He kept scrolling. He was surprised by the balance of the managed account, much more than he’d expected.
It took him an hour to find the pattern of withdrawals, because she varied the time of the visits and the amount, and made cryptic notes in the withdrawal slips. But when all was said and done, there was at least $50,000 unaccounted for.
It wasn’t a huge sum. Truly, he could probably explain it away as incidentals, money Sutton had spent on clothes, or things for the house.
But something in him said, No, mate, this is it, this is something.
He printed out the spreadsheet he’d built with all the withdrawals and their corresponding dates in it, then shut off the computer. He was barely out of the office when the phone rang.
He glanced at the caller ID. Ivy.
He grabbed the phone, ignoring his fumbling desperation. Depressed the Talk button and practically shouted, “Have you heard from her?”
Ivy’s voice was smoky and low. He could hear a din in the background. She was at a conference, somewhere in Texas. Sutton had been invited—Sutton was always invited; Ivy thought the different locales good for research—but Ethan knew she’d declined this trip, saying she wasn’t in the mood to travel. She hadn’t been in the mood for much of anything lately.
“Ethan? I can hardly hear you.”
“I said, do you know where she is?”
“No, I don’t. There’s been no word, and her accounts are turned off. You still haven’t heard from her? Where could she have gone?”
“What do you mean, her accounts are turned off?”
“It looks like she committed social media suicide.”
“I thought she’d done that ages ago.”
“Oh. Maybe she did, I don’t keep up with Facebook like I should. Where could she be?”
“I don’t know, but I’ve been searching our bank accounts, and there’s some money missing. The note she left... Ivy, I don’t know if she’s run away or if she’s hurt herself.”
An intake of breath. “Have you called the police?”
“No. They won’t do anything, you know that. Not so soon.”
“Ethan, you need to talk to them.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but do you think I need to speak with a lawyer first? I assure you, I haven’t done anything wrong. There’s nothing to protect myself from. But the moment I call them, you know how this is going to look.”
To her credit, Ivy didn’t slam down the phone. Her voice got mean and tight. “Swear to me right now, Ethan Montclair, that you have not done something to my best friend.”
“My God, Ivy, of course I didn’t. I love Sutton. I’d never hurt her. I’m scared, okay? And embarrassed. I know how the world thinks. The minute I call them...”
She sighed. “They will look at you. The husband is—”
“Always the first person the police look at. I know. But I’m not worried about that. I haven’t done anything wrong. I swear. I was only thinking, just in case, a sounding board wouldn’t be a horrible idea.”
“The police may see things differently. Didn’t you guys have dinner a few months ago with Joel Robinson?”
“He’s not just a lawyer, Ivy, he’s a well-known criminal defense attorney. Wouldn’t hiring Joel look bad? I was thinking just a regular guy.”
“What, you thought you’d talk to the man who drew up the contracts on your house? Look, you’re a British national, even though you have dual citizenship. You’re a public figure. Your wife is missing. No matter what, when you involve the police, they are going to take apart your lives. If you’re going to talk to anyone, Robinson is the best choice. Trust me.”
“Okay. I’ll call him. I promise. It’s only...”
More noise, the fever pitch growing louder, then a sudden silence. Ivy’s voice echoed. “Sorry, it’s madness here. I’m coming home right now.”
“I don’t know if there’s anything you can do to help, Ivy. I don’t need—”
“Stop it. Of course you need help. You two always need help. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Hang tight, okay?”
The relief he felt was palpable. Lately, Ivy was always better at handling Sutton than he was. His eyes closed and he said, “Okay. Travel safely. And, Ivy? Thank you.”
A TWIST OF THE KNIFE
Hanging up with Ivy, Ethan felt partially vindicated. Sutton was hiding something from him. He’d known that from the beginning. She wasn’t the kind of girl to reveal herself on the first date—well, not in a this is my past, warts and all sort of way. She wasn’t one for looking back.
Especially because of Sutton’s awful relationship with her mother, Ethan had always believed there was something about his wife’s past she was keeping private, keeping secret. Truth be told, he found it rather alluring, for the first few years, anyway. He’d asked once or twice what she was holding back, but she’d go ice-cold and would stop speaking to him. When he left it alone, she warmed up. Live in the now, and his ice princess would positively melt, and their lives would be spectacularly peaceful again.
He glanced over his shoulder. He almost expected her to be there, watching him. This was all a test, just to see how far he’d go to invade her privacy again, and Sutton would be livid that he’d been in her things.
Again. Because they’d been through this once before.
He used to—used to—check her internet history, trying to understand the mercurial woman he’d married. It was fascinating, her focus, and terrifying, all at the same time. Two years ago, for two weeks straight, she’d done nothing more than delve deep into something called borderline personality disorder. For a while, he’d thought she was researching for a character, but, curious, he started reading the same websites, and everything he saw startled him. She was researching herself. Looking for ways to handle the disease.
