Praise for Lie to Me

‘Wonderful... A one-more-chapter, don't-eat-dinner, stay-up-late sensation.’

Lee Child, Sunday Times bestselling author

‘A wickedly good thriller about a picture-perfect marriage that is anything but, LIE TO ME has it all: murder, lies and betrayal. J.T. Ellison will have readers hanging onto the edge of their seats with her latest cunning tale.’

Mary Kubica, New York Times Bestselling Author of THE GOOD GIRL

‘LIE TO ME twists you up, throws you into nail-biting action and unexpected revelations. Belt yourself in for this roller coaster ride.’

Catherine Coulter, #1 New York Times bestselling author of ENIGMA

‘Sharply written and masterfully plotted, full of hard truths about the creative life and modern marriage, Ellison has written her finest novel - a breakout page-turner certain to win her a wide audience.’

Jeff Abbott, New York Times bestselling author of BLAME

Lie to Me

J.T. Ellison

For Amy, who believed

And as always, for Randy

Contents

Cover

Praise

Title Page

Dedication

IN WHICH INTRODUCTIONS ARE MADE

WE FIND A BODY

ETHAN

SOMETHING’S MISSING

DID SHE, OR DIDN’T SHE?

THERE ARE CRACKS IN EVERY MARRIAGE

BEAUTY AND THE BEAST

DISCOVERIES ARE MADE

A TWIST OF THE KNIFE

AND THEN THEY WERE THREE

THE FRIENDS COME A-CALLING

BURN ALL THE LAWYERS

THE TANGLED WEBS WE WEAVE

SIDS, OR NOT TO SIDS

THE STRANGE CASE OF THE MISSING WIFE

THE POLICE ARRIVE

GLORY DAYS

TELL ME YOUR SECRETS

WHAT’S REALLY GOING ON HERE?

THE INVESTIGATION BEGINS

READ ALL ABOUT IT

THE FIRST BREAK

IN WHICH WE RECEIVE A CLUE

VOICES, I HEAR VOICES

ANOTHER DAWN IS DAWNING

LIFE AS WE KNOW IT HAS ENDED

FRANCOPHILES IN FRANKLIN

STOP THE MADNESS

SHE WHO KNEW HER BEST

AN UNEXPECTED SURPRISE

A VIDEO IS WORTH A THOUSAND WORDS

GOOD TIMING, OFFICER

A TRAIL EMERGES

I HEAR YOU’RE MISSING A WIFE

A CORROSIVE BEAST

LET’S GO FOR A DRIVE

TAKE A WALK ON THE WILDE SIDE

THE TIES THAT BIND

BLACKMAIL, OR HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW?

WHEN ALL YOU KNOW IS FALSE

A CHANGE OF HEART

I’M COMING HOME, I’M COMING HOME

THE MAN IS LYING THROUGH HIS TEETH

A CRY, BUT NOT FOR HELP

THE GREEN GRASS ACROSS THE WAY

A CHALLENGE IS GIVEN

THE NEWS, THE DAMNING NEWS

NOT EVERYTHING IS AS IT SEEMS

LIVE FROM A CRIME SCENE

AND NEVER THE TWIN SHALL MEET

NOW THE WORLD KNOWS

NOW, ISN’T THAT ODD?

SUTTON

MEMENTO MORI

ELLE EST ARRIVÉE

WIFE, INTERRUPTED

A BIT OF BACKSTORY

THE GHOST OF PAPA

WE MEET A FRIEND

AND SO IT BEGINS

HELLO, MY NAME IS...

A BABY IS BORN

CAFÉ AU LAIT IN BED

AN AFFAIR TO REMEMBER

PAST LIVES REVEALED

MURDER, SHE WROTE

THOSE SACRED HEARTS

AN APPOINTMENT MISSED, A DISASTER AVOIDED

SECRETS AND MONSTERS

AMERICAN WOMAN

THE HEADLINES ARE GRABBING

RISE AND SHINE

WHEN THINGS GO SIDEWAYS

AN ARREST IS MADE

SOMETIMES, YOU GET EXACTLY WHAT YOU WANT

EVERYONE

LIAR, LIAR, PANTS ON FIRE

AIN’T NO REST FOR THE WICKED

ADMIT IT

ONCE A JUVIE, ALWAYS A JUVIE

HAZE ON THE SEINE

THROUGH A GLASS, DARKLY

POISON IVY

ABOUT...FACE

LEAN ON ME

THE TRINITY

LEAVIN’, ON A JET PLANE

SHINE A BRIGHT LIGHT IN THE CORNERS

HOME IS WHERE THEY HAVE TO TAKE YOU IN

TRUTH WILL OUT

YOU SHOULD HAVE KNOWN

ADMISSIONS OF GUILT

BE SHRIVEN

THE RECKONING

DEATH, AND REBIRTH

JUST WHEN YOU THINK IT’S OVER

AUTHOR NOTE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Extract

Copyright

IN WHICH INTRODUCTIONS ARE MADE

You aren’t going to like me very much. Oh, maybe in your weaker moments, you’ll feel sorry for me, and use those feelings of warmth and compassion and insightful understanding to excuse my actions. You’ll say to yourself, “Poor little girl. She couldn’t help herself.” Or, “Can you blame her? After all she’s been through?” Perhaps you’ll even think, “She was born to this. It is not her fault.”

Of course it’s my fault. I chose this path. Yes, I feel as if I have no choice, that I’m driven to do it, that there are voices in my head that push me to the dark side.

But I also know right from wrong. I know good from evil. I may be compelled to ruin the lives in front of me, but I could walk away if I wanted.

Couldn’t I?

Never mind that. Back to you.

Truly, deep down, you are going to despise me. I am the rot that lives in the floorboards of your house. I am the spider that scuttles away when you shine a light in my corner, ever watching, ever waiting. I am the shard of glass that slits the skin of your bare foot. I am all the bad things that happen to you.

I steal things.

I kill things.

