I think it’s nearly time for the show to start, don’t you?
I’m not saying I’m playing the man. I’m not saying I killed the girl. I’m just saying I think everything is going to change, very, very soon.
A CHALLENGE IS GIVEN
The ringing phone was Joel Robinson. Ethan had programmed specific rings into his mobile so he’d know when the calls were important and could ignore the rest. Joel was Judas Priest’s “Breaking the Law,” Bill was Dvorˇák’s “New World Symphony,” Officer Graham was the Darth Vader theme from Star Wars.
“We may have a problem,” Joel said. “I need for us to have a little talk. You around?”
“I am.”
There was heavy knocking on the back door. “Is that you?”
“It is. Hurry up and let me in before the vultures see me.”
Ethan had almost forgotten the tribe of newspeople camped in his front yard. He was rather surprised the Franklin Police hadn’t shunted them off; from what he could see, they were practically blocking traffic coming off the circle onto Third Avenue.
Ethan unbolted the back door. Joel slipped inside. He was disheveled and sweating. He’d clearly run over.
“What’s going on?”
“Like I said on the phone, we have a problem. Several, actually. A witness has come forward.”
Ethan felt a spike in his heart rate. He tried to keep his tone even. “They found her?”
“You should sit down.”
Sit? Ethan felt like collapsing in a heap, throwing a tantrum, screaming, and beating his fists against the custom wide-planked rough-hewn white oak floors. You’re better than that. You need to stay cool.
“Tell me,” he said, steel in his voice.
“No, they haven’t found her. But this witness is claiming you killed Sutton. That you were systematically abusing her. They claim you killed the baby, too. The police are reopening Dashiell’s case.”
There were many things he was expecting Joel to say. This was not one of them.
“Dashiell?”
“Yes. The witness claims you poisoned him with an overdose of diphenhydramine. That Sutton discovered this, and you killed her to keep her quiet. It’s a very tidy story, and the police are all over it.”
Ethan felt the bottom of his world falling, slowly spinning away, until he was left standing in very thin air. Wind whipped his hair, lightning flashed. The storm blew in so quickly he didn’t know where it had come from. Rain began to pelt him, and he was quickly soaked to the bone.
To the bone.
To the depths of his soul.
Joel was screaming at him, pulling his arm. Ethan realized the storm was real. He was standing in the middle of the street, exposed on Third Avenue, surrounded. The newspeople were shouting at him, cameras were clicking. A sharp flash of lightning and an immediate rolling thunderclap shook the ground, and everyone gasped and scattered, seeking cover.
Joel tugged at him, finally got his feet moving, towed him onto the porch. Shouted in his ear, “We need to go in, Ethan. It’s dangerous out here.”
“No.” Ethan wrenched his arm away, sat hard on the porch swing, ran his fingers along the metal chain that bound it to the ceiling. Started to rock. The wind played along, helping him move. Movement was his friend. Joel stood in the front door, arm on the jamb, watching, calling, but Ethan stayed planted on the swing. Inside the news vans, he knew video was being shot, knew photos were being taken. He raised a middle finger toward them, held it long enough for everyone to get a good view.
When the storm abated, he went inside. Joel had made tea. They sat at the kitchen table, unspeaking.
Finally, Ethan said, “When will they arrest me?”
Joel shook his head. “I don’t know.”
* * *
Ethan wrote. He hid away from it all, the condemnation and the accusations he knew were flying, sat by himself at the long driftwood desk in the big old house on Third Avenue, with the ghosts of his wife and child, writing every word he could conjure. The story was already taking shape. He had always been able to write quickly once his idea was settled; this was no different. Thousands of words poured from his fingers. He ignored the ever-ringing doorbell. He ignored the constantly ringing phone.
He ignored the fact that no one he cared about was reaching out to help.
It had been the same when Dashiell died, come to think of it, minus the words, of course. People had kept their distance. He understood it was hard to approach them, hard to say the words. I’m so sorry your child died.
They’d say everything else. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry about your pain. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
But no one could bring themselves to utter the words they really needed to hear.
He mostly didn’t care. It wasn’t like there was anything anyone could do. Sutton’s friends had hung around the first few days, bringing casseroles, changing sheets. Ivy had made Sutton shower and dress every morning. But even Ivy had eventually been drawn away, off to a conference in Rhode Island, and then it was just the two of them, Ethan and Sutton, alone in the house with the gaping maw of death surrounding them.
Ethan didn’t have many friends. Generally, he liked hanging out with Sutton. He’d been a hell-raiser in his youth, a lunatic ladies’ man, an excessive drinker and partier, but once he’d married her, his wild ways had departed, and he’d become a devoted husband. And for a little while, a doting father, as well. Oh, he had a number of men around, people to have a beer with, or a pickup game at the gym, but he wasn’t the type to go out with the boys, instead preferring to watch from the sidelines.
He was a classic introvert, and observation was his superpower. It’s what made him such a good writer, everyone said so.