God, it explained so much. The narcissism, the coldness, the inappropriate affect when bad things happened to good people. She seemed so compassionless to him, lacking some sort of inner core that he’d never experienced in another person. Sometimes it turned him on, but other times, it scared him to the bone.
He’d known then he should confront her, get her to a psychiatrist, get her on medication. But the mind of a writer is a curious place. It can see the smallest fragment of reality and spin it into a world heretofore unknown.
So instead of sitting down with his wife and asking what he could do to help, he’d made an epic, life-changing mistake.
He’d taken the kernel of the idea, married it to the research, and built himself a character.
Strike one, buddy.
And of course, that character came alive for him in ways no one could ever imagine, considering the model was only an arm’s length away. The story unfolded in front of him, and he was helpless to stop it. Once the woman in his brain came to life, it was as if he were on a train, barreling toward the station.
If only he’d known he was actually on a steep descent into the depths of the earth.
He’d pitched the idea to Bill, a story about a sociopathic young mother struggling to be normal, and Bill had sold the idea to Ethan’s publisher the next day, for a gigantic wad of cash.
He had asked them to be very careful when they publicly discussed the sale, wanting to be sure no one let slip the subject of the book. Of course, some intern blew it, entranced with the description, and posted the blurb of what the book was about from his proposal in the actual announcement. And Sutton had seen it.
He thought he’d known coldness from her before. Now he was face-to-face with an Antarctic glacier. His own fault, too. That breach started them down the long path, unraveled their relationship quickly and neatly. The things that followed—the affair, the death of the baby, the book cancellation, now Sutton’s disappearance—were all because he’d decided to be an arse and
profit on her back.
Oddly, they never discussed what they both knew—he’d been spying on her, and had taken her work for his own. Her work on herself. She mentioned casually she’d changed her passwords, citing a hack of her email, but they both knew she was furious. So angry she couldn’t even confront him. An anger so righteous and pure he deserved to be divorced.
And instead, she’d gotten pregnant.
Why hadn’t he just told her the truth then? Would honesty have stopped the progression of their disastrous world?
Ethan, you are responsible for this.
Back from his remembrances, sitting at her desk, he really, really didn’t want to snoop. After all that happened, it made him terribly uncomfortable. He knew better. But under the guise of the police might be called, I need to do my homework, he started opening drawers.
Top drawer: ink, Post-it notes, Clairefontaine notebooks, all pristinely kept.
Second drawer: stapler, scissors, checkbooks, and deposit slips.
Third drawer: her current files.
And one from the past.
The folder was labeled—Brother P-touch labeled; Sutton was nothing if not organized—Baby.
The pain seized his heart and he gasped aloud. The baby was always in the back of his mind. A whisper on his lips. But seeing the file, he knew what was inside, and he lifted it carefully, as if it were a bomb that might explode and shatter all the windows. He couldn’t help himself. As he pulled it from the drawer, something hard and white slipped out and landed on the floor, and he fumbled the file, and all the contents spilled out onto the white oak planks.
Doctor’s files, an ultrasound, and a pregnancy test.
God, she’d kept the pregnancy test. The pregnancy he’d forced on her after he’d broken her trust.
Sutton was right in her silent reproaches. He was a reprehensible creature. Who did that to their wife? To the one they loved more than life itself?
What the fuck did the word love mean, anyway?
AND THEN THEY WERE THREE
Then
Sutton was green.
They sat together at the kitchen table, and Ethan watched his wife over the rim of his teacup. She was truly green around the gills.
“Are you okay? You don’t look so good.”
She gave him a panicked look, made a horrible noise in her throat, then bolted from the table. He was right behind her. She made it to the half bath in the foyer, started retching the second she was above the toilet. He caught her hair, held it back, crooned, and rubbed her back.
After a while, she collapsed in a heap next to the toilet. He handed her a cold, wet washcloth. She wiped her face and turned those huge eyes on him.
“You must have had something bad at the event last night. I hate those catered parties. You never know how long the food’s been sitting out. Those bacon-wrapped scallops—”
“Ethan.”
“—I never saw anyone change the tray. I’m going to call and complain, they shouldn’t be allowed—”
“Ethan!”
“What? What?”
“I don’t think it was the food.”
“What else could it be?”
There was a long pause, searching looks, then dawning comprehension. A spark of joy built in his chest. “Oh my God, Sutton. Are you...?”
“Pregnant,” she said, the word dripping with contempt and hate.
“Pregnant!” he cried, dropping to his knees, gathering her in his arms. She was stiff as a board, didn’t move. “My darling, this is brilliant news. Brilliant! We have to call the doctor, we need to decide which room to use as the nursery, we—”
“Stop. Just stop. There will be no baby.”
Ethan froze. Her tone was so coolly detached now he almost didn’t recognize her. If he could see into her head, he’d realize his beloved, crouched on the bathroom floor, a string of vomit in her tangled hair, was slowly plotting the demise of their child.
