“Why? Why would she do this? Why would she target us like this? Is she barking mad, or is she wanting something? Money, fame? What is she after? What does she possibly stand to gain by hurting us like this? To ruin our lives, to take our child from us? What sort of madwoman does such a thing? I don’t understand.”
Graham played with the edge of a place mat. Ethan caught the gesture. She knew something. There was more. He steeled himself.
“What is it? I can tell you’re holding something back.”
Graham looked up, and he saw true pity in her gaze.
“There is one last thing. I need to talk to you about what happened to your wife when she was a teenager.”
LEAVIN’, ON A JET PLANE
Paris, France
Things quieted down. Ethan, left alone to write and come to terms with the lies his wife had told him, was under constant watch by the Franklin Police in case Brookes tried to hurt him again. And as a reward for her hard work, Moreno sent Holly Graham to Paris to bring Sutton Montclair home.
The agreements made between the two governments on the charges to be filed against Sutton Montclair and Hank Tomkins were drawn up and executed in near record time, considering. The French had been quite cooperative in the terms of Sutton’s extradition agreement, most likely because the FBI was going to let them have a crack at Hank Tomkins sooner rather than later, an action met with resounding approval by the Parisian police. Such a high-profile murder case solved so quickly made everyone feel better.
Graham arrived at the station on Rue Fabert in the morning, looking sharp considering the red-eye flight she’d just been on. She met with Amelie Badeau for fifteen minutes, signed a great deal of paperwork, and was then escorted to meet Sutton Montclair, who was alone in an interview room.
Sutton brightened when she heard Graham’s soft Southern accent. Relief coursed through her. Whatever her punishment was to be, at least she’d be doing it on home soil.
The cop was pretty in a Tennessee back-roads way: pert nose, white-blond hair, narrow hips, a black-and-gold badge attached to the belt of her gray slacks, a gun strapped to the other side. Young. Excited. Tired.
Badeau and Graham escorted Sutton back to her flat in the 7th, where she packed her small new life into her small new used suitcase and ruefully accepted the fact that she was never going to be allowed back into France again.
Despite this, she counted herself lucky.
Badeau drove them to the airport herself. Along the way, Badeau and Graham shared what they felt was appropriate for Sutton to know about the case, Badeau reciting the facts animatedly in her staccato accent; Graham supplementing with her side of the story. Sutton couldn’t help herself; she really wanted to make both of them characters in her next book. Assuming she’d ever sell one again.
Sutton learned Ivy Brookes had gone to ground. No one knew where she was. After her incident with Ethan, who was sporting a wicked black eye and a broken nose, she’d departed the house on Third Avenue and disappeared.
Constantine’s real name was Hank, and the only thing he’d allowed Sutton to see that was real were the bones under his skin. The entire conceit of the man she knew as Constantine Raffalo was a carefully manufactured persona designed specifically to attract Sutton, a bee to honey, from his worldly accent to their intimate conversations. Sutton had always been easily seduced; with three years of friendship confessions to Ivy, Hank was playing with a full deck of information on how to work Sutton to the core.
Sutton was embarrassed. She’d been had by a brilliant con, yes, but she’d been searching for something to break her from her life and had seized upon the first available dick to do so. It was beneath her. The indignity of it rankled.
When she mentioned it, Badeau told her not to worry. Lesser women had been felled by lesser men. Sutton got the sense Badeau may have known whence she spoke, and left it alone.
The deal negotiated meant Badeau saw them onto the plane and then waved them away. Graham wasn’t much of a talker, so once they were buckled in their uncomfortable, last row window/aisle seats, Sutton accepted the headset from the flight attendant and plugged in, pretending to watch a movie, and instead stared out the window at the darkening sky, trying to come to grips with her new normal, where she was escorted onto flights by police officers, and probably faced severe punishment at home.