He’d gone online once, earlier, after the storm, after Joel left. His meltdown was intricately documented. He’d given them quite the show. He’d made headlines nationwide. He didn’t need to read the stories. What he observed, right now: the whole world was entranced by the idea of a beautiful woman disappearing off the face of the earth. And the media bought in. They dug and pawed and scrabbled for information, sharp nails clawing for the viewer’s attention, clambering over each other in an attempt to solve what had turned into a genuine, bona fide mystery.
As for the rest of them, he ignored it all. He needed to separate himself from his reality. He ignored the strings of Dvorˇák and the crashing of Judas Priest. Turned off the internet, unplugged the router.
He returned his fingers to his lonely keyboard. Allowed the pent-up anger and lust and love and hate to explode forth onto the page. In the back of his mind, he wallowed, thinking about all the ways he’d done her wrong.
If only he hadn’t switched out her birth control pills. If only he hadn’t planned to get her pregnant. If only he’d worked harder to convince her how their lives would be enhanced by a baby, if only she’d agreed to that choice. If only, if only, if only.
He went on like this for hours, until the pads of his fingers were bruised and aching.
The catharsis of losing wife and finding words was not lost on him. The visions of her dead would not recede, and instead made their way into his story. They dripped with sarcasm, redolent of his early work, the voice he’d long lost found again.
He finished one Scotch and poured another. Wrote and wrote and wrote. Got hammered as hell.
And still he wrote.
It wasn’t until he noticed the sun had gone down and it was dark as sin that he realized his hands hurt too much to go on.
With a gentle smile, he gingerly hit Save. Stood and stretched. Played back the messages, increasingly urgent, from his agent, his lawyer, the cop.
They were looking at him now. A small flutter of something—excitement, fear? He didn’t know—coursed through him. It was time.
You knew this would happen, Ethan. Why are you acting surprised? You need their help. Pick up the phone, put it back on the hook. Call Joel, have him help prepare a statement.
You fool. You actually thought you could get away with it, didn’t you?
THE NEWS, THE DAMNING NEWS
They were in front of the house, going live for the 6:00 p.m. broadcasts. Because it had been over twenty-four hours since he’d talked to anyone, friend or foe, Ethan turned on the television to catch the show.
All had been quiet. Too quiet. In between the frantic worrying, he’d written uninterrupted for almost a full day. He knew there was a search ongoing, and he wanted to be out there, truly he did, but the media wouldn’t leave his front lawn, so he was stuck inside. Hoping and praying they didn’t find her.
He knew the police were trying to find Colin Wilde. He knew they were looking at him, too.
He’d wanted to call Holly Graham and take her temperature, find out what the heck she was thinking, what the police were planning. It couldn’t be long before they were knocking down the door with a warrant, wanting to look closer at everything.
He’d been so cooperative, though. Surely they were looking past the obvious. Surely they weren’t so lazy as to simply assume he’d done it.
Then again, this much silence wasn’t a good sign. He should probably call Joel, see if he’d heard anything. The broadcast started, the spinning chyron advertising a breaking news alert.
The reporter was pretty; of course she was, they all were. Ugly doesn’t sell on television.
He turned up the volume.
“I’m April O’Malley, coming to you live from Franklin, Tennessee, where we’ve been investigating the sudden disappearance of Sutton Montclair. The search continues, and the police seem to be spinning their wheels. We’ve had no confirmation that Ethan Montclair is a suspect in his wife’s disappearance, but you know how these cases so often go, the spouse is the one who’s ultimately responsible, and sources close to the investigation say a case is being made against Montclair as we speak. Evidence of abuse has surfaced, we’ve learned exclusively. Allegedly, actual photos exist.”
Photos of Sutton’s bruised arm and nose flashed on the screen. Where on earth had they gotten those?
Oh, her phone. The police had her phone. He fought back the urge to prank call it. Is your refrigerator running? Better go catch it.
No, Ethan, that wouldn’t be seemly. The reporter was still talking.
“—recap what we know. Sutton Montclair, a beautiful, successful writer, disappeared sometime between Monday evening and Tuesday morning. She left behind a note asking not to be looked for, but her husband, local celebrity Ethan Montclair, called the police late in the day Tuesday, asking for their help finding his wife.
“And then...nothing. There has been no sign of her since. Her phone and credit cards have not been used, and there have been no reported sightings.”
There was movement, a shadow loomed, then Ethan watched Filly walk into the screen.
“Bollocks,” Ethan said.
“I’m now joined by Mrs. Phyllis Woodson, a very close friend of Mrs. Montclair. Mrs. Woodson, please tell us what you know about the investigation.”
Filly practically gleamed with excitement. Her hair and makeup had been professionally done, the lights shone on her moist upper lip. Ethan looked closer. Had she done fillers, or something else equally ludicrous? Her upper lip seemed overweight, out of proportion, the gloss slicked on thick and shiny, a pale pink that was certainly not her shade.
He heard Sutton’s voice in his head, gentle and slightly amused. “Claws, Ethan.”
I can’t help it, wife. Your BFF looks like a bumblebee parked on her face and shat.
Filly’s voice was slightly higher than normal. Ethan chalked it up to nerves, though she sounded so much like a horse neighing he had a hard time not laughing out loud.
