Franklin, Tennessee
Ethan’s patience was running out. Not only had he sat in this infernal cell all night, counting the bloody tiles (four thousand four hundred and seven tiles on the floor and wall; he managed to count them twice), the towheaded cop had rushed in, asked him strange questions, and rushed away before explaining what the bloody hell she was talking about. And he’d been left alone again.
Graham was clearly mad. Sutton didn’t own a wig. Did she?
Did he know his wife at all anymore?
Oh, what did it matter? She was dead. He was in jail. He shifted uncomfortably on the hard pallet. In jail, about to be arraigned, paraded in front of the courts and television cameras.
Bill would be thrilled. There would be a massive bump in backlist sales. Offers would come from every house to write the true story of his marriage’s demise. He could hear the rejoinders now: Why did you do it, Mr. Montclair? Why did you kill your wife?
Would they let him do pressers from the penitentiary?
He’d been on this thought train for about an hour when the door opened and Joel Robinson walked through, eyes shining in excitement.
“We need to talk,” he said.
“I only want to hear that you can get me out of here, right now.”
“Actually, I think I can.”
Ethan stood up. “What’s happened?”
“You might want to sit back down.”
“Joel. Please.”
“They aren’t 100 percent sure the body they recovered is Sutton.”
Ethan sat, hard. “What? How? Her rings...”
“That blonde cop, Graham? She’s saved your ass. She’s insisting you’re innocent and the body isn’t Sutton’s. Apparently, there was an inconsistency at autopsy. We’re still waiting on dental and DNA, dental will be in anytime, but she’s already pushing for you to be released.”
“God bless her. Now, tell me everything.”
Robinson adjusted his pants. “You sure? If it turns out she’s wrong...”
Ethan only paused for a moment. “I’m sure.”
“Okay. I have two shots they let me take from the crime scene photos. The body was burned, right?”
He grimaced. “So I heard.”
“They have Sutton’s wedding set, recovered from the victim’s left hand. Here’s a picture. These are her rings, yes?”
He turned his phone to face Ethan. It was a close-up shot. All he could see was the shine of platinum and diamond against a sort of ashy black background. He swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes, those are her rings, without a doubt. The wedding band was new when we married, we picked it out at Tiffany, but the stone is my grandmother’s. I’ve been seeing it all my life.”
“All right. Here’s the other.”
Robinson swiped to the left, and Ethan saw a mass of red hair on the ground.
“From what I’ve been told, when they took the body, the scalp fell off. They bagged it and took it into evidence. Only it wasn’t a scalp. Once the ME started messing with it, he realized it’s a wig. The scalp of the victim was burned, and the real hair, if any, was seared away. This is definitely a wig.”
Ethan got a glance of strawberry and dirt, then the phone lit up, obscuring the picture. Robinson answered, smiled grimly, and pocketed the phone.
“It’s not her. Dental doesn’t match. They’re coming to let you go.”
Ethan was too shocked to fully comprehend what was happening. “But...her rings... Who is it? Who’s dead in the field?”
“Who, and who killed her, I dunno the answers to either. Truth be told, right now, I don’t care. All I know is whoever it is, it’s not your wife. And that’s very good news indeed for you, my friend. Without a body, everything they have is sketchy and circumstantial. You’re not in the clear by a long shot, you’re still their number one suspect, but now they have nothing definitive to hold you on.”
“What do they have? How in the world could there be evidence when I didn’t commit a crime?”
“Guy who runs the farm out there? He saw you walking in the field Thursday night. That’s pretty damning evidence for the cops, you being at the scene of the crime, after dark, with a witness to place you there.”
“But I went there to pay off Wilde.”
“So you say. The cops see suspect and dead body within five hundred feet of one another, and they draw their own conclusions. Anyway, there’s all kinds of computer stuff pointing your way, stuff I barely understand, and the search of your house turned up gas cans and rags in the garage, but that’s something I can easily explain away. Every responsible car owner has a spare gas can lying around. There’s something else happening, too. It’s to do with your son’s case.”
The thorn that had been pulled from his heart when he realized Sutton could still be alive smashed back into place. “What is it?”
“That’s what I need to find out. I was hopeful that there’d be a discovery after the arraignment this morning, but since you aren’t going to court, I’m not going to find out right now. My main objective is to get you home. We’ll go from there. They’ll be down here shortly. Ethan.” Robinson shook his finger. “Do not, I repeat, do not say anything, just gather up your things and leave. I’ll be waiting outside to drive you home.”
Ethan nodded. As Robinson was walking out, he said, “Joel?”
“Yeah?”
“I didn’t hurt her.”
Robinson nodded. “I know.”
* * *
Half an hour later, Officer Graham came through the door. She looked like she’d been up all night. Her hair was standing on end, she had circles under her eyes, but when she approached, her smile was genuine.
“Time to go home, Mr. Montclair.”
He stood, hands in his pockets, feeling the tug of his loose waistband sliding onto his hips. They’d taken his belt and shoes when he entered the jail.
“I know you’ve heard that the body we found is not Mrs. Montclair. I was also told you’ve positively identified the rings the body was wearing as your wife’s wedding set.”
He followed her out the door, not speaking, as Robinson had instructed. Graham walked him to the counter where they’d done his intake processing. He wondered if he could ask to see his mug shot.
“We’re not finished, not by a long shot, but for now, Mr. Montclair, you’re free to go. Shirley here will get your things back to you. Your lawyer is waiting outside. There’s a boatload of media, too, but I figured you might want to walk out smiling for once. If you’re able.”
He gave Graham half a smile, accepted his wallet, shoes, and belt from the gray-haired battle-ax behind the counter. Fitted the worn leather through the hoops, slid his feet into his loafers. Stayed silent as the grave.
Graham walked him to the jail door. She pushed it open. A shaft of sunlight and fresh air encompassed him, and he took his first full breath in days.
Against the advice of his attorney, he softly said to the cop, “Thank you for believing me.”
Graham shrugged. “I wouldn’t say I believe you, sir. If you killed Mrs. Montclair, I will find out. And then I’ll nail you to the wall.”