“Local writer Sutton Montclair is missing, and the Franklin police aren’t speculating as to the reason for her disappearance, but people inside the investigation say the husband, Ethan Montclair, is a serious suspect—”
He flipped it off. He didn’t need to see what people were saying, he could practically feel it coming from all sides. Everyone thought he’d done something to his wife.
Even he had to admit it all looked very bad.
He ignored the euphoria rattling inside him as he prepared a quick breakfast. He was famished; cereal wouldn’t do. Frozen oatmeal, with some added nuts and seeds and raisins, orange juice, tea. He scarfed it all down, purposely ignoring the fact that his appetite had returned along with his words.
The words.
They were good. He knew this. He was his own worst critic—most writers are—but these words were transcendental. Intense and lyrical and stunning. Bill would be thrilled. The publisher would be thrilled. Sutton...
And that quickly, the pleasure fled. Sutton wouldn’t be thrilled, because there was no way for him to let Sutton know.
The oatmeal felt like a lump of rock in his stomach.
Shake it off, his mind said.
You’re a horrible person, his wife’s shade replied.
The phone rang. The morning’s round of media speculation was gearing up. He could see them moving around outside, hear the shouting and calls.
A text appeared on his phone. Robinson.
I see you’re still inundated. Let me know if you need anything. You may want to think about making a statement. It might make them back off.
A chance to set things right. A chance to create some space. He wrote back almost greedily.
I’ll do anything. Tell me what to say, I’ll say it.
I’ll be there in three minutes. Back door.
* * *
Of course it backfired. Of course it did. Ethan was terrible on camera, for all the wrong reasons.
Robinson was a family guy. He wanted Ethan to play the family angle. Which meant mentioning Dashiell. He wanted Ethan to talk about the marriage, how happy they were, how far they’d come since their son’s death.
Ethan balked. Refused. All he wanted was to plead for Sutton’s safe return. They argued for ten minutes, and then Ethan quite effectively ended the discourse by marching to the front door. He swung it open and waited for the frenzy to begin.
* * *
Holly saw the news alert pop up on her phone. She opened the news app, watched the presser with astonishment. Ethan Montclair looked like he’d been on a three-day bender. His hair was sticking up; he was unshaven. His eyes held a glint, and the lights from the multiple cameras facing him caught it full-on. The result was a visage that was slightly demonic and definitely unkempt. The very expensive front door hung half-closed behind him. Joel Robinson was standing in the shadows, frowning.
She turned up the volume.
“Thank you for your attention to the disappearance of my wife, Sutton Montclair. We are unsure at this time of her whereabouts, and are very anxious to have her home. Sutton, honey, if you’re watching this, please call me. I’m worried sick for you. And you lot—” he pointed to the journalists gathered, hanging on to his every word “—instead of lounging around here, harassing me, why don’t you use your resources to look for my wife? Please, do the right thing. Help me bring her home. That is all.”
And the door shut.
There was a moment of collective silence, then Holly watched the whole scene devolve. She could hear the cacophony of voices through the microphone.
The reporter turned to the camera with a wide smile plastered on. “There you have it, classic Ethan Montclair, telling off the press. This is definitely going to feed the flames.”
* * *
Inside the house on Third Avenue, Ethan clutched his head in his hands. He was ashamed of himself. All he had to do was keep himself together for five minutes, and instead, as had been known to happen when he was put in front of a camera and microphone, he’d turned into a full-on raging dickhead. It was one of the major reasons his publishers rarely sent him on publicity jaunts; Ethan was a snob. He had a tendency toward priggishness that caused people to think him an asshole. And he did not like to be challenged.
Robinson was on the phone, scrambling to clean up the mess, giving a more cogent statement to someone. Finally, he hung up. “Well. That was flamboyant. Certainly going to get them off your back.”
“Stow it, Joel. I’m tired.”
“If you’d just listen...”
“I said stow it.”
A sigh. “Listen, buddy. I’m on your side. But you have to work the media. Massage them. They are your ally here. You turn them against you and the court of public opinion becomes a disaster in the making.”
“I have to do no such thing. They are as happy to let me drown as they would be to throw me a rope, because the drowning will make the ratings go higher.”
Robinson’s pants were a shade too big. He kept hitching them up over his hips.
“Remember that text, when you claimed you’d say anything I wanted?”
“I’m a rebel.”
“No, Ethan, you’re rapidly making yourself look like a suspect in your wife’s disappearance. Get it together. Either you start doing things my way, or I’m out.”
“Fine, then. Brilliant. Leave. I can handle this alone.”
A flash of hurt, then Robinson nodded. “As you wish, friend. Good luck.”
The back door closed quietly, and Ethan was alone again.
Shit.
