by Fenton, Liz
Ironically, I spent so many of our years together trying to help Ethan. To pull him out of his dark holes, to guide him back toward the positives, to get him back on track. To be the man I fell in love with, the author who wrote an insightful and compelling story that captivated the country. I always promised him that I would be patient. Loyal. And for many years I was. I bit my tongue when he lashed out. I pulled the blanket over him when he fell asleep on the couch yet again, his laptop never removed from the desk, a half-empty bottle of wine on the coffee table in front of him. But after time, and this isn’t an excuse, I started feeling like it didn’t matter what I did. I couldn’t help him if he didn’t want to help himself.
And now he’s probably spiraling down into depression once more. What I find most interesting? I’ve always known I loved Ethan. Sure, I haven’t been the best wife. I get that. But in this dirty room, buzzed off the beer my captor gave me, I’d gladly give my life if it meant Ethan would no longer be depressed. If he could be happy. Being here, facing my own mortality is difficult. But knowing I’m crushing Ethan? That idea alone makes me want to die.
Maybe it’s easier to say that because I am most likely going to die soon anyway. “I tried. Marriage is hard,” I finally offer weakly to Q. Because it is true. I did. And marriage is harder than anything I’ve done—law school, passing the bar, defending questionable clients. Those situations all have books you can study, classes you can take. Marriage? There’s no guidebook. Only learning on the job.
I look over at him. “Are you married?”
He looks down, then back up at me. Something flashes in his eyes. Pain? Regret? Anger? It is hard to say. “Marriage is for saps.”
“Doesn’t mean you didn’t try it anyway,” I retort, the beer making me ballsy.
Q snorts. “Stop it. We aren’t going to bond over bad relationships. This isn’t a fucking Lifetime movie.”
“So it was bad, then?” I push. “Did she cheat on you? Is that why you want to punish me? You hate women?”
His eyes flare up again. “Shut your mouth.” He reaches over and grabs another beer, giving it to me. “Here. Will you stop talking if I give you another?”
I nod. I would do pretty much anything for one more beer.
“Good. And don’t think I’m doing you any favors. Like I said, you’re going to need it after watching this.” He unlocks the iPad and presses Play.
Ethan’s face fills the screen, and I gasp involuntarily, the reminder of the life I had jolting me. It feels like months rather than mere days since I’ve seen him. Since I’ve touched the stubble-lined jaw I see now. My breath quickens as he begins to speak, the camera drawn in tight to his profile. He’s definitely been crying. Not sleeping. He looks terrible.
I take a sip of my new beer. Ethan is sitting in a plump green chair on a set, being interviewed by a talk show host I recognize from the People magazines that Chase steals from the waiting room. What’s her name? Alice? Anna? Audra? Yes. That’s it. Audra O’Conner. I feel hopeful. She is a huge national celebrity, which means my case must be getting major media attention. I look over at Q. Does that worry him?
Audra is talking about the search. She mentions that the FBI is now involved. The reward is $250,000 for information that leads to my safe return. I wonder who’s putting up the money. My mom and Ethan don’t have that much cash. My mom could only afford it if she took a mortgage out on her place. Ethan and I do have that kind of money, but it’s not liquid. He’d have to sell our home or cash out our stocks or my 401k. There’s some in savings but nowhere near that amount. Would the firm have fronted it? Sam?
I feel a surge of hope. This is all good news so far. When do the promised tears come? Maybe he thought seeing Ethan would make me sad. And it does. But I’m not going to cry over it. Especially not when I think it’s what Q wants. I peek over at him. “Keep watching,” he says without looking at me.
Audra asks Ethan about the day I disappeared. He describes our last morning together, and I begin to cry again. Then he mentions the texts I sent from the parking garage. How I said I was getting gas.
“Did that bother you? That she often worked long hours?”
“Lila has always been driven,” Ethan says, but there is an edge to his words. “She knows what she wants, and she goes out and gets it.”