You’re not behaving appropriately, Ethan. For fuck’s sake, your wife is missing, probably dead, and you’re laughing at her horsey friend on TV? You’re a sick, sick man. Go wear your hair shirt. Go burn the rushes and drape yourself in sackcloth. Stop using this to your advantage.
“Fuck the fuck off, self.”
From the television: “Well, we’ve been worried sick for days, as you can imagine. Ethan told us she was gone, but we all knew immediately something was wrong. She would never, ever just up and leave without letting at least one of us know. Now, I know that one of us—Sutton has so many lovely friends, but we’re her core, her trusted advisers—”
Ethan snorted.
“—the women she told everything—” she looked into the camera, right at him, and enunciated the words for effect “—and I mean, everything. For her to leave without telling us is completely out of character. To not be in touch, to not let us know she’s okay...well...”
Sniff. Tears. Blot.
The reporter was totally getting off on the performance.
“Do you know if there was any...trouble...in their marriage?” April O’Malley asked, gushing a bit.
“Well, of course there was. After losing that tiny baby, Ethan took his anger out on her. Why, there was even a bruise on her arm one night after a terrible fight they’d had. She took a picture of it, I saw it on her phone. I know the police are already looking into these things. They’ve been asking us all so many questions. And we’re telling them everything we know, everything we can think of that will help bring Sutton home alive.”
So that’s what they’d been up to. The extended silence from the police. Talking to everyone. Listening to gossip. Laying out the case against him. Letting their circumstantial evidence drive them his way.
He turned off the television. There was no reason to watch anymore.
He’d already wrapped his head around the idea that the police thought he killed his wife. There was really nothing more for him to do than sit tight. They’d come round soon enough.
Might as well take advantage of the solitude.
He poured himself a Scotch, a double, and went back to the computer.
Let the words soothe his embittered soul.
NOT EVERYTHING IS AS IT SEEMS
Assembling a murder case against a man without the benefit of a dead body is tricky at best.
They worked themselves to the bone, setting it all up. They took turns watching the house to make sure Montclair didn’t run. Each report came back the same—nothing. He had some groceries delivered. We saw him walking through the house. He peeked out the window. The television was on for a short time. No phone calls from the landline, and nothing unusual from the cell phone. The blogger never called back. If he’s making preparations to run, we aren’t hearing or seeing anything. He might be in there destroying everything, but it seems quiet.
Holly had been tasked with talking to the friends some more, getting every last ounce out of them. She’d finally had a chance to sit down with Sutton’s friend Rachel Temora, who was not much help, considering she was wildly ill. Newly pregnant, she had terrible morning sickness and kept having to rush off to the bathroom under the watchful eye of her sweet partner, Susannah. Finally, Holly had left them in peace. There was nothing new to be gained there.
She tracked down Sutton’s mother in Canada. It was more promising, but she really hadn’t learned anything Ethan Montclair hadn’t already told her she’d say.
Ethan’s an asshole. Sutton was tired of his antics. And my daughter loves a good drama. Look at what she writes. Are you sure she hasn’t just run away? It seems more in character for her to leave than for him to murder her, the man’s a gigantic pussy, but I guess you never truly know anyone. Let me know if you find her, God forbid something’s actually happened. Have you ever been to Canada? It is incredible up here.
Holly had the sense Siobhan He
aly would debate whether to cut short her trip if her daughter’s body was discovered.
The rest of the team was doing all the hard work. There was so much paper being generated, logs and notes and files growing like mushrooms in the conference room. The whiteboard was covered in timelines and conjectures. Jim hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours; he had done an outstanding job of tying together the technical forensics, from the money to the phone calls.
It was the amended autopsy report on the baby that sank them. The waiting tissue samples had been located. The backup lab had finished them, but hadn’t yet sent the final report. High levels of diphenhydramine were present.
It wasn’t SIDS.
The baby’s death was reclassified a homicide. The only question was—accidental, or purposeful?
They kept that back from the media. It was too important a point. Moreno surmised if Montclair got wind of it, that would make him bolt. Better to spring it on him once he’d been taken into custody.
Holly filed her reports and learned everything she could. She paid attention to everything, read every page that went into the files.
The energy in the room was Red Bull on steroids. Everyone had something to contribute. Everyone added a stick to the pyre.
The evidence was damning. Not a slam dunk, not yet. But very damning.
And then they were ready. Two days of backbreaking, intensive work.
Ethan Montclair was going to go down in the morning. The paperwork was in order. The media was in a frenzy. There was still no sign of Sutton Montclair.
Finally, finally, the lights were shut down, and the doors locked. There were high fives, and backslaps. Moreno presided over them all with a benign eye, a proud papa. Instructions were given. They were going to hit him early, a predawn knock, start his day off right.
The jokes, the excitement, it all felt slightly scary to her. They were all 100 percent convinced Ethan Montclair had killed his wife. That it was only a matter of time until Sutton was found. Bodies almost always surface. It’s hard to hide them properly in the spring.
Lie to Me Page 17
