Lie to Me

by J. T. Ellison

  Badeau took down the name as if Sutton hadn’t just betrayed the past few months of her life by uttering those innocuous words. She stood. “I will have food brought to you. I will be back soon, madame.”

  Sutton put her head in her hands on the table.

  Oh, Ethan. What have I done?

  THROUGH A GLASS, DARKLY

  Ethan walked through the door to a stranger’s house. The home, their beautiful Victorian home that they’d rebuilt from the inside out, still stood grandly, but he no longer recognized it. Too much had happened. Too many hurts and lies and painful nights brewed together under the roof. Too many ghosts. Far too many ghosts.

  He was exhausted. First his wife was missing, then dead, then missing again. Someone, a stranger still, had been murdered, wearing Sutton’s precious rings. The idea that Sutton would go to such lengths to escape him broke him in places he hadn’t previously known existed. To kill another soul, to murder someone to make them look like her, that took a mind so devious, so black and twisted, that he could hardly believe his wife was capable of such a thing. And now Robinson had said they were reopening Dashiell’s case. Why? Why would they do that?

  Unless there was new evidence. Unless Sutton had killed Dashiell.

  He sank to his knees in the foyer, finally allowing the reality of his situation to seep in.

  How was he supposed to recover from this? His beloved wife, turned grim reaper? And was this the first time?

  It was terrible of him, but he’d always wondered if she’d done it. Accidentally, of course. Not on purpose. She’d been drunk, she’d been last in the nursery. But the autopsy had been so clear, everyone so adamant. It was a tragic event, but you’re not to blame. You’re blameless.

  They were never blameless. Not him, and not Sutton.

  And now, with the police looking closer at Dashiell’s death, what horrible truths were they going to find?

  A knock on the door. His entire body tensed. Friend, or foe?

  He clambered to his feet, went to the window, glanced out. The media hadn’t gotten themselves set up on his doorstep yet; they were still all at the jail, interrogating the chief.

  He opened the door. Ivy stood on the porch. She had a bottle of wine in one hand and a yellow bowl covered in plastic wrap in the other, something like a smile on her face.

  “Food and drink. I figured you could use it.”

  “Thank you. Come on in.”

  She set the bowl on the counter. “Pasta salad. Fresh. And a nice Nebbiolo. You like the Langhe, don’t you?”

  “How do you remember these things, Ivy? Do you secretly write them all down in a notebook when we’re not looking?”

  “That’s exactly what I do.” She laughed, getting out two glasses for the wine. She set them on the table. “I’m so glad they let you go. I’m so glad she’s still out there somewhere. It gives me hope that this horrible week might end well. And since you’re free and clear, I thought we should celebrate.”

  Ethan watched her move around the house, so practiced, so casual, as if it were her own. Something niggled at him. He didn’t feel like celebrating, and what an odd choice of words. How could he celebrate? A woman was dead. Sutton was still missing.

  “I appreciate the thought, Ivy, but I’m really not hungry. I was planning to have an early night. I didn’t get any sleep at the jail.”

  She ignored him, started opening the wine. She was wearing a red dress, and he could see the outline of lace beneath it, cupping the roundness of her ass. He felt the usual shameful stirring, the odd combination of loathing and longing he felt every time she was around.

  She began to pour, the ruby liquid splashing recklessly against the glass. A few drops landed on the counter. She ignored it, handed him a glass, raised hers in a salute. Took a sip.

  “Did you ever tell her about us, Ethan? I mean, she knew about the affair, that awful blogger made sure that happened. But did you ever tell Sutton that it was me you slept with that night?”

  He nearly spit out the wine. They didn’t discuss this. It was an agreement. That night had never happened. He couldn’t remember it, didn’t want to remember it.

  “Of course I didn’t. She was hurt enough as it was. And like I told you, no offense, but I was so drunk that I don’t remember that night at all. Just waking up. I got most of the story from that arsehole blogger.”