“Do you think that drive led to her disappearance?” Audra asks.
“It’s possible,” Ethan answers, but he doesn’t sound like himself. He is almost robotic.
She asks him a few more questions about the cases I recently worked on, specifically Jeremiah’s. I wonder if they’ve vetted Stephanie yet. Of course they would’ve, right?
She asks about Franklin but doesn’t actually say his name. She refers to it as the recent stalking incident. She’s fishing, and Ethan stonewalls her like a pro, only saying that the police and FBI aren’t ruling anything out. I find myself studying every syllable he utters. Yes, there is something there. Sadness, yes. But something more. He’s pissed. He’s trying to mask it. And if I didn’t know him as I do, I might have missed it. But it’s there.
The pictures. I prayed Q was bluffing. But seeing Ethan now, the way his lip is curling up to the right, the resentment as he describes my long hours, probably thinking I’d been making out with Sam in my office the whole time, there is no doubt that he’s seen them.
Which means Carrie probably has as well.
“You sent him the pictures,” I say to Q.
He reaches over and pauses the video. “You aren’t a very good listener. I already told you I did.” He points toward the screen. “And I’ve never met the hubs before, but he looks pretty pissed to me. I wonder how Carrie is taking it?” He runs his hand over his chin, adjusting the mask. “What happens if no one cares anymore if you come back? Do you think they’ll stop looking for you?” He laughs to himself.
I turn away from the screen. “I don’t want to see any more.” My earlier buzz has now paved the way for exhaustion. “I’m done.”
Q grabs me by the shoulder and pulls me up roughly. “What in the world made you think you’re in charge, Princess?” he hisses into my ear. “You’re going to sit right here and watch. It’s about to get really good, and I don’t want you to miss it.”
“How would you describe your marriage?” Audra is asking now.
“Good,” he says. Then he adds, “Like any marriage, we have our problems.”
“Does that include your struggle with depression?”
I snap my head back, shocked to hear the words out loud. He’s never told anyone that I know of, and I certainly haven’t. It’s been our private struggle, or so I thought. I can see the surprise in his eyes too and then the embarrassment. It’s subtle. Only I would notice, but it’s there. I know it’s his biggest nightmare to have his struggles outed this way. My chest aches for him, and I blame myself. He was doing this all for me, and now he’s paying yet another price. When will his sacrifice end?
Ethan balks. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
Audra brushes blonde hair out of her face and gives him a hard look. “Your wife went missing under suspicious circumstances. Everything is relevant.” She glances at the green index cards on her lap. “Is it true your wife was having an affair with a coworker?”
The color drains from Ethan’s face.
My blood goes cold in response. I look at Q, who shakes his head at me.
A deep anger starts to work its way out of me. How dare this woman confront Ethan.
“What makes you say that?” Ethan looks stricken, and my heart begins to break. He’s still trying to cover for me. But why?
“Is it true?” Audra asks. Bitch.
Ethan glances back at something off camera. He nods almost imperceptibly. But I notice, and so does Audra. I taste the bile in the back of my throat and swallow it.
“Okay, then,” Audra says, shuffling her index cards. “We also received a letter right before we went on air that appears to be written by L
ila. I’m hoping you can confirm it’s her handwriting . . .”
My stomach plummets. Please, no.
Ethan says nothing, clearly confused. “A letter? From Lila? To whom? And how?”
Audra ignores his questions. “Is this your wife’s handwriting?” She holds the letter out to him. He tries to grab it, but she pulls it away before he can.
I wonder what letter she has. For a second I consider she may have found one of my old diaries. At this point, anything seems possible.
“It looks a hell of a lot like it. But I can’t be sure,” Ethan says.
“May I read it to you?” she asks.
I take a deep breath, wondering what’s coming next, what words I have written that she finds so interesting.
“I think you’re going to read it regardless,” Ethan snipes. Q smiles and tilts his chin upward. He looks satisfied. Suddenly I know what letter she has. It’s the one I wrote to Janelle.
