.  Even after we dug that place out.  Sorry about that, by the way.”

“It survived,” he says.  “It always survives.”