I leave a trail of destruction in my wake that is a sight to behold, wave after wave of hate that will overwhelm you until you sink to the bottom of my miserable little ocean, and once you’ve drowned I will feed on your flesh and turn your bones to dust.

You’re mine now. You are powerless against me. So don’t bother fighting it.

I hope you enjoy the show.

WE FIND A BODY

The body was in the woods off a meandering state road that led into a busy, charming, historical downtown. It was completely obscured from view, deeply hidden, under several pine boughs and a thick layer of nature’s detritus. Synthetic clothing was melted to the flesh, making it difficult to tell race or gender at a glance. Closer inspection would show hair that was long and a curious shade: not blond, not red, possibly chemically treated. The left hand held evidence of rings, a wedding set, and the body would eventually be determined as female.

The shroud of melt and bough had not stopped the forever daisy-chain progression of decay. Instar maggots and adult flies delighted in their found treat. A genus party started soon after. Diptera and coleoptera were evident three days in, paving the way for the coming colonization of Calliphoridae. Though the body was burned beyond ready recognition, the insects didn’t seem to mind; it was simply a barbecue feast to them.

Outside of this natural progression, the body lay undisturbed for two days. Birds of prey flew in long, lazy circles overhead. Cars drove past less than fifty yards away, drivers unknowing, uncaring, that one of their own lay rotting nearby.

Three Days Gone, a severe thunderstorm knocked free several of the funereal branches, allowing the body to be exposed, pelted by hail breaking through the leafy canopy. The heavy rains saturated the ground and the body sank deeper into the muck, where it canted on its side.

Four Days Gone, the body was ravaged by a starving coyote, forty-two razor teeth shredding everything available.

Five Days Gone, the body disarticulated, the fire and the heat and the wet and the insects and the coyote and the natural progression of things breaking it down quickly and without thought to the effects this would have on the loved ones. The idea of a nonintact body was sometimes more than people could take.

Six Days Gone, they found her.

ETHAN

“Chaos is a name for any order that produces confusion in our minds.”

—George Santayana

SOMETHING’S MISSING

Franklin, Tennessee

Now

Ethan found the note ten minutes after he rolled out of bed that Tuesday, the Tuesday that would change everything. He came downstairs, yawning, scratching his chest, to...nothing. Empty space, devoid of wife.

Sutton always began her morning at the kitchen table with a bowl of cereal, a piece of fruit, and a cup of tea. She read the paper, scoffing at the innumerable typos—the paper was going under; paying for decent copyediting was the least of their worries. A bowl full of cereal, a glass of milk, and a spoon would be laid out for him, the sports page folded neatly by his seat. Always. Always.

But this morning, there was no evidence Sutton had been in the kitchen. No newspaper, no bowl. No wife.

He called for her. There was no response. He searched through the house. Her bag was in her office, her cell phone, her laptop. Her license was stashed in her small wallet, all her credit cards present and accounted for, a twenty folded in half shoved behind them.

She must have gone for a run.

He felt a spark of pleasure at the thought. Sutton, once, had been a health nut. She’d run or walked or done yoga every day, something physical, something to keep her body moving and in shape. And what a shape—when he’d met her, the woman was a knockout, willowy and lithe, strong legs and delicate ankles, tendons tight and gleaming like a Thoroughbred. A body she sculpted to match his own, to fit with him.

Ethan Montclair couldn’t have a dog for a wife, no. He needed someone he could trot out at cocktail parties who looked smashing in a little black dress. And not only looked good, but sounded good. He needed a partner on all levels—physical and intellectual. Maybe it was shallow of him, but he was a good-looking man, drew a lot of attention, and not only did he want his wife to be stunning, he wanted her to be smart, too. And Sutton fit the bill.

He knew they made a powerful, attractive couple. Looks and brains and success, so much success. That was their thing.

After Dashiell, she’d bounced back into shape like the champion racehorse she was; though later, when their world collapsed, she’d become tired and bloated and swollen with medications and depression, and she no longer took any interest in being beautiful and fit.

That she’d decided to start running again gave him hope. So much hope.

Spirits lifted, he went back to the sunny, happy kitchen and got his own bowl, his own cereal. Made a pot of tea, whistling. Went for the stevia—no sugar for the health-conscious Montclairs, no, never.

That was when he saw it. Small. White. Lined. Torn from a spiral-bound notebook, a Clairefontaine, Sutton’s favorite for the smooth, lovely paper.

This...thing...was incongruous with the rest of their spotless kitchen. Sutton was above all things a pathological neatnik. She’d never just leave something lying about.

All the happiness fled. He knew. He’d been all wrong. She hadn’t gone running.

He picked up the note.

Dear Ethan,

I’m sorry to do this to you, but I need some time away. I’ve been unhappy, you know that. This shouldn’t come as a big surprise. Forgive me for being a coward. Forgive me, for so many things.

Don’t look for me.

S

She was gone.

He felt something squeezing in his chest, a pain of sorts, and realized that his heart had just broken. He’d always thought that a stupid, silly term, but now he knew. It could happen, it was happening. He was being torn in two, torn to shreds. No wonder there were rites warning against this—what therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder.

God was ripping him apart in punishment, and he deserved it. He deserved it all.

He didn’t cry. There were no tears left for either of them to shed.

He put the note down carefully, as if it were a bomb that might go off with the wrong touch. Went to their bedroom. Nothing seemed out of place. Her brush, her makeup case, her toothbrush, all lined up carefully on the marble. Her suitcase was in the closet.

He went back downstairs to her office, at the back of the house. Double-checked.

Her laptop was on her desk.

Her cell phone was in the charger.

Her purse was on the floor next to her chair.

Her wallet inside, the smiling DMV photo that made her look like a model.

Like a zombie, he moved back to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and got out the milk. Poured cereal in the bowl. Dropped the stevia into his tea. Sat at the empty table, stared at the spot where his wife’s head should have been.

What was he supposed to do now? Where could she be? He ran through the possibilities, the places she loved, rejecting one after another. Surely he was wrong in his thinking. Surely she’d simply run away, to one of her friends. That’s where she’d gone. Should he give her some time and space, like she asked?