  Her face had whitened, her mouth a thin line. “You don’t remember anything? It was good. It was fantastic, actually. I’ve always wanted to do it again.” She set her glass down, inched closer to him. She started to slide her dress up her thighs. “What do you say, Ethan. Shall we give it another go? This time, I swear you’ll remember everything.”

  “Ivy. I don’t think now is the time.”

  “I think now is the perfect time, Ethan. You know you want to. I see how you look at me. I see the way your eyes follow me when I cross the room. What’s it been like, all this time, with Sutton cold as a fish, knowing that I have been ready and waiting for you?”

  “I don’t want this, Ivy.”

  “You’ve always wanted this, Ethan. Sutton, gone, and me, ready and willing for anything, in your bed. That’s what you told me that night. You don’t remember, so you claim, but I see it in your eyes. I see how much you want me. Now she’s gone, and we don’t have to hide it anymore.”

  Closer now. He could smell her perfume, see the lace thong. Her dress had a deep V-neck; she was wearing a matching set. Just like what he’d woken up to that horrible morning. Him: naked and suffering from the most epic hangover he’d ever had. Her: bedecked in red lace, hot as a lit stick of dynamite and ready for another go.

  He’d turned her down. He’d been so sick with himself that he’d cheated on Sutton that the idea of doing it again was repugnant. He felt the same sense of loathing right now. He didn’t want Ivy. He never had. There was something about her, yes. She was beautiful and smart, but he’d never wanted her like he wanted Sutton.

  Ivy grabbed his hand and made a credible attempt to put it down her panties.

  “Ivy, stop. She’s your best friend. What are you doing?”

  “Anything you want,” she purred.

  A lesser man would already have his dick out. Ethan wasn’t even aroused.

  Their eyes locked. Ethan looked away first. He pulled his hand free. “I don’t want this.”

  The house phone began to ring.

  “Yes, you do. You know you do.”

  He didn’t give a shit who was on the phone, he needed this situation to end, right now.

  He whirled away, grabbed the handset and barked, “Hullo,” into the mouthpiece.

  “Ethan? Oh, thank God you’re okay.”

  His heart stopped. It literally stopped, and he couldn’t catch his breath.

  “Sutton? Oh my God, Sutton, is that really you? Where are you?”

  “Ethan, you have to listen to me. You’re in—”

  He turned, smiling now, to tell Ivy, but the front door was open.

  No one was there.

  The room was empty.

  “Ivy?” he called.

  “Behind you,” she answered. He saw the flat edge of a board a second before it hit him square in the face, and went down, hard, the phone spinning away, Sutton calling, “Ethan? Ethan?”

  POISON IVY

  So now you know.

  My name is Ivy. Like the poison.

  I told you at the beginning you weren’t going to like me very much. You really don’t like me right now, do you? Am I a horrible person? A loathsome creature? You bet. I’m evil to the core.

  And I warned you. I warned you, and you didn’t listen. I know what you’re thinking. Why? Why would I try to hurt the two people who’ve shown me nothing but love and friendship since I came into their liv
es?

  I don’t think I’m quite ready to share the whole truth with you. Sorry. But I will tell you this. They aren’t the people you think they are.

  Do you think I don’t care about how Ethan feels? Do you think I don’t care how Sutton’s going to feel when she finds out the whole truth? Well, I do care. I care so much it hurts my very soul.

  I’m doing this to make them hurt the way I do. I’m doing this so they understand exactly who and what they’re dealing with. They have no idea what it has cost me, finding her, tracking them, devising this plan. It’s been years in the making.

  Sutton thinks she can run away from the truth, can hide from me. She is wrong. She is so very, very wrong.

  So, now that we’ve been properly introduced, I present: my goals.