After takeoff, once the meager meal had been served, it was clear to both women that neither was truly resting, and so they began to talk. Cautiously at first, but Sutton soon realized the blonde cop knew more about her than any woman she’d ever met, and so she let down her guard completely, and told her the whole story, start to finish.
SHINE A BRIGHT LIGHT IN THE CORNERS
Then
Sutton at thirteen: a stunner in the making. Long colt legs, flowing strawberry hair that grazed budding breasts, eyes the color of summer skies. She became a woman overnight, it seemed, one day a gawky, bespectacled geek who got along with everyone; the next, in contacts and a new outfit, a glorious creature who struck awe in the eyes of everyone around her.
This sudden transition made her a very unpopular girl. It seems contradictory: teenage beauty should be the golden ticket to love and popularity, but on Sutton it worked the opposite way. She kept a few friends, though even they wandered away soon after, not wanting to be in her shadow.
There was Joe, too. Joe was Siobhan’s third husband. He was a metalworker of some sort, held down a good, steady second-shift job at the plant in Smyrna. They met at a bar on the outskirts of town. He drove her home and never left.
Sutton knew the timing of her losses had more to do with Joe’s arrival in their lives than with her budding beauty. He wasn’t bad at first. Brought Sutton candy, treated her mother well. Was entranced by their hard-luck backstory, humored Maude’s name change to the more glamorous Siobhan. He liked the idea of glamour, Joe did.
After a couple of months he asked Siobhan to marry him, and she saw a good paycheck and a warm body for cold nights, so the ring went on her finger, and then he started turning...skeevy.
He hung around Sutton’s room too much for her liking. She yearned for real privacy, but they were living in Joe’s house, and it was the first time in a long time that she had a room with an actual door instead of a curtain drape, so she couldn’t complain too much. Joe would stop by when he got home from work. Knock, knock. He wanted to hear about school. He wanted to hear about her friends. He suggested they have a sleepover party. He even provided the booze.
Seven hungover twelve-and thirteen-year-olds draped around the kitchen table made the parents quite angry, and of course, Sutton took the fall, almost willingly. After all, she now had a cool stepdad. She had a room with a door. She didn’t want to jeopardize things. Didn’t want to rock the boat. The newly bribed sleepover friends peeled away, one by one, until Sutton was left alone in the microcosm with Siobhan and Joe.
Soon after the disastrous sleepover, Joe came home from second shift, knock, knock, sat next to her on the bed with the pink princess comforter, put his hand on her knee, and explained the birds and the bees to her.
Sutton, aghast, complained to Siobhan, and a huge fight ensued.
Joe, though, was nonplussed. “Look at her. She’s beautiful. There’s gonna be boys hanging around her like wasps to sugar water, and she needs to know how to protect herself. She needs to know what to expect. That’s all I was trying to do, explain the ways of the world.”
Still, it felt wrong to everyone, and the household was filled with tension. Siobhan, instead of getting them out of there, was jealous, unhappy that her catch was eyeing her kid.
Sutton was forever aware of how Joe looked at her, his eyes sliding over her nubile form like he was taking stock. Sutton decided a room of her own wasn’t worth what was surely about to come, and began acting out. It was logical to her. If she became a bad kid, he
’d get mad and ask them to leave.
She started hanging out with a crowd of tattered boys who kept rolling papers in the glove box and fifths of Jack under the front seat, and the fights started almost immediately. She was grounded. She snuck out. Her phone privileges were taken away. They forced her to ride the bus, but she cut school anyway.
Her actions worked wonders. As her home life (happily) deteriorated, her street cred rose. She was willing to do most anything she thought would piss Joe off, and soon she had herself a you can call me your boyfriend, if you want.
His name was Hayden. He was seventeen. She thought she might even love him.
She’d had her eye on him from the start of her rebellion, certain he could help her on her path to fury. Hayden did his own tattoos, and they weren’t bad, considering. Secondhand Doc Martens, too-long black hair falling in his eyes, teeth as askew as scattered dominoes. A fog of cigarette smoke clung to him, and sometimes patchouli, just so everyone could know what he was really doing when he cut class.