She left without her things, Ethan. Sutton’s lifelines are her laptop and phone. They are her office, her world.

A dawning realization. Sutton hadn’t shaken the depression, not completely. She was still prone to fits of melancholy. She might have done something stupid, crazy. She’d tried once before, after... Oh, God. Her words. Perhaps she was telling him exactly what she’d done.

I’m a coward. Forgive me. Don’t look for me.

He threw the bowl of cereal across the room.

“Bloody fucking hell. You selfish, heartless bitch.”

DID SHE, OR DIDN’T SHE?

Don’t look for me.

Those were the last words she’d used to him.

And so he didn’t. Not right away, at least. He sat and wrapped his mind around the situation. Then he searched through everything of hers he could find, looking for something, anything, that might give answers.

Nothing. It was like she’d gone to take a shower and disappeared through the water into another land.

He went into deep, irreversible denial. She is fine, he told himself. She’s taking a break. The self-talk worked. His morbid thoughts fled. He knew, deep in his heart, Sutton would never be that selfish.

He gave her three hours to come back, three long, quiet as the bone hours, and then, when the idea that she might actually be in some sort of trouble started to eat at him, began calling round. Of course he did. He wasn’t a total asshole, despite what most people thought. It was the success—people automatically assumed because he was a man and he didn’t like to give interviews and held people at arm’s length at signings and he kept himself off social media and focused on his work, he was a dick. Maybe he was.

He called her friends—there weren’t many, but the ones she had were close, bosom buddies, BFFs.

Rachel hadn’t seen her and was brusque, late for work. Out of character for her; a yoga teacher, she was generally the most calm and friendly of Sutton’s friends.

Ellen, the head of library sciences at Vanderbilt University, didn’t answer her mobile; he left an innocuous “Hey, call me,” message.

Filly—Phyllis, really, but she hated to be called by her given name—answered her landline on the first ring, no doubt assuming it was Sutton calling. Even at Ethan’s voice, her greeting was cheery and excited. When Ethan asked if she’d seen Sutton, she seemed genuinely concerned, but claimed they hadn’t talked for a few days because Sutton had been so busy. He couldn’t help it, Filly’s concern was so genuine and helpful he immediately suspected she knew something, but when pressed, she reassured him Sutton was probably just out for a run and told him to call her when Sutton showed up, then got off the phone with a lame excuse about her baby crying. Way to twist the knife, Filly.

Ivy was out of town on business, or he’d have called her first. Ivy was friends with them both. She was Sutton’s closest friend and confidante, a true part of their lives. Had been for three years now. He glanced at his watch, hesitated for a minute, then sent a text. A self-employed stockbroker, she was good about keeping her phone on her. She’d get back when she was able, she always did.

He sat at the table, head in his hands. Jumped a mile when the phone rang. He didn’t bother looking at the caller ID, answered with a breathless, “Sutton?”

“It’s Siobhan. What’s wrong?”

Oh, bloody retching hell. Sutton’s mother was the last person he wanted to involve in this. To put it mildly, Siobhan and Sutton weren’t close, and Sutton would be furious with him if she knew he’d spoken to her at all.

Deflect, and get her off the phone.

“Good morning, Siobhan. How are you?”

“Has something happened to Sutton?”

“No, no. Everything is fine.”

“Let me guess. She stormed off and won’t return your calls.”

“Something like that. Have you heard from her?”

“I haven’t seen or spoken to my daughter in weeks. By the way, thank you for the cruise. The Adriatic was amazing. You should take her sometime.”

The sudden urge to confess, to shake this venal woman from her self-absorbed life, was overwhelming, and the words spilled from his mouth.

“She’s gone, Siobhan. She left a note and walked out on me. I’m worried about her. She didn’t take her things—her phone, her computer, her wallet are all here.” As if that would explain it all.

And it did, enough at least that his mother-in-law reacted. “I’m on my way over,” she said, and hung up on him.

Oh, bollocks. All he needed was Siobhan wandering the house looking for clues. Looking in the corners, at the dust and secrets.

You’re an idiot, Ethan. Whyever did you tell her? That desperate, are we?

He poured himself a fresh cup of tea, looked around. Fuck cleaning up. So the place wasn’t pristine. Who cared? Siobhan would find a flaw, a fault, no matter what. They could scour the place top to bottom, have it Architectural Digest photo-shoot ready, and she’d still want to move a vase or find a small part of the counter with a smear.

Siobhan Healy—Shiv-awn, for the uninitiated, which she delighted in sharing, loudly—took pride in being different. Her friends, and some of her enemies, Sutton included, called her Shiv for short. She was Sutton’s opposite in every way. Looks: small and dark, Black Irish with her ebony hair liberally streaked with gray, and cobalt eyes, face pinched and mean. Temperament: brash and extroverted; Siobhan adored attention, good or bad. Speech: lowbrow; though she didn’t have an accent, she claimed she was from a Dublin slum and never hesitated to share the story of her continually upward journey.

She’d come to the United States and married a succession of men, each wealthier than the last. She was on husband four now, a meek-mannered man named Alan, who liked to make jokes, corny jokes—hey, we should go into business together, call ourselves...Ethan Alan. Ha, ha, ha, ha, get it? Ethan Alan—when he drank too much.

Ethan wasn’t sure how this woman could have created her daughter, often wondered about their storied past, but Siobhan and Sutton both refused to ever talk about her childhood, or the one-night stand sperm donor who was her father. He wasn’t, as Sutton said, one of the husbands. He was anonymous. Never around. Sutton had never met him.

Ethan found that wretchedly sad. His own parents had been kind, generous people, though he hadn’t understood them well, nor they him. They were both gone now. They’d died quietly and unobtrusively four months apart when he was twenty-two. He’d been quite upset, but not devastated. They’d sent him off to Mount St. Mary’s as a boarder when he was a wee lad, and he’d only seen them at breaks. Ethan had always been bookish; it was the school he attended that shaped his personality: cocky and wildly creative. It was a fine way to grow up, but Ethan wanted something different for his life. He’d always dreamed of a close-knit, exuberant household for his own family one day. Children running in the backyard, dogs playing and barking, a knockout wife, madly in love. Safe and stable.

