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 Healy 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.
She heard it over and over again. Great job, Graham. Keep up the good work. Get some rest. Tomorrow’s going to be a big day. And from Jim, a hopeful, “Wanna get a beer?”
She’d smiled and yawned and demurred and headed home.
She had her own copy of the murder book—everyone had a copy, things were done in triplicate.
She poured a glass of wine. Heated up some dinner: a simple piccata sauce over mahi-mahi with shrimp and roasted vegetables. She was a good cook. She didn’t cook for many people, she had performance anxiety about it not being perfect, but she knew what she liked, and dinner was ready quickly.
She took it and her wine into the living room. Put on a movie. Ate slowly. Watched and laughed. And when she was done, she cleaned up, took a shower, and got in bed with the murder book.
She’d practically memorized it. Memorized them. Memorized him.
She ran her fingers over a photo of Ethan Montclair. It was his author photo, printed off his website. He was impossibly handsome, younger, not marked by the ravages of life and time. She imagined he looked about like this when he’d met Sutton Healy.
Floppy hair, penetrating light blue eyes—had they been Photoshopped? She thought back to her interviews with him—no, they were that blue, like a late-summer lake, clear and deep. He hadn’t shaved, there was just a bit of scruff. His shirt was a crisp white, his jacket deep blue, offsetting his eyes. He wasn’t smiling, or rather, he was, but it was a charming half grin. A smug smirk, Moreno had called it, but Holly could almost feel the amusement coming off Montclair. She could hear him in her mind: I have to sit here and look serious now. This is my author face. Good God, take the shot already.
Is it possible for passwords to be changed remotely?
Everything—everything—pointed directly at him. So why was she lying in bed, a hand inching down, staring at his picture like he was a model in a magazine and not her prime suspect?
Because you’re an idiot, Holly Graham. Go to sleep.
She closed the book and turned out the light. But sleep was long in coming.