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.