The American Dream. That’s one reason he’d moved to America, after all.

Safe and stable. He’d tried. Lord knew, he’d tried.

A text dinged. Ivy.

I haven’t seen her or talked to her since I left on my trip. We chatted Thursday and she seemed fine. Do I need to come home? Do you need help?

Ivy, always the one willing to lend a hand, pitch in, make their lives easier.

He texted back. No, I’m sure she’s just gone off to upset us all.

Ivy sent back an emoji that he took to mean “eye roll.” He didn’t understand emojis. Or text abbreviations. LOL. BRB. For God’s sake, when had it become so difficult to actually use words anymore?

The doorbell sounded, impatient, as if it were being stabbed repeatedly with a thick finger—which of course it was. He opened the door for his mother-in-law, who sailed through like the Queen Mary, then turned on him. “So what did you do to upset my daughter now?”

Her dyed black hair was shoved under a dingy Nashville Sounds baseball cap; she was unkempt and smelled like stale liquor. She and the mister must have been hitting the bottle hard the night before. They liked to party, liked to hang out at their country club with other well-soused individuals, eating good food and drinking good wine and lamenting their fates. Such a lovely couple.

“I didn’t do anything. I woke up this morning and she was gone. She left me a note.”

“Show me.”

Biting back the response he wanted to give, he instead led her into the kitchen and handed her the paper. She read it three times, lips moving as she did, and he wondered again how this dull, crass woman had created the glorious Titan he’d married.

Though during Sutton’s bad times, the breakdowns, he saw bits of Siobhan in her.

Siobhan set the note down and crossed her arms on her chest. “Where do you think she’s gone?” Her voice was curiously dispassionate, missing its usual aggression toward him.

He shook his head. “I was hoping you’d have an idea. I’ve called her girlfriends. They say they haven’t heard from her.”

“Did you tell them about the note?”

“I mentioned it to Filly and Ivy. I got the sense Filly might know something but wasn’t willing to say.”

She waved a hand. “Filly has always loved Sutton’s drama, and is hoping it will rub off on her. She’s a sad little woman living through everyone around her. She doesn’t know anything, or she’d already be here, glorying.” Siobhan played with the edge of the paper, sat down at the table.

“Sutton’s been in bad shape since the baby,” Ethan offered, almost unwilling to open that door. But he needed help, damn it.

Siobhan nodded, surprisingly grave. “Can you blame her?”

“Of course not. But I kept hoping... Siobhan, is there something else I should know? Did she tell you she was leaving me? You don’t seem terribly surprised by this.”

She gave a windy sigh that smelled suspiciously like dirty martinis. “Sit down.”

Ethan wasn’t used to taking orders in his own house, especially from a woman he wasn’t fond of, but he perched on a stool and set his hands on his knees. Siobhan watched him for a moment.

“When we spoke last, a few months ago, Sutton told me she was very unhappy. It wasn’t like her to confide in me. You know we don’t always see eye to eye about her choices.”

“If you mean how you suggested she leave me last year after Dashiell...I know. She told me all about it.”

“Do you blame me, Ethan?” That strange, dispassionate tone again. Almost as if they were confidants here, not enemies. “You treated her badly. You handled things poorly. She was in bad shape and you were too busy with your little fling to notice.”

His little fling. His stomach clenched. No one could know the truth there. It would destroy them all, Sutton especially.

“I made a mistake. I came clean, I apologized. We were getting things back on track. We’d talked about... We talked about moving, maybe, getting away from all the bad memories. Starting over.”

“Moving? Where?”

“Back to London.”

“I see. And Sutton was happy to do that?”

“We hadn’t made any concrete decisions. We were talking. Planning. The future... Bloody hell, Siobhan, at least she was talking to me again. You have no idea what the past year has been like, not really, for either one of us. It’s been torture. Oh, yes, we’ve put on a brave front. But once the door closed and the people disappeared, once the funeral was over and the neighborhood stopped tiptoeing around, we were left alone to try and muddle through. It was hell.”

“I can imagine,” she said, and she sounded almost like she cared. He knew she didn’t, not really. She was in it for the money. Siobhan and Sutton had a weird, twisted relationship, more like catty girlfriends who despised one another than mother and daughter. But despite all his advice, Sutton refused to cut her out completely. Ethan would never understand.

“I don’t care what Sutton told you, or didn’t. She’s been on edge lately, secretive. Something has definitely been going on with her. Do you know what she’s been planning?”

Sutton’s mother suddenly looked gray and old. “No. But her note doesn’t sound like someone who’s gone gaily off to do the Lord’s work. Why don’t you call the police? If you have nothing to hide...”

“Give me a break, Siobhan. I didn’t hurt her. It’s not like she’s a missing person, either. She left a note, after all. Besides, they won’t even take a missing persons report for seventy-two hours on an adult.”

“How do you know if you haven’t talked to them?”

“I do research my work, Siobhan.”

“For your books. Yes, of course.”

Oh, the disdain in her tone. Ethan tried not to place his very large hands around his mother-in-law’s neck. Siobhan had never understood the creative gene that he and Sutton shared. Sutton said Siobhan wanted her only child to find a rich man to marry, one who would allow her to play tennis at the club and host fabulous backyard garden parties. His temperament was optional. What were a few black eyes and broken ribs in the face of never-ending wealth and comfort?

They’d never told Siobhan how much Ethan was worth, how much he made on his novels. It was none of her business.

The uncomfortable silence grew between them. Finally, Siobhan stood.

“I’m sure she’s simply run off. She is always very dramatic when she gets upset.”

“And if she isn’t being dramatic?”

“You’re worried. I understand. You asked my advice, and here it is: Sutton’s been unhappy, and she probably doesn’t want to be found. But if you’re not content with that answer, call the police. Let them look for her.”

“You don’t seem very upset by the news that your daughter is missing. Or that she could have been harmed somehow.”