He had a beat-up Jeep Wrangler and a certain way of talking about Kerouac and Proust that made her crazy with longing. She rode in his Jeep without a seat belt, drinking beer out of brown paper bags and smoking cigarettes. They made out in the cramped back seat, squirming around, taking things almost too far.
She didn’t want to live a biscuit-colored life. She wanted excitement and joy, pain and exhilaration. She wanted it all.
So when Hayden suggested she come to a party at his friend’s house, she jumped at the chance. Accepted the upperclassman-only party invitation with sheer delight and excitement coursing through her teenage veins. She knew exactly what was going to happen. She’d been planning this for a while. Finally, they would have the proper privacy to do all the things she’d been dying to try.
God bless that little idiot.
She was thirteen, angry at her parents, trying hard to be popular by taking risks—no, not taking, throwing herself against them like waves against a rock—seeing a boy who cared nothing for her and knew exactly how to take advantage of her. What happened next was almost inevitable.
* * *
When Sutton missed her period, she didn’t think anything of it.
The second month without one she blamed on jogging, which she’d taken up with a vengeance in lieu of throwing herself at bad choices. She might even go out for track. Wouldn’t that be fun?
The third month, when she was feeling sick and sore, she bought a test. Two pink lines. Her first thought: I’m going to die. The second: They’re going to kill me.
Once she couldn’t deny it anymore, she did her best not to panic. She knew exactly what had happened that night, even though she couldn’t remember it all in detail. She’d gone in wanting to be the cool party girl, and wow, had she ever gotten her wish. And now she was going to pay the price.
But she was going to handle things herself. She knew what she needed to do. Get rid of it, and fast. There was no way in hell she was going to face any of the boys who’d been there that night, especially Hayden, that prick, and tell them she was in trouble. Hell, no.
But Joe Schmo kept a purple Crown Royal bag full of cash in a barrel in the garage. She’d seen him sneaking bills into and from it plenty of times. He’d catch her eventually, notice the missing money—$300 was a lot, even to a man who had a good job—and she’d be punished, badly, but at least she’d be in the clear. Her life wouldn’t be ruined. No more than it already was, of course.
The day she threw up for the first time, she skipped seventh period, the first time she’d cut since the party, and snuck out to the parking deck where the kids assembled to smoke or make out or catch a quick high. The sun was blasting, the day so hot and humid that she felt like she was going to melt into the pavement and die.
She’d been feeling like she might die a lot, lately. She was such an idiot. What a huge, stupid mistake.
She borrowed a cell phone from a guy who was in her chemistry class. She’d looked the number up last night, memorized it. Dialed while she walked to a shady corner of the deck. The Planned Parenthood office answered on the first ring. She made an appointment for the next day. Deleted the call from the cell and gave it back. Took a nice, long toke from a joint passing through the crowd, which made her feel better than she had in a couple of months, then hurried to the house to get the money.
No cars in the drive. Siobhan wasn’t home, which meant Joe was off somewhere with her. Sutton’s ploy had worked well. He had become so disgusted and fed up with Sutton’s bad behavior he’d left her alone, and Siobhan got all his attention, which her mother didn’t like but put up with because free rent was worth a black eye here and there, wasn’t it?
So when Joe came home early, alone, and caught Sutton opening the lid of the barrel, a fight ensued.
He’d threatened to call the police. She’d told him to fuck off. He’d slapped her, hard enough to send her head backward into the wall.
Something inside her had snapped, a taut line breaking, and she attacked. The lid of the barrel was heavy in her hands, and she slammed it into Joe’s head with all the force she could muster. He went down, and that was it. Legs, nails, teeth, everything she had that could hurt, she used. And like all bullies, Joe the Schmo proved to be weak. Her fury and frustration and fear overwhelmed him, and she beat him until he was crawling on the floor, trailing blood, moaning for her to stop.