  I want to see Elizabeth Sutton Wilson Healy Montclair exposed for the fraud she really is. For the predator that she is. I could see it from the first moment I laid eyes on her. She has a coldness in her soul. You know how you can tell? Take a picture of her. In person, she’s this absolute glamour-puss with all that red hair and lissome figure. But try to capture her on film, and you can see who she really is. The lens is an inanimate object. It can’t be bewitched, can’t be fooled. No glamour can be put upon it. It shows the truth. And the truth is, her soul is empty. Black and rotted and bottomless. She is ugly, she is loathsome.

  She is not a good person, and nothing will make me happier than taking her down.

  And neither is Ethan. He is a cheat and a liar, the worst sort of man. Wait until you find out what he did. Then you’ll see. You’ll see exactly what kind of a man he is. You won’t blame me in the least.

  They deserve each other. So I will make sure they get everything they deserve.

  Everything.

  I want them to bleed. And they will. Trust me. Ethan already is. I think I’ve broken his nose.

  Oops.

  So much fun to be had here. But first, I need to deal with something. Join me, will you?

  ABOUT...FACE

  Holly’s desk phone rang, something that only happened if someone was calling in-house from another phone in the station, or the receptionist. Fifty-fifty shot. She much preferred in-house calls than the blind squirrel finds nuts ones she got from outside. Still, she had to answer. It was policy. She grabbed the receiver and kept typing with one hand.

  “Graham.”

  It was the receptionist. “I have a call for you. Paris police.”

  “Paris?”

  “That’s what she says. The accent is a bit of a giveaway, too. She certainly sounds the part.”

  “Okay. Put her through.”

  A click, then the static of an open line. “Graham here.”

  “Bonsoir, madame. My name is Amelie Badeau. I am an inspector with the Paris Metropolitan Police. I have a woman in my custody by the name of Sutton Montclair.”

  Holly stopped typing. “You’re kidding me.”

  “I am not. We have her in custody on a double murder charge. She insists on her innocence. But I need more information. Do you have a moment to talk?”

  “Boy, do I ever,” Holly said, whipping out her notebook. “Please, tell me everything.”

  “Are you familiar at all with the name Ivy Brookes?”

  “I am. Brookes is one of Sutton Montclair’s best friends. She’s been incredibly helpful to the investigation into Montclair’s disappearance.”

  “If what I am being told is true, you should pick up Mademoiselle Brookes as quickly as possible. She could be a very dangerous person.”

  Holly listened in utter disbelief as Badeau talked. After fifteen minutes, the woman said, “I will send you all the supporting documentation I have. We are, as you can imagine, very anxious to speak with Mademoiselle Brookes, and Monsieur Duggan is currently being searched for by your FBI. I am hopeful they will find him quickly.”

  “I need a number where I can reach you immediately, at all times.”

  Badeau rattled off a string of numbers. Holly gave her own mobile number, and the direct number to Homicide, too, just in case. She hurriedly thanked the inspector, hung up, and rushed into the conference room. It had been disassembled, the murder investigation had moved to the squad room, but Jim was still in there with his computers.

  “Where’s Moreno?”

  Jim pushed his glasses up his nose. “Home. Getting some sleep. I don’t think I’ve seen him shut his eyes all week. What’s wrong? You look like your hair’s about to burst into flame.”

  “It is. I need you to do your magic for me.”

  “Lay it on me, sister.”

  “A few days ago, Ethan Montclair asked me if passwords could be changed remotely.”

  “I remember. Of course they can.”

  “Could someone from outside be watching their cyber tracks?”

  “With all the malware the Montclairs have on their computers, the Russians could be spying on them. But, Holly, it’s been pretty clear all along Montclair was the one spying on his wife.”

  “What if it wasn’t him? Is it possible to mimic the IP address so it looks like it came from his computer?”

  “Again, sure. But you don’t think Montclair is innocent of all this now, do you?”

  “I don’t know what to think. But tell me this. If someone wanted to really screw with a person, make it look like they’ve been harassing someone, it’s doable, right?”

  Jim started to look excited, all notes of exhaustion gone from his voice. “Are you saying there’s a third party involved?”