“Because I don’t think she’s missing. I think my daughter finally left you. Something she should have done long ago.”

“Thanks a lot, Siobhan.”

“You’re welcome. Now, my check? It was due today. If Sutton’s not here, perhaps you should see to it.”

And there it was. She didn’t give a flying fuck about Sutton, just wanted to get the money she wrenched out of them. That’s why she’d called, and then come over. Not to help. To take her cut.

Sutton generally handled the quarterly allowance she stubbornly insisted on paying her mother. It was a sore spot between them; having Siobhan standing with her greasy paw out all the time nearly sent him over the edge.

“You must be joking.”

“I’m leaving town this evening. We have a trip to Canada. I’d like to deposit it before I go. And who knows when Sutton will resurface.”

“You are a seriously cold woman, Siobhan.”

“You have no idea.”

Ethan went to his office, pulled out the checkbook. He filled in the check, dated it, and stormed back to the kitchen.

“Here.” If only I could lace it with rat poison and watch you die, you miserable, uncaring witch.

“Thank you. Keep me apprised if she shows up, will you?”

“Why would I? You’ve made it quite clear you don’t care about Sutton, or about me. All you care about is your precious money.”

“I care more than you realize, Ethan. But you’re her husband. You do what you think is right.”

“I will. Trust me.”

As the door closed on her, she turned. “Ethan? Even after all these years, I don’t think you know my daughter at all.”

THERE ARE CRACKS IN EVERY MARRIAGE

Ethan shut the door on Siobhan, proud of himself for not slamming it. He went into his office and poured a crystal lowball half-full of Scotch. He had a nice mirrored bar cart set up in the corner; it felt very Fitzgerald to him, and he’d always taken pride in it.

Now it looked like failure. He’d been drinking too much this year. Understandable, of course, but he’d been using it as a barrier against Sutton.

It was early to get pissed, he knew this, but he downed the Scotch and poured another. If it was good enough for Fitzgerald and Hemingway, it was good enough for him.

He sat at his desk, glanced at the picture of the three of them placed discreetly in the corner, between the drooping spider plant and the phone. He’d never had the heart to put it away. He liked the photo. They were all happy. Smiling. They’d been at the beach, noses sunburned, the baby wearing a silly sun hat, a breeze blowing Sutton’s gorgeous red hair around. Toothy smiles and hugs and goodwill. Their lives, captured, a moment in time that could never be re-created.

He reached out and touched the silver gilt frame, then drew his fingers back as if burned.

He’d thought having a baby would fix things.

It was a stupid thought. Barmy. He should have been committed for thinking a baby would make things perfect again. But at the time, he hadn’t thought it through. He’d been driven by his own emotions.

Yes, that was it. His emotions had led him astray. Men weren’t supposed to have such deep feelings. It was the artist in him. He wanted things from this life—a career writing, a wife to love him, a home to call his own. Heirs were simply part of things, a fact unstated and understood.

Still, the baby. He didn’t think the concept was terribly complex. Sutton was a woman. All women wanted babies. Right? She said she didn’t, that her life was perfect the way it was, and really, how would they write with a tyke underfoot, but more than once, he’d caught her looking after women with prams with such bald yearning on her face that he expected she’d start hinting it was time. And she’d told Ivy that she loved kids; he’d heard them in the kitchen one day, gossiping over the teapot.

But she never did hint, and every time he broached the subject, Sutton always told him no.

Maybe it was selfish of him, maybe it was wrong. But he’d wanted a baby. He’d wanted to change things between them. He’d wanted Sutton to look at him with wonder in her eyes again. Because he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Sutton used to love him.

He just wasn’t sure when she’d stopped.

He shook himself like a wet dog, the old images of their once-happy life shedding onto the floor. He didn’t know what to do, so he got up and paced through the house. Went from room to room, replaying memories, seeing shadows of his wife in all the right places—the couch, her feet tucked up under her legs like a cat; her office, head bent over the keyboard in that odd way that made her chin look pointed like an elf’s; the bedroom, where she lay willing and open, ready for him to come into her and make her scream.

Their life had always been amazing. Sutton used to make him feel sexy, witty, smart. Every word he wrote was meant to impress her, everything he did was a subtle bit of bragging. Look at me, wife. Look at all that I am for you.

He tried harder for her than anyone he’d ever been with. Gaining a smile, a laugh, made him happy to his core.

He didn’t know when things went south. Didn’t know when she’d stopped loving him, when she gave up on their marriage. It was well before Dashiell, that he knew. Was it when they’d renovated the behemoth? Weren’t renovations a major driver in divorce cases, like Facebook and affairs? He thought he’d read that somewhere.

Or was it when the words he wrote for her dried up, and he stopped working entirely? Before he got desperate. Before he made the greatest mistake of his life.

No, he thought it was maybe before all of that when his warm and sexy wife had grown cold. Frigid. Unwilling. Distant.

The laughs had become few and far between. She’d looked at him with a mix of derision and bemusement, as if she’d woken up one morning married, and to a stranger, to boot.

He’d asked her, one very drunken night, why she’d stopped loving him. She’d laughed, harshly. “I love you more now than the day we met. That’s the problem.” And she wouldn’t say anything more.

And here they were. Five years later, parents of a dead baby, their ruined marriage strewed on the rocks, mistakes piled like a stack of ancient newspapers against the door.

He was responsible for Dashiell’s death. For Sutton’s madness. For the missed deadline, the stalking, the canceled book contract. Ethan knew this, knew it to his bones.

He’d made so many mistakes, there was no recovering from them all.

There was just one problem.

He loved Sutton to his core. He’d never loved a woman as much as he loved her. He would do anything for her. Anything.

He had to decide whether Sutton was simply hiding from him for a few days, or if she’d left for good. Problem was, if she didn’t show up by this evening, he was going to have to bring the police in to search for her, because everyone would be suspicious of him if he didn’t, and the subsequent investigation was going to rip apart their very carefully cultivated lives, and who knew what sort of roaches would scurry out of the woodwork?