“Why?” I say to Q, who simply points to the iPad.
Audra clears her throat dramatically and slides on a pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses. And I wonder why Ethan agreed to be interviewed. Did he think it would help in the effort to find me? Or did he have an ulterior motive? To show he’s not aligned with me anymore?
I’m not surprised when Audra utters the words Dear Janelle, but the enormity of what’s happening still hits me hard. As she reads the heartfelt words I wrote the day before, I stare hard at Ethan’s face. I told him years ago about Janelle, but I still wait for his eyes to soften at the sincerity of my confession, especially now that I’ve gone missing. But there is nothing—he remains still.
There is silence for a few seconds after Audra finishes. “Did you know about this?” she finally asks.
“I knew about the situation,” he answers.
And now so does the world. It’s an idea that makes me both deeply embarrassed and quite liberated. It’s out. Everyone knows. I can’t hide from it or behind it anymore.
“When did Lila write this?” she presses. “She seems incredibly distraught. Questioning her career. Could she have . . . Could this be a suicide note?”
“No,” Ethan cuts her off. “She wouldn’t hurt herself. And I’ve never seen that letter. Where did you get that? Why haven’t you given it to the police?”
I begin to panic. If they start to think I took my own life or that I ran off, they might stop looking. They need leads and suspects to chase.
“As I mentioned, it was delivered literally minutes before air. We called the proper authorities and plan on turning it over to them immediately.” Audra smiles.
“Immediately after you confront me with it on national TV!” Ethan retorts.
I feel a surge of pride as Audra blushes.
“It doesn’t sound like Lila at all,” Ethan stammers. “She didn’t write it.”
His words sting, but I know why he’s saying them. The old Lila would have never written that letter. She may not have been capable of the introspection. And she certainly was never sincerely contrite about something. The old Lila was terrified those things would make her weak.
She had been dead wrong. Pun intended.
Audra tries to look sympathetic. “Is it possible you may not have known her as well as you thought?”
Ethan’s eyes are steely. “I think that’s something I have to consider at this point. But there is one thing I know for sure. Lila would have never killed herself. Not over that.”
I exhale hard. Thank you, Ethan.
“Fair enough.” Audra shakes her head. “But I have to say, Ethan, with all of this information coming to light, an affair, a tryst with her professor, these things would surely make you angry. I have to ask: Did you have anything to do with your wife’s disappearance? You say you were at home when she went missing, but it’s never been corroborated.”
Ethan stands up and rips his mic off. “I’m done here,” he says before storming off the set.
The video goes black a moment later, but I continue to stare at the screen, perplexed as to why that was the one question he wouldn’t answer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THURSDAY
FREE
I step out of my car in front of Watermarke Tower and start to hand my key to the valet but quickly pull it back. I study him—his wiry mustache, his comb-over that’s failing to do its job, his black eyes. He gives me a funny look as I contemplate parking on the street instead or in my office parking structure, which is only a few blocks away. That was my plan, but I’ve been moving slowly today after last night’s imbibing. A sharp pain jags through my belly, and I lean against my car, the man asking me in a high-pitched voice if I’m all right. I nod, but I hate this feeling—that I can no longer trust the most innocuous of things. That I have to keep looking over my shoulder in broad daylight. I’m off-balance, and I feel as if I could teeter one way or the other in the slightest of breezes. Finally I stand up straight, hand him the fob, and walk down the street toward the restaurant before I can change my mind. As I’m approaching the entrance, there’s a homeless man sleeping to the right of the doors. I pull out a five-dollar bill and tuck it under his arm.
“There you are!” Carrie throws her arms around me the second I cross over the rug with Faith & Flower embroidered on it. “It’s so good to see you.”
“You too,” I manage to say, exhaling deeply as I take her in. Did she also receive the pictures? Does she have them in her white patent leather purse, prepared to throw them at me once we’re seated? No. Carrie wouldn’t handle it that way. She’d do it in private, where she could say everything she wanted to say. And I want her to have that chance—to rip me down to the core if that’s what she needs.
