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“Come on, Ethan. Think. That’s a guilty man’s answer. The media will spin your hesitation into the story. They’ll claim you’ve been buying time, making sure your tracks are covered.”
“What would you have me do then? Lie? Say I’ve been combing the town looking for her? If she left, that makes me look like an abusive asshole.”
“Lose-lose, dude. Sorry.”
“Great. So now what? I go home and wait for her to show up? What if something has happened? They find her dead, and I haven’t reported her missing? Then I do look guilty. You know I have to call them. If I don’t, her friends will. I don’t have a choice.”
“I want to be there.”
Ethan felt a surge of panic. “I was worried you’d say that. If I show up with you by my side, isn’t that going to look even worse?”
“If anything, it will help. I know everyone on the force down here. If I’m there, no one’s going to try and jam you up without cause. They will interrogate the living shit out of you, though, so it’s better if I’m there in case they start off into territory that could get dicey for you later on. I’ll just sit quietly in the corner unless something goes awry. I promise. But you want me there.”
“All right. When do we call?”
Robinson glanced at his watch. “I need to get going. Give me two hours. I’ll meet you at the house at five.”
“Thank you, Joel.”
Robinson stood, shuffling papers into his briefcase. “No thanks needed. I’m just trying to watch your back. Now, for God’s sake, go out and look for her.”
THE TANGLED WEBS WE WEAVE (#uc4aac95c-bcda-5b38-b6a5-c4120ac2f064)
Ethan took his time going home. He knew he needed to search for Sutton, but he had no idea where to look. Where would she go if she was trying to hide from him? Franklin was a small town. She had no real ties outside of it, no family in California or anything so convenient.
He stopped in the Starbucks, looked around, as if Sutton would be sitting at the table in her favorite corner, writing away. She can’t write here anyway, mate, her laptop’s at the house. A pang in his heart. He sometimes walked up to meet her, days when he couldn’t do his own work. Just a quick hello, popping in for a cuppa, how are you getting on? Though it wasn’t exceptional interest in her work that drove him to seek her out, and she knew it. He didn’t like being far from her for very long. Three hours was enough to make him jittery. Three days felt like a lifetime. Leaving was an effective punishment; she knew how hard he found their separations.
Nothing at the Starbucks, so he moved on. Walked down the street to the Coffee House at Second and Bridge, his preferred haunt, ordered himself gluten-free crepes and a cup of tea. He ate in the back room, the plate balanced on his knee, the squashy leather chair he was in almost too comfortable. It felt terrible to him, eating and drinking tea as if nothing was wrong in the world, as if Sutton was simply off at yoga, or working.
Keep up your strength, mate. You need to keep things in hand.
He kept the refrain on a loop as he walked home. Keep it together, keep it together, keep it together.
What if someone had harmed her? His stomach heaved at the thought.
Inside the too-empty house, he puttered from room to room. Imagining. If she wouldn’t be coming home, was he obligated to keep the heavy orange silk curtains he didn’t like? Then admonishing himself: Don’t be daft, man, she’s coming back.
He’d felt this same way when Dashiell died. He’d known his son wouldn’t ever be found giggling in his crib again, and yet he’d circle the house and find himself staring into the nursery as if he could conjure the child from thin air.
Ghosts. He was surrounded by ghosts. Of those he’d wronged, and those he’d disappointed, and those he’d failed.
The doorbell rang. He ran to the foyer and pulled open the door with teeth bared, only to see Ivy on the step, suitcase and briefcase in hand, an UberBLACK Suburban driving away.
A calm came over him. He took his first real breath all day.
“Thank God. Sanity arrives. You got here fast.”
“I was able to get an earlier flight.”
He took her suitcase, ushered her inside, and shut the door gently behind her. “Why didn’t you go home first? It’s not like it’s far.”
“I could tell how worried you were. Are. I’ll go home once we have a handle on what’s happening.”
“You’re a good friend, Ivy.”