If she was hiding out for a few days, all well and good. If she’d actually run, he would have to go after her. For her to disappear permanently and thoroughly would have taken planning.

Either way, Sutton was a very cunning woman. He simply had to think like her, and he’d find the path to her again.

And then it hit him.

The bank account. He hadn’t checked the bank account.

BEAUTY AND THE BEAST

Then

Ethan’s agent nudged him. “There is a woman watching you from across the room.”

Ethan glanced over, didn’t see anyone of note. Then again, he was lubed up, like a lock drenched in oil. He’d already had a few cocktails, and had plans for a few more before he passed out in his soft king bed upstairs. He liked the rooms in the hotel; they were clean and spacious and pleasant, not at all threatening, unlike some of the aggressively modern places his publisher put him up at, thinking the extravagant price tag was a justifiable expense to keep their cash cow happy.

All he wanted from the evening was a solid drunk and a good night’s sleep. He didn’t have to fly back to Nashville until late in the afternoon. He could sleep in, have some room service delivered, take a long, hot shower, and grab the car to the airport with plenty of time to spare. He had nothing else on his calendar, and he was glad for it. The week in New York had damn near killed him. Breakfasts and lunches and dinners, a few women taken back to that soft king bed, endless talking and applauding and schmoozing.

He needed a break from his life.

You wanted this, jackass. Be careful what you wish for.

“Ethan. Did you hear me? There’s a woman over there who’s practically drooling.”

“Bill, I have no time for more women. You know that.”

A hearty laugh and a punch on the arm. Sometimes he wondered if Bill was humoring him, being kind because he was making them both so much money. He thought they were friends; Bill knew almost everything there was to know about Ethan. Almost everything. But sometimes he wondered. Ethan had made Bill rich. Very, very rich. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that the man loathed him and was simply in it for the house in the Hamptons he would soon be able to buy with his 15 percent.

Bill leered at him. “If you’re not interested, maybe you could throw an old dog a bone.”

“You’re married.”

“I’m married, I ain’t dead. I can look. Pretty please? Her dress is cut so deep in the front I won’t even have to stand on my tippy toes to look down it.”

Ethan glanced down at the much smaller man, shrugged. “Fine. Let me get a beer and we’ll wander over so you can gander at the lass.”

There were two lines at the bar. It was moving quickly. Maybe he’d have a Scotch instead of a beer. He started looking at the bottles lined up behind the bartenders, saw a Macallan 18. Nice. That would do.

He felt a hand on his arm. Glanced to his right. A woman stood next to him. Not the one from across the room. This one was tall, with long strawberry blond hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, and seemed endlessly fascinated with his arm. It wasn’t like she was touching him to get his attention, it was almost as if she was caressing him. It was a strange touch, wildly erotic, and the rest of the room bled away in an instant.

Was she drunk? She didn’t seem drunk. She seemed...hungry. And not in the let me take you to dinner way.

He smiled down at her. “I have another, if you’re wondering.”

She jerked back as if burned. Her face turned a becoming shade of red. She had freckles across her nose. Clean skin devoid of makeup. She didn’t need any. But no mask? In this mess? Interesting.

“Can I help you with something?” he asked.

She started to move away, still watching him.

“Wait.” What are you doing, you fool? Chick’s crazy, just another groupie. Let her go, stick with the plan.

The stranger halted, a deer in the headlights. Her eyes showed deep embarrassment and something else, something intriguing and attractive.

Her voice was soft, and he felt something stir deep inside when she spoke.

“I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I promise you I don’t go around touching strange men.” She turned on her heel and started away.

He stopped her, grabbed her hand. “Wait. Don’t run off. I don’t even know your name. I’m Ethan.”

She froze, glanced down at his hand, so large over hers. “I know. Ethan Montclair. I’m a fan of your work.”

He heard it so often it had become rote, but from this woman’s lips, it felt different. Like a prayer. A promise.

“Who are you with?”

“I’m sorry?” She finally met his eyes, and he had his first good look at her. What he saw was entrancing. She was pretty, wholesome, Irish descent, probably, with that reddish hair and the blue eyes. Her sleek black dress showed off a great figure, hourglass but lithe. She looked fresh, innocent. Girl next door, the kind you grow up crushing on, your best friend’s older sister. And then you become old enough to bed her legally, and the tables turn. This one, though, still had the suburban stink all over her. Intern, he thought.

“I meant, what house are you with?”

“Oh. None.”

“What are you doing here, then?”

“I...” The way she dropped her eyes when she was embarrassed, like a courtier looking up at him from her lashes, was maddening, in all the best ways. She took a deep breath. “Okay. We’re at the same house. You’re light-years ahead of me, though.”

A small zing. “You’re not an intern?”

“I’m a writer.”

“Do you have a name?”

The blush deepened. “Sutton. Sutton Healy.”

Irish all the way, though she wasn’t accented. Second generation, then, but he’d bet a pound her family was recent. He knew the name, but he wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of that knowledge. He was enjoying her discomfiture. Most women he met went all sycophant on him within moments. This one was truly tongue-tied, and eyeing him like he was a juicy steak. He thought it was cute. Check that, he thought it was hot.

“Can I buy you a drink, Sutton Healy?”

“From the open bar? Sure.”

She’d touched his arm again then, slower this time, and he’d known. He was going to take her upstairs, and they were going to spend the night together, and he was going to get to know Sutton Healy biblically, and he was going to enjoy every minute of it.

He heard Bill’s voice behind him, a harsh whisper overlaid with laughter. “Sucker.” Ethan flipped him off behind his back.

Sutton Healy wanted Macallan, too, so he ordered doubles. They wandered off to a corner of the ballroom. He turned her to face the room so his back was to the crowd. They managed to stay that way, uninterrupted, for half an hour. He may have run his hand through his hair a few times. He was a little fuzzy on that, but it usually drove women crazy.

Two drinks later, he admitted he’d heard of her work.

“Historical romance, right?”

“Did your agent slip you a note with that information?”

“I read.”