FRANCOPHILES IN FRANKLIN
Phyllis Woodson: tall, lanky, long-faced, slightly bucked teeth. Horsey. When she told Holly to call her Filly, she couldn’t help but think the nickname fit. There was a baby attached to her like a barnacle in an oversize sling, another, slightly older, playing on a multicolored rubber pad. The husband was going to be working late—he was always working late—and dinner was already bubbling gently in the Crock-Pot. The house itself would have been modest in another neighborhood, but in downtown Franklin, it was a million-dollar cottage, done up in creams and sea green, impeccably decorated. Holly resisted the urge to make sure there was no mud on her boots when she came through the door.
They were at the kitchen table, a glass wheel somehow devoid of sticky handprints, sipping organic chamomile tea from Royal Doulton china.
Her father’s voice in her head: Remember, Holly, appearance is everything.
“Mrs. Woodson—”
“Oh, Filly, please.”
“Yes, ma’am. Filly. I’ve hit a dead end searching for Sutton. I can’t seem to find anything that explains her actions. And there’s no sign of her at all. So tell me. Is there anything we need to know about Ethan Montclair, and their marriage? Anything at all?”
A genteel sip, a clink of china. “Sutton is my best friend. We were pregnant together, did you know? Dashiell and mon petit Henri were only a few weeks apart.” She said the name with an impeccable French accent: moan pa-teet Ohn-ree.
“Is your husband French?”
“Oh, no. I’m a Francophile. I’ve always been fascinated with France—the country, the language, the food, the wine. Sutton and I have been talking about going. Though I suppose that’s never going to happen now.” A small sob escaped her lips. “What has he done to her?”
“He, who?”
“Ethan, of course.”
“Why do you think he did something to her?”
“It’s the only logical explanation. Sutton isn’t the type to run away. She’s strong. One of the strongest women I’ve ever known. Smart. Cunning, even. Loyal and intense. If there was ever a person who wouldn’t run in the face of adversity, it’s Sutton.”
“From what I’ve heard about her, she was broken. Th
e death of her son, the problems with her publisher, the reviewer—”
“It’s not true. I mean, yes, she was devastated when Dashiell died. Anyone would be. But she’d come out of it. The thing with her publisher, the reporter, the reviewer? It’s been completely blown out of proportion.”
“I’ve read the reports, the articles—”
“It was a stunt. I’m convinced.”
“What?”
“She was writing a book. A new book. About how modern society is collapsing. In her spare time, that is. She was stuck in a contract she couldn’t get out of, writing a book she hated and didn’t want to do. Her publishing house had been bought, her longtime editor was canned, and they gave her some kid barely out of school who had no clout. Her old editor got in touch, told Sutton privately she’d take her on at the new house if she could get out of the contract.
“And Sutton was game. She told me she’d rather go up in flames than write the book they’d contracted for. She wanted to switch gears. Wanted to write something much more serious, postmodern. Like her husband does. The reviewer is a jerk, and the blogger, well, everyone knows not to believe anything that appears there. It’s a parody of sorts.”
“A parody.”
“Yes. If you ask me, it seems things just...got out of hand.”
Lips then pursed, she sat back and let Holly put together the pieces.
“So you’re saying this whole thing was staged? She planned it all? That she attacked the reviewer for giving her a bad review, which was supposed to get her out of the contract, and things fell apart from there?”
“It’s the only explanation. I mean, it went much further than anyone could anticipate, absolutely. That blogger, Wilde, he stuck his nose in and the whole thing blew up. The publisher was going to let her go quietly into that good night, she was out of her noncompete, and everything was moving along perfectly. Of course, when Ethan found out, he was beyond furious. I think he just didn’t want the competition—Sutton is the better writer, and we all know it.”
“Furious enough to hurt his wife?”
Filly’s eyes were a watery blue. “You don’t know Ethan Montclair very well, Officer Graham. So let me make this very clear. He has a temper. They fought, all the time. Screaming, plate-smashing fights. I’ve never seen anything like it. She was scared to death of him, of what he’d do to her when he was in a black rage. She wanted a divorce. She wanted out. She just didn’t know how. If I’m going to make a guess at what happened? She finally told him she wanted an official split, and he killed her.”
“All right. What about abuse?”
Silence.
“Mrs. Woodson? Were you aware of any physical or emotional abuse going on in the house?”
“What do you think? I’ve already told you how they fight.”
“But arguing isn’t hitting. Did he hit her?”
“I don’t know. And that’s the truth. I never saw any black eyes or bruises, but that doesn’t mean anything. She was scared of him. That I do know.”
“Can anyone corroborate your story, Mrs. Woodson?”
Filly stood and started clearing the tea things. “I don’t know who else she confided in. Like I said, she was my best friend.” Her tone was mulish, as if she’d been caught lying.
“Your best friend, who you were planning to go to Paris with?”
“France in general. It was a dream for both of us.”
“Had you made any plans?”
“Nothing concrete. Nothing official. We were only daydreaming. It’s not like we could abandon the boys and the babies, and run off.”
“Is it possible Mrs. Montclair was doing more than daydreaming?”
“Anything is possible, Officer.”
“That’s good to know. Is there anything else?”
“She didn’t get along with her mother. Not at all. Siobhan Healy is her name, and that is a seriously vile woman. None of us can stand her. She’s so...gauche. Crass. Obsessed with money, and she’s a drinker, too. She and Sutton couldn’t be more opposite.”