A good friend, and a handsome woman. He didn’t want to notice, but he was a man, after all. It was hard not to. Since she’d moved to Franklin, and she and Sutton had become bosom buddies, he’d been treated to Ivy in every stage of dress. She didn’t try to hide her real self from them.
Today she was all done up, and the effect was pleasing. Short black skirt, long bare legs, those nude pumps Duchess Kate wore all the time. She’d cut her hair since he saw her last—what was it, two weeks ago, when they’d had dinner at Grays? It was blonder, a fashionable long bob with the back slightly shorter, asymmetrically driving toward the front. He purposely skipped over her torso, did not see the button undone nor the black lace spilling out of the crack in her blouse, no he did not.
“Nice do.”
She touched the back of her hair self-consciously. “Thank you. Still no word?”
“No. The weird sisters were by, though.”
“I wish you wouldn’t call them that. They’re my friends, too, you know.”
“But you’re the only one who can remotely understand the reference. Outside of Sutton, of course.”
“I know, you’re the intellectual giant among us. I’d think Ellen would get it, at least. She is a librarian—”
“Ellen’s an ignorant shrew, and you know it.”
That brought out a rare smile. “Still.” Ivy helped herself to a glass and pulled a bottle of water from the fridge. “Talk to me, Ethan. What do you really think is happening here?”
“Honestly? I don’t know. Maybe she’s paying me back for everything by making me sick with worry. I expect her to come waltzing in the door any minute and yell, ‘Surprise!’”
“Sarcasm doesn’t become you.”
“I’m only half kidding. What I don’t get is the missing money.”
Ivy didn’t bat a perfectly groomed eyelash. “I agree, that is odd. How much, and from where?”
“Our investment account. Fifty thousand. Withdrawn over six months.” He handed over the spreadsheet, felt a small spark of pride. Ivy understood money. It was in her blood. She’d appreciate his effort, at least.
She perused the paper, biting on her lower left lip. A bad habit she had; it made her seem young, breakable. It was the only dent he’d ever seen in her armor. Not that he’d been paying attention.
“This could be for anything.”
“It could. But it’s not. I think she’s fled.”
Ivy set the paper down on the marble. Took a sip of her water. “Why would she run away from you, Ethan? Sutton has been through hell, yes, but so have you. I can’t imagine her just up and leaving without a word. She’s stronger than that.”
“She left word. She left a note.”
“Oh, that’s right.”
She read it with the same concentration she’d given the spreadsheet, carefully, fully, allowing the words to sink in.
Another little lip gnaw.
“Well, Ethan, what do you want to do?”
“I want to find her and strangle her for making me worry like this, that’s what.”
“I’m not sure that’s the most productive angle. The police might take offense were they to hear you talking in those terms, too.”
He ran both hands through his hair, shook his head. “It’s just...what the hell is she thinking? If she wanted out, why not be up front about it? Why steal fifty grand and sneak away in the night? It doesn’t seem like her. Something’s not right about all of this. I’m no longer feeling comfortable with she decided to leave as an answer.”
“Then it is time to call the police. Let them make the decision for you. Don’t you think?”
“I went to see Joel Robinson. He wants to be here when I talk to them.”
“That’s good. At least you’ll be protected. Don’t worry. We’ll get to the bottom of this. I promise.”
He looked at his Breitling, a relic passed down from his grandfather. Took a deep breath. “Joel said he’d be here at five. It’s 4:40 p.m. now. Here goes nothing.”
He reached for the phone and dialed 9-1-1, trying like hell to keep his mind focused on his missing wife, not thinking about the last time he was forced to do this.
SIDS, OR NOT TO SIDS (#uc4aac95c-bcda-5b38-b6a5-c4120ac2f064)
Then
The baby wasn’t breathing. He was cold and blue, and Sutton was standing over the crib with a look of shock on her face. Her voice was high and reedy, bordering on complete hysteria. She was slapping at her head.
“Do something! For God’s sake, Ethan, do something!”
What was he supposed to do? The baby was clearly dead. He’d seen enough dead things to know. The numbness spread through him, burning and cauterizing as it went. This is your son, not some...thing in a backyard, on the side of the road, or in a coffin. This is your son. Feel something.