“You read historical romance? You have to be kidding me.”

“It’s very soothing. Besides, I like seeing how women think heroes should act. Gives me guidelines. I need all the chivalry schooling I can get, especially now, with the sensitivity training they make us do. It can get very confusing, where the lines are supposed to be drawn. If we acted toward eighteen-year-old virgins the way your heroes do, we’d be jailed. Can you imagine the juice the press would get out of it?”

“You, Ethan Montclair, are full of crap.”

“Maybe I am. Maybe I’m drunk.” Yes, he had run his hand through his hair then, knowing the thick waves would stand up a bit, mussed, as his mother used to say. He’d given Sutton Healy a slow, lazy smile. “Or maybe it’s the way you’re affecting me. Speaking of crossing lines, you want to get out of here?”

He worried for a moment he’d shifted gears too quickly, sounded too wanting, but she hadn’t hesitated. “God, yes. I can’t stand these parties. Can we go now?”

He remembered every one of the fifty steps it had taken to get to the elevator, anticipation buzzing in his veins. He had a hand on the small of her back—gentle, proprietary—could feel the smooth column of muscle where her spine met her finely shaped rump. He waited until the doors slid closed to kiss her. Her mouth was sweet and smoky from the Scotch, and when she threw her arms around his neck and pulled him deeper into the kiss, he felt his heart begin to race. It was more than the usual turn-on, too. There was something about this woman that was absolutely intoxicating. He had a feeling he would remember this trip to New York for a long time to come.

They had rooms on the same floor, the conference block. He motioned toward his door, but she shook her head. “I need ten minutes. Give me your key.”

He swiped the small plastic card, opened his door, and handed her the key card. “Don’t disappoint me.”

She grinned, eyes a wee bit unfocused. “Never.”

She scooted off down the hall. He paced. He brushed his teeth. He debated pouring another drink from the minibar, decided he was pretty well pissed and would ride the buzz a while longer.

And true to her word, she returned eight minutes later. He couldn’t remember the last time he was so happy to see anyone.

Inside the room, she rubbed up against him like a cat. He quickly discovered she’d taken off her knickers, and he was so turned on by the juxtaposition of naughty and nice he barely got her to the bed before he was inside her.

At four in the morning, sated, sitting naked in the rumpled sheets with an array of strawberries and chocolates and champagne he’d managed to have delivered from a very grumpy front desk overnight manager, watching his dress shirt fall off her pale, freckled shoulder, he decided that he loved her.

DISCOVERIES ARE MADE

Now

He left the Scotch in his office, grabbed the semiwarm cup of tea from the kitchen counter, went to Sutton’s lair on the other side of the house, and booted up the desktop. The banking was always done on her computer. She had the tax files, so it made sense that the financial info was in the same place. Sutton had never shown an interest in the money Ethan brought to the marriage—she paid her mother out of her earnings, as he insisted—but was diligent about making sure the quarterlies and annual taxes were paid.

His family money. Most of it was gone now anyway, eaten up by the price of the house and subsequent renovations. They should have gotten a mortgage, it was insanity to pay $1.4 million in cash, but Sutton wanted to be free of debt, so Ethan had signed on the line and handed over his nest egg.

At the time, money gone wasn’t a big deal. It was simply expected that he could continue earning; his highly anticipated third novel was due to release the following June. But, despite his best efforts, the trials of the past year had been too much for even his prodigious mind to handle; he couldn’t make it happen—the ending was elusive, the words juvenile and trite. Without any sign of a book the publisher had gotten antsy and the contract had fallen through. Bill tried everything he could to stall them, but, apologetically, the publisher had asked for—demanded—the very substantial million-dollar advance back. The brilliant book with the plot that ruined his marriage was officially canceled; Ethan was publicly humiliated in the industry trades and on social media. How does a man recover from such an embarrassment?

But far worse, far worse indeed: Ethan was now reliant on Sutton’s income to support them. Even knowing a royalty check would be coming, they had to reassess their expenditures.

It made him feel like less of a man, less of a husband, less of a writer, but even those indignities hadn’t broken him free of the writer’s block.

Ethan simply hadn’t been able to write a word since Dashiell died. Every time he laid hands on his keyboard, it all felt so fruitless. Pointless. The words drowned in the accusations, in the horrors and sobbing and cries. He’d helped create a life, and helped take it away. The child had depended on them for love and nurturing, and they’d nurtured him right into the grave. How could they forgive each other? How could they move on, move past? Worse, how could words—insignificant, paltry words—heal such a wound?

But dead baby or not, they had to eat. And Ethan wasn’t the type to get a job. Family money had lasted him this long, the small but flush trust fund to which he’d added the impressive advance of his debut novel, but once his parents bit it, there was an estate issue, and some of the money was tied up in a trust, and some went to pay off the accumulated debts, and the rest he’d sunk in the house, so he had all he was getting, at least for now.

And it wasn’t enough to make the monthly nut.

So Sutton became the breadwinner. Sutton was the one bringing in the money.

It had gone to Sutton’s lovely little head, the one who couldn’t be bothered with all his money, but took a sort of sinful pride in hers. She’d callously talked about investments and 401(k)s over breakfast, ways to save for the future, how they would have to be careful from here on out.

No thank you for supporting us all these years, Ethan. No I am so grateful you wiped out your family money to buy us this house, Ethan. No don’t worry, sweetheart, you’ll find your words again. I promise, either.

They were alone now. No nanny. No baby. Just the two of them, knocking around in the grand old Victorian, the incessant tap, tap, tapping away from her end of the house, at all hours of the day and night, Sutton pouring her heart and soul onto the page while Ethan suffered through his drought alone.

She could work. She could talk about finances. Why couldn’t she talk to him?

They hadn’t had a real conversation in months.

Bitch.

Stop that, Ethan. My God.