She smiles at me, her cheeks glowing against her sunflower-yellow dress. She seems genuinely joyful to see me, which almost feels worse. How long will I be able to live here, between the gaping lies and crevices of truth of my own life? And how can I ever be the friend Carrie deserves?
We follow the hostess to a leather booth on the wall. After we’re seated, a server, a lithe young woman dressed all in black save for a paisley bow tie, swiftly approaches and fills the green goblets in front of us. Carrie orders a club soda for herself and a chardonnay for me. I put my hand up to decline, but she shakes her head. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” she says, leaning in, “but you look like hell—you need this drink. I would join you if I could.”
She’s right—I do look and feel like hell, my head still pounding from the wine I chugged straight from the bottle last night. Chase and I opened a second one somewhere around midnight, laughing that we’d feel it in the morning. And I do. My mouth is still dry no matter how many glasses of water I drink, my heart still aching no matter how many times I tell myself Ethan is coming back.
“So how’s work?” Carrie asks, her lips slightly parted, her bright eyes locked on mine. Her hair is pulled up into a purposely messy bun. I run a hand through my own hair, which I always wear exactly the same way, blown straight with bangs that fall just above my eyebrows, and wonder why I don’t ever try anything different.
I sigh.
“That good, huh?” She exhales. “Does Sam need to put in a word to get you more money? You know he’d do anything for you.”
I flush at her words and swallow hard before answering. “The money’s not the problem,” I say, thinking about my healthy bank account. I work so much that I don’t have time to spend what I make. It sits there untouched. Ethan’s not a big spender either. I wish suddenly that I’d made the time to take a vacation with him. Would that have helped us connect? Made him happier? Me more satisfied? It’s hard to say. Still, I wish I had at least tried.
“Then what is?”
I glance at the menu. Do I want the baby kale Caesar or the cod sandwich? Or both? I avoid making eye contact and continue to analyze my lunch options. Because the answer I can’t give her is: Ethan left me. The words sit there, ready to be spoken. Any other person would have blurted them to her best friend b
y now, unable to hold such a terrible thing inside. But of course, I can’t tell Carrie. I can’t have her soft eyes dig in on the details of why Ethan would suddenly pick up his shit and leave.
Last night Chase asked me if I regretted being with Sam or just getting caught. His tone was light, but his eyes held mine tight as he waited for my reply. And the answer isn’t as easy as one would assume. Of course I hadn’t wanted Ethan to find out. To leave. And I suppose, ultimately, I wished that I’d never felt the need to be with Sam in the first place. But it’s not as simple as that—I’ve made choices that layer upon other choices, and now I’ve found myself somewhere I never thought I’d be. I feel as if I am standing at the bottom of the deepest hole, desperate to climb out. But how? I need to scrape my way back to flat ground. I didn’t set out to be a bad friend, a bad wife, but that’s who I’ve become.
I decide to spare her my own ugly truth. Instead, I tell her the other pressing matter on my mind.
“I have this client, and I don’t trust him—”
“So what’s new?” Carrie laughs, then stops when she notices I’m not smiling. “Sorry, go on.”
“Obviously I can’t elaborate. But I’m worried the wrong person is going to get hurt.” I pause, thinking about Sam’s threat. I take in Carrie’s long lashes framing her clear eyes. Does she have any idea how ruthless her husband can be? Then I shake the thought away. I knew, and I didn’t let it get in the way of my feelings for him. In fact, it may have been the singular thing that drew me in. I’ve never thought this before, but I begin to ponder whether Carrie and I are more alike than I’ve ever thought. We’ve been involved with the same man. Was it for the same reasons? Does he make her feel powerful too? I take a sip of my wine, suddenly grateful for the relaxing effect of the alcohol. “I want to be sure I’m on the right side of things.”