“What do you mean, no baby? Of course there will be. You’re healthy, this will go wonderfully. How far along are you?”
He didn’t say he’d suspected all along because the trash can hadn’t filled with the usual monthly accoutrements. He didn’t tell her he’d noticed her breasts were a touch fuller, the nipples gone the color of wine. He couldn’t, because if he did, it would be clear to Sutton he’d been paying attention to her cycle, and if she knew that, she might realize more about her “surprise” pregnancy, and right now, all he cared about was getting her mind wrapped around a little one.
“A baby, Sutton. We made a baby.”
She stood up. “I don’t want to have a baby. I have absolutely no interest in having a baby. I can’t do this. I can’t.”
“So...what? You’re going to do what?”
“I’m going to have an abortion.”
Ethan reared back as if slapped. “Over my dead body.”
There was something in her eyes when she looked at him. He should have taken a moment and tried to understand what she was telegraphing in her gaze, but he was panicking. It couldn’t happen. She couldn’t get rid of their child. He had to find a way to convince her this was meant to be, that a baby would be everything to them.
Purged, she headed to the kitchen, and he followed, pleading, demanding.
“You can’t. I forbid it.”
“It’s my body, Ethan. I’m the one who has to deal with this. You don’t get to tell me what to do.”
“It’s our child. Ours. You can’t just make a decision like this without my input.”
“The law says I can, Ethan.” She took up her teacup. Wrinkled her perfect nose and dumped it into the sink. Pulled out a bottle of Diet Sprite, the only soda she’d allow herself, and poured a glass. Took a sip and turned green again.
“Ugh.” He saw her glance at him, sideways, under her lashes, measuring, and knew the discussion was still ongoing. Thank God.
“Come here.” Ethan led her to the table, got her seated gently in the chair, knelt in front of her so they were face-to-face. “Darling. My sweet brave girl. I know you’re scared. I know you don’t think you want this. But a baby... Sutton, we have so much to give a child. We have freedom and money and a beautiful home. We were born to be parents.”
“You might have been. Me? No. I’m not interested in diapers and sleepless nights and car pools and the PTA. I just can’t figure out how this happened. I’m religious about my pills.”
He looked away, bit his lip. Do not tell her, Ethan. Don’t make that mistake. His knees were beginning to burn. He stood and pulled a chair close, pulled her limp hand into his.
“Sutton. I want this child. I want us to have a family. Like you said, you’re religious about your pills. Sometimes, things happen, and you know I believe everything happens for a reason.”
“How will I write? How will you write?”
“We’ll get a nanny. We’ll hire a night nurse. Anything you want.”
Sutton hadn’t moved. “What’s the point of having a child if you aren’t the one raising it?”
“Sweetheart, would you rather I suggest you give up your work to raise a child? It’s very 1950s, but if you want me to act the caveman...”
“I think you should give up your work.”
Ethan didn’t move.
“Seriously, Ethan. If you want a baby so badly, then you give up your work, and take care of it.”
“I’d be willing to do that if you truly want me to.”
“A baby means more to you than your books? Than your mark on the world? You’re leaving something concrete behind, Ethan, we both are. Children aren’t the same—it’s a genetic lottery. It could be smart, it could have birth defects. You never know. And we aren’t at all equipped if this child isn’t absolutely 100 percent perfect, in every wa
y. I don’t want to be saddled with a child. You can’t take the risk of a child ending your career. It’s better for us to just take care of things, and never think about this again.”
“You don’t mean that,” he whispered. “Please, Sutton. I know you don’t. I know you want this, too, deep inside. I know it. And I swear, I will handle everything. If you truly want nothing to do with raising our child, I will do it all. I am more than willing to abandon my art for this. For us, and our family.”
She sat quietly, watching him, the red hair floating around her face. “God, you actually mean that, don’t you?”
“I do. I swear it.”
She said nothing, stared over his shoulder. There was a bird feeder outside the window; he could hear the birds, dancing around the edges of the feeder, grabbing a bite, fluttering off, then rushing back. Wings beat the air. His heart stood still.
“I’ll think about it,” she said, finally, and he realized he’d been holding his breath. He gathered her into a hug, and she let him.
THE FRIENDS COME A-CALLING
Now
Ethan went through the rest of Sutton’s things quickly. There was nothing unusual about anything, outside the fact that the lifelines she clung to like air were here, and she was not.
He saw nothing that stood out on her computer. Her Dropbox was password protected so he couldn’t open her current work in progress—he knew she was working on some sort of big set piece fantasy novel, lots of bursting seams and knights with hard-ons—but she’d always been totally paranoid when it came to her work; she hid it from everyone until it was finished and in the hands of her agent.
The agent.
Stupid, Ethan.
He opened her contacts, pulled up the name—Jessamin Fleming—picked up the phone, and dialed the number. Jessamin’s assistant answered perkily.
Lie to Me Page 4