  “Exactly what I’m saying.”

  “Montclair’s been claiming this Colin Wilde person has been harassing him and his wife for months now.”

  “And everything we have says Colin Wilde is a sock puppet created by Montclair to terrorize his wife, to cut her down, ruin her career. That Montclair himself was responsible for all of it. But what if we’re wrong? What if Colin Wilde is real?”

  “I’ll bite. Who is he?”

  “If Sutton Montclair is to be believed, he’s probably a man named Trent Duggan. And he’s working with Ivy Brookes.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Come again? Where are you getting all of this? Brookes is your most reliable witness.”

  “She has been, yes. But Sutton Montclair is sitting in a Paris jail cell, and claims Brookes helped her plan a getaway, and she left her rings in her possession. If that’s true, then Ivy Brookes is our murderer.”

  “You found Sutton Montclair?”

  “Sure did. Just got a call from the French police. They’ve got her for murder. A double murder, actually. She’s denying it, of course, and the Paris inspector on the case seems to feel Sutton is innocent. And I’ll tell you, Jim, Montclair never felt right to me for all of this. It didn’t jibe. Why systematically try to ruin your wife? Why not just divorce, or leave? He may not be Captain America, but he doesn’t strike me as the malicious type.”

  “You’ve always been starry-eyed for him.”

  “I’m going to ignore that statement, and when it turns out I’m right, you can apologize over a steak dinner.”

  Jim’s eyes lit up. “Deal. So what do you want me to do?”

  “If Brookes is behind this, there will be a trace, right? There’s no way to do it completely clean.”

  “Yes, that’s true. And there is a phantom IP address that came through with all the others, one from here in Franklin that I haven’t been able to track down. It went through about fifty routers, bounced all over the world. It doesn’t seem to be registered anywhere, though. It’s a loose thread.”

  “You find it for me, Jim. Stop looking inside, and look at it from the outside. As if someone is purposefully misleading us. Knowing it could be coming from outside after all, and not from the Montclairs, you trace it down, and make sure it’s
airtight.”

  “I don’t know, Holly. All the fingers point to Montclair.”

  “I know they do. All of them. How often do you see a case that lines up so perfectly? How often have you ever seen a case that was so clear? Everything points at him. Everything is so neatly assembled that perhaps, perhaps, someone wanted it to look like that. And if this someone has connections to people who can forge documents, and helped Sutton Montclair get out of town... Trust me here, Jim. My gut is screaming at me. Reset your thinking on all of this, and find me some proof so I can have a nice, long chat with Ivy Brookes.”

  “You really believe it’s a setup?”

  “And a good one. We totally fell for it. We got all excited and arrested him, and it turned out the chick in the field wasn’t his wife and we have no actual proof of wrongdoing on his part. And his wife’s arrested in Paris for a murder, too? I don’t buy it. I think they’re being targeted. I may be wrong, but that’s where the steak comes in.”

  “You better call Moreno.”

  “I’m doing it right now. Right after I call Ethan. Because if we’re right, he could be in danger. We already have one dead body on our hands.”

  “This is nuts, you know that.”

  “I do.” She dialed Montclair’s mobile number. After six rings, it went to voice mail. She tried the house. There was no answer there, either. Her screaming gut started to hurt.

  “I’m going to take a run by. I’ll call Moreno from the car.”

  “Holly?”

  She stopped in the door frame, hand on the knob. “Yeah?”

  “Be careful. I’m looking forward to that dinner.”

  She grinned at him. “Me, too.”

  * * *

  Holly was on her way to Montclair’s when the call came. She didn’t recognize the number on her screen but answered, anyway. A polite male voice, accented, said, “Is this Detective Graham?”

  “It is. Who are you?”

  “Would it be possible for me not to leave a name? I saw the drawing. I have a tip about the body in the field.”

  She pulled to the side of the road, the car’s tires slipping in the scree as she skidded to a stop. She grabbed her notebook, put it on her knee.