Shock, you’re in shock.
Sutton had gone over the edge, was keening. She started to reach into the crib to pick up the baby—Dashiell, his name is Dashiell—but Ethan grabbed her arm. “Stop. Call 9-1-1. Don’t touch him.”
She lost all affect, the hysteria fleeing. Her calm was eerie, unsettling. It was as if his touch had switched off a light inside her; one flick of the switch and the wife he knew was gone. Her voice was hollow, girlish. “He’s my baby. I want to pick him up. I want to hold him.”
“Sutton, we need the police to see that you didn’t do anything to him.”
She turned, eyes wide, and slapped him, hard across the cheek. The fire returned to her eyes. “How dare you? How dare you? I didn’t hurt him, you know I didn’t. I’d never hurt him. How could you possibly insinuate that I killed our baby? You bastard!”
He grabbed her by the arms, squeezed hard, as if he could keep the demons from spilling out. “Sutton, listen to me. They’ll look at you. They always look at the mother. And now that you know... Calm down. Please, darling, just calm down.”
She ripped herself from his grip and rushed out of the room. He heard her crying, cursing, begging, the words running together, a wailing crescendo: No, no, no, no, no.
He stared once more at the still body of their tiny son. Oh, Sutton. What have you done?
He had to call the police.
Time passed in a blur. Strangers came. Neighbors lined the streets. Rain started, chasing all but the nosiest inside to watch through their windows.
Ten hours—a lifetime—later, they carried Dashiell’s body from the house. When the door closed behind them, it felt so empty. He didn’t know how to feel. Sutton had been given a sedative and was passed out cold in their bed. He wanted a sedative. Why did he have to be the brave one, the together one, the strong one? Because he was a man? He’d lost his son, too. And probably more. His marriage, his wife. His life, so strategically built.
He opened a bottle of Scotch, poured half a glass, drank it down without breathing. The liquor burned, and he swallowed hard to keep it down.
Two drinks later, he’d finally admitted to himself this could have been his fault. He shouldn’t have told her. It was a stupid thing to do. But the guilt of it was weighing on him. Holding the secret inside, letting it eat at him, tear away at him, had become a permanent Charybdis churning in his soul.
Sutton loved Dashiell. Carried him with her everywhere. He’d outgrown the withy basket she kept by her desk and spent his out-of-arms time in a car seat stationed within five feet of her at all times. Ethan had finally won the battle to let the tyke sleep in his crib in his nursery instead of in their bed. It had been hard for Sutton, even harder for him. It was impossible to sleep well knowing Sutton was getting up to check on the baby every hour.
He’d told her because he knew she’d gotten used to it. To being a mother. To having a child. To being a family.
He knew she loved Dashiell.
But when he admitted what he’d done, it was like something inside her snapped.
THE STRANGE CASE OF THE MISSING WIFE (#uc4aac95c-bcda-5b38-b6a5-c4120ac2f064)
Now
Dialing 9-1-1 felt holy, prophetic. He’d only done it once before, the night they’d found the baby dead, and the whole event replayed itself in minute splashes of memory. Pick up the phone the police arrived depress the buttons they looked right through you, as if they knew you were responsible it rang, once, twice, three times there will have to be an autopsy, I’m sorry.
“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”
My baby is dead.
Ivy was staring at him. He cleared his throat. “My wife is missing.”
A slight exhalation from the operator, as if she were relieved it wasn’t a real emergency.
“Is your address 460 Third Avenue South, Franklin?”
“Yes, that’s it.”
“What’s your name, sir?”
“Ethan. Ethan Montclair.”
“What’s your wife’s name, sir?”
“Sutton Montclair.”
“How old is she?”
“Thirty-eight. No, thirty-seven. Oh, her birthday...”
“Height, weight, hair color?”
“Five-eleven, strawberry blonde, maybe 140, 150? I don’t know exactly. She hasn’t been working out. She’s very pretty.”
“When did you see her last?”