“Does her mother live nearby?”
“Yes. She’s out by Leiper’s Fork. I’m sure Ethan has the number. He doesn’t like her, either. No one does.”
“Great. Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”
Woodson showed her out. As the door was closing behind her, she heard the baby begin to squall. She turned and caught the handle before it closed, tucked her head back inside.
“One last thing, Mrs. Woodson. About their baby. Any chance something else went on there?”
Phyllis Woodson’s long face creased, her mouth shrinking into a thin, sharp line. “Absolutely not. Dashiell was an angel, and they both loved him dearly.”
STOP THE MADNESS
Then
They’re fighting again.
They are easily heard: their voices, vicious and stressed, carry so well. They are taking it out on each other. They are punishing one another.
You were supposed to be watching him.
You weren’t supposed to come home falling-down pissed.
How could you think I am responsible? You’re the one who tricked me, remember?
I love you.
I hate you.
Their words seep into my bones. How has it come to this? How has the hate between them grown to this level?
We sip tea and look at each other, listening. Do they not know we can hear them? Do they not care? It’s understandable to a point, their loss, so great, so unimaginable. No one should have to bury a child. No one should bear that burden.
And yet...people do. All the time. Children die, incrementally, all the time, whether their hearts stop or their babysitter decides to teach them the birds and the bees or their parents do drugs and beat them. They all die, little pieces falling off them as they age. Some go in the ground; others, the ones who are still breathing, are stripped of their inner joy.
It is inevitable. It is life. Even if they make it out of their adolescence, especially then, the sparks that flame them into individuality are extinguished.
Is it better to be a walking corpse, a shroud of who you could be, or leave this world before the disappointment of your lack of potential emerges?
Philosophy. Such a devious monster.
But the yelling, the yelling.
We sip more tea and look wide-eyed at each other.
Should we do something? Should we call someone?
If we do, the police will come, and it will be embarrassing for them both.
But she will be safe.
We must keep her safe.
We make the call. Wait, and watch, as the cruiser pulls up. The officer marches to the door, knocks three times. Another car slides around the corner.
The screaming stops.
We smile.
* * *
It’s hard, keeping up this facade for everyone. You know I like the fighting, don’t you? You’re putting it together, I know you are.
SHE WHO KNEW HER BEST
Now
Holly left the Woodson home with a spark in her stomach. She’d known there was more going on. She needed corroboration about the fighting, and the fear, and the next stop was Ivy Brookes. The woman who was by all appearances the Montclairs’ real best friend.
She decided to let the conversation move organically, like it had with Phyllis Woodson.
In comparison to the sumptuous Woodson home, Ivy Brookes’s condo was spartan, practically empty. Not at all homey or welcoming. It almost looked like a sterile hotel room. It was also diagonally down the street from the Montclairs as the crow flies, though the entrance was on Fourth Avenue.
Brookes waved her in, saw her taking in the living room. “I know, isn’t it awful? I travel so much I’ve never
seen the need to decorate. Coffee?”
“Water is fine, thanks.”
Ivy handed over a bottle of Fiji water, took a thick white mug half-full of murky brown liquid for herself, and gestured to the sterile couch. Holly took a seat.
“So, Officer Graham. What can I help you with?”
“I’m going to cut to the chase, Ms. Brookes. What do you think has happened to Sutton Montclair?”
“Honestly? As much as I hate to say this, I think it all got to be too much for her and she probably took her own life. I expect you’ll find her body in a hotel room somewhere. She was on the knife’s edge lately.”
“How so?”
She sipped the coffee, her look faraway, as if she were remembering something awful. “Seriously? The woman lost her baby, her career, and was precariously close to losing her husband, all in a short year time frame. Things weren’t going according to plan.”
“How did you and Sutton meet?”
Ivy’s face broke into a smile. “She bought me a coffee. It was pouring rain, one of those drenching downpours. I dashed from the parking lot into Starbucks, but when I got in there, realized I’d left my wallet in my car. I plopped down at a table to wait for the rain to let up, and I happened to sit next to her. She asked me what was wrong, bought me a latte, and we started to chat. I was surprised when she said she was thirty-five. She looked so much younger than that. I thought she was my age. For a while, at least. Then all hell broke loose and her world fell apart. Not that you can blame her.”
“Phyllis Woodson seems to think Sutton is exceptionally strong and self-reliant.”
Ivy scoffed. “A hamster would seem strong and self-reliant to Filly. I’ve never met someone so utterly without a backbone.”
“Wow. You’re actually friends?”
Ivy shut her eyes and touched a hand to her mouth. When she spoke again, her tone was apologetic. “I know, that came out terribly. Yes, we’re all friends. You know how it is with a group of women. Not everyone loves everyone else to the nth degree. We all tolerate Filly because Sutton seems to have a real connection to her. Filly isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. I never really understood why Sutton let her hang around. That’s not true. It was the baby.
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