He felt odd sitting at her desk. There was a half-full teacup with a scum around the edge, notepads and notebooks and pens—her favored fountain pen, a simple Pilot Metropolitan. He ran a finger along the edge of the pen. It was white, pearly, and he imagined it still held a hint of warmth from her touch. Ethan preferred the Blackwing 602 pencil—sturdy, reliable, never running out of ink or exploding onto unsuspecting fingers. Sutton had laughed at how persnickety he was.

You’re dithering.

He didn’t want to see the bank accounts, because knowing it was all hers made him feel...less.

“Man up, you bloody fool,” he said, and opened the bank’s website.

They had two accounts, one for day-to-day expenses and one for the investments.

Neither seemed disturbed. The last entries on the daily account were for Publix, $124.76, and a $25 charge to Starbucks, both dated Thursday of last week. Groceries, and she’d refilled her card. Ethan much preferred the grocery delivery service, but Sutton liked going to the store. He used to tease her that she only went to show off the baby. Of course, that wasn’t the case anymore. They’d taken to using the service lately, so Ethan was a bit surprised by the fact that she’d gone to the store directly, but hey, there was nothing sinister about it.

The Starbucks card, though, that was a regular expense. Ethan knew she refilled the card religiously once a week. He saw the entry with a pang of... Was it happiness, sadness? He didn’t even know. Sutton always loved walking to the square, loved the crowded Starbucks with its skinny building and long wooden tables. She went there every day, either with Ellen and Rachel after yoga, or with Filly, when they could push the strollers, their ponytails bouncing, or with Ivy, when she was in town and didn’t have early-morning meetings, but every day, she was there. It was her favorite part about their house’s location in downtown Franklin—how everything that mattered to her was within walking distance.

Who buys groceries, refills their Starbucks card, then decides to run away? It made no sense.

He scrolled back through the records. As far as he could see, the day-to-day account had no unusual charges for the past several days, and the last substantial withdrawal was one he’d made that past Friday. Sutton used a debit card for everything, hated carrying cash. Ethan was the opposite; he loved the tangible feel of money.

Part of him was relieved, and part of him was frightened. She hadn’t fled with cash in her pocket.

Call the police. You need to call the police. Something is wrong. The note, it could have been written under duress.

The other side of his mind said, Just...assemble all the facts first.

He switched to the investment account. This one was much more complicated, with multiple subaccounts, separate ones for tax and investments, the latter loaded with high-performing stocks, puts and lets and shorts. There was even one account with a separate money manager who essentially did day-trading on a variety of stocks and bonds for their well-managed portfolio. He thought it a waste, thought they should use Ivy, but Sutton had put her foot down. Money and friendship never, ever mix.

He kept scrolling. He was surprised by the balance of the managed account, much more than he’d expected.

It took him an hour to find the pattern of withdrawals, because she varied the time of the visits and the amount, and made cryptic notes in the withdrawal slips. But when all was said and done, there was at least $50,000 unaccounted for.

It wasn’t a huge sum. Truly, he could probably explain it away as incidentals, money Sutton had spent on clothes, or things for the house.

But something in him said, No, mate, this is it, this is something.

He printed out the spreadsheet he’d built with all the withdrawals and their corresponding dates in it, then shut off the computer. He was barely out of the office when the phone rang.

He glanced at the caller ID. Ivy.

He grabbed the phone, ignoring his fumbling desperation. Depressed the Talk button and practically shouted, “Have you heard from her?”

Ivy’s voice was smoky and low. He could hear a din in the background. She was at a conference, somewhere in Texas. Sutton had been invited—Sutton was always invited; Ivy thought the different locales good for research—but Ethan knew she’d declined this trip, saying she wasn’t in the mood to travel. She hadn’t been in the mood for much of anything lately.

“Ethan? I can hardly hear you.”

“I said, do you know where she is?”

“No, I don’t. There’s been no word, and her accounts are turned off. You still haven’t heard from her? Where could she have gone?”

“What do you mean, her accounts are turned off?”

“It looks like she committed social media suicide.”

“I thought she’d done that ages ago.”

“Oh. Maybe she did, I don’t keep up with Facebook like I should. Where could she be?”

“I don’t know, but I’ve been searching our bank accounts, and there’s some money missing. The note she left... Ivy, I don’t know if she’s run away or if she’s hurt herself.”

An intake of breath. “Have you called the police?”

“No. They won’t do anything, you know that. Not so soon.”

“Ethan, you need to talk to them.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but do you think I need to speak with a lawyer first? I assure you, I haven’t done anything wrong. There’s nothing to protect myself from. But the moment I call them, you know how this is going to look.”

To her credit, Ivy didn’t slam down the phone. Her voice got mean and tight. “Swear to me right now, Ethan Montclair, that you have not done something to my best friend.”

“My God, Ivy, of course I didn’t. I love Sutton. I’d never hurt her. I’m scared, okay? And embarrassed. I know how the world thinks. The minute I call them...”

She sighed. “They will look at you. The husband is—”

“Always the first person the police look at. I know. But I’m not worried about that. I haven’t done anything wrong. I swear. I was only thinking, just in case, a sounding board wouldn’t be a horrible idea.”

“The police may see things differently. Didn’t you guys have dinner a few months ago with Joel Robinson?”

“He’s not just a lawyer, Ivy, he’s a well-known criminal defense attorney. Wouldn’t hiring Joel look bad? I was thinking just a regular guy.”

“What, you thought you’d talk to the man who drew up the contracts on your house? Look, you’re a British national, even though you have dual citizenship. You’re a public figure. Your wife is missing. No matter what, when you involve the police, they are going to take apart your lives. If you’re going to talk to anyone, Robinson is the best choice. Trust me.”

“Okay. I’ll call him. I promise. It’s only...”

More noise, the fever pitch growing louder, then a sudden silence. Ivy’s voice echoed. “Sorry, it’s madness here. I’m coming home right now.”

“I don’t know if there’s anything you can do to help, Ivy. I don’t need—”

“Stop it. Of course you need help. You two always need help. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Hang tight, okay?”

The relief he felt was palpable. Lately, Ivy was always better at handling Sutton than he was. His eyes closed and he said, “Okay. Travel safely. And, Ivy? Thank you.”

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