She finally did. Her hands were bruised; one finger was definitely broken. She had skin and hair under her nails. Joe was in bad shape; she could hardly believe the damage she wrought.
She went for the Crown Royal bag. She’d need all the money now, some for the abortion and the rest to get out of town. She took the wad without counting, threw a few things in a ragged backpack, and ran.
She slept in a field on the outskirts of town. She was hungry and thirsty and cold and desperate. The police caught up with her the next morning, trying to keep her appointment at Planned Parenthood.
They arrested her for assault. The irony—and yes, she knew the meaning of the word by now—was not lost on her.
Elizabeth Sutton Wilson gave birth to the baby in juvenile hall, three months before she was released.
All she knew was its sex. It was a girl.
HOME IS WHERE THEY HAVE TO TAKE YOU IN
Now
Graham was a good listener. She didn’t judge, she didn’t interrupt.
When Sutton finished, exhausted and sad from revisiting her darkest time, the seat belt sign was on. They were descending into Atlanta.
“Ivy knew all of this, of course. She knew exactly how to manipulate me. God, I am so stupid.”
Graham’s voice was gentle, forgiving.
“She’s a very disturbed woman, but that isn’t your fault. Now, buckle up. You’ll be home soon enough.”
The second flight—Atlanta to Nashville—was short. They were in the very last row again, which meant the seats wouldn’t recline and Sutton’s legs were cramped. The television screen wasn’t working. Graham had shut her eyes on takeoff and was clearly sleeping. So Sutton sat with the ignominy of her actions and tried, tried to find some sort of peace with the situation.
The whys were unfathomable. Did they matter? Sutton decided that yes, they did, very much. Looking back, she could see every step of Ivy’s scheme. Every conversation, guided. Every confession, coerced. Every bit of advice, calculated.
If Sutton really thought about it, the entire friendship must have been a setup.
But why?
She forced the why away again. Crazy people existed in the world. There was no real way to understand or comprehend Ivy’s actions unless they caught her, sat her down, and listened intently to her rationale.
Maybe they’d gotten lucky and Ivy (loathsome bitch) had run away and Sutton wouldn’t ever see her again. My God, Ivy ha
d murdered someone to try to make it look like Ethan had killed his wife. What sickness, what sociopathy, had driven that?
Sutton stowed away the hate. There would be time for that later.
Ethan.
She hadn’t dared even think about him for the past few hours. One oh so brief conversation, in which she’d warned him and he’d gone suddenly dark, but in that moment, she’d heard such relief in his voice when he said her name. It filled her with incredible joy. She wanted to talk to him again. Actually talk. Not accuse, not aggrieve, but see each other, be present, touch hands. Like her therapist had wanted. She’d always insisted they needed each other. Sutton realized now they truly did.
Maybe, now knowing they had been cruelly manipulated by an outside force, she and Ethan could find their way back to each other.
Dashiell.
He came to her as gently as a whisper, smelling softly of baby and love. The searing pain she felt when she thought of his small, sturdy body fled in the face of such adoration. There was still fury there, and anger, yes, but also a deepening of emotion, and a final sense of peace. She had failed her child. She had allowed a viper into his swaddling nest. But the viper had slithered in through a window left ajar. It had not come from within.
To be able to blame herself for negligence, but not murder, was the forgiveness her soul had craved. To blame an outsider, instead of her baby’s father, was the balm on the burn.
A wave of nausea coursed through her stomach, but this she welcomed with a caress along her stomach.
Sutton thought she had fled her perfectly horrible life. But in truth, the life she craved grew within her. And that was all the forgiveness she would ever need.
* * *
Ethan met her at the airport gate. How his presence there had been arranged for, she didn’t know, and didn’t care. The moment she saw him, broken and bruised and uncertain, his eyes searching every face until he saw hers and smiled, she rocketed out of the gangway and flung herself into his arms.
Lie to Me Page 31