Even he had to admit it all looked very bad.
He ignored the euphoria rattling inside him as he prepared a quick breakfast. He was famished; cereal wouldn’t do. Frozen oatmeal, with some added nuts and seeds and raisins, orange juice, tea. He scarfed it all down, purposely ignoring the fact that his appetite had returned along with his words.
The words.
They were good. He knew this. He was his own worst critic—most writers are—but these words were transcendental. Intense and lyrical and stunning. Bill would be thrilled. The publisher would be thrilled. Sutton...
And that quickly, the pleasure fled. Sutton wouldn’t be thrilled, because there was no way for him to let Sutton know.
The oatmeal felt like a lump of rock in his stomach.
Shake it off, his mind said.
You’re a horrible person, his wife’s shade replied.
The phone rang. The morning’s round of media speculation was gearing up. He could see them moving around outside, hear the shouting and calls.
A text appeared on his phone. Robinson.
I see you’re still inundated. Let me know if you need anything. You may want to think about making a statement. It might make them back off.
A chance to set things right. A chance to create some space. He wrote back almost greedily.
I’ll do anything. Tell me what to say, I’ll say it.
I’ll be there in three minutes. Back door.
*
Of course it backfired. Of course it did. Ethan was terrible on camera, for all the wrong reasons.
Robinson was a family guy. He wanted Ethan to play the family angle. Which meant mentioning Dashiell. He wanted Ethan to talk about the marriage, how happy they were, how far they’d come since their son’s death.
Ethan balked. Refused. All he wanted was to plead for Sutton’s safe return. They argued for ten minutes, and then Ethan quite effectively ended the discourse by marching to the front door. He swung it open and waited for the frenzy to begin.
*
Holly saw the news alert pop up on her phone. She opened the news app, watched the presser with astonishment. Ethan Montclair looked like he’d been on a three-day bender. His hair was sticking up; he was unshaven. His eyes held a glint, and the lights from the multiple cameras facing him caught it full-on. The result was a visage that was slightly demonic and definitely unkempt. The very expensive front door hung half-closed behind him. Joel Robinson was standing in the shadows, frowning.
She turned up the volume.
“Thank you for your attention to the disappearance of my wife, Sutton Montclair. We are unsure at this time of her whereabouts, and are very anxious to have her home. Sutton, honey, if you’re watching this, please call me. I’m worried sick for you. And you lot—” he pointed to the journalists gathered, hanging on to his every word “—instead of lounging around here, harassing me, why don’t you use your resources to look for my wife? Please, do the right thing. Help me bring her home. That is all.”
And the door shut.
There was a moment of collective silence, then Holly watched the whole scene devolve. She could hear the cacophony of voices through the microphone.
The reporter turned to the camera with a wide smile plastered on. “There you have it, classic Ethan Montclair, telling off the press. This is definitely going to feed the flames.”
*
Inside the house on Third Avenue, Ethan clutched his head in his hands. He was ashamed of himself. All he had to do was keep himself together for five minutes, and instead, as had been known to happen when he was put in front of a camera and microphone, he’d turned into a full-on raging dickhead. It was one of the major reasons his publishers rarely sent him on publicity jaunts; Ethan was a snob. He had a tendency toward priggishness that caused people to think him an asshole. And he did not like to be challenged.
Robinson was on the phone, scrambling to clean up the mess, giving a more cogent statement to someone. Finally, he hung up. “Well. That was flamboyant. Certainly going to get them off your back.”
“Stow it, Joel. I’m tired.”
“If you’d just listen...”
“I said stow it.”
A sigh. “Listen, buddy. I’m on your side. But you have to work the media. Massage them. They are your ally here. You turn them against you and the court of public opinion becomes a disaster in the making.”
“I have to do no such thing. They are as happy to let me drown as they would be to throw me a rope, because the drowning will make the ratings go higher.”
Robinson’s pants were a shade too big. He kept hitching them up over his hips.
“Remember that text, when you claimed you’d say anything I wanted?”
“I’m a rebel.”
“No, Ethan, you’re rapidly making yourself look like a suspect in your wife’s disappearance. Get it together. Either you start doing things my way, or I’m out.”
“Fine, then. Brilliant. Leave. I can handle this alone.”
A flash of hurt, then Robinson nodded. “As you wish, friend. Good luck.”
The back door closed quietly, and Ethan was alone again.
Shit.
FRANCOPHILES IN FRANKLIN
Phyllis Woodson: tall, lanky, long-faced, slightly bucked teeth. Horsey. When she told Holly to call her Filly, she couldn’t help but think the nickname fit. There was a baby attached to her like a barnacle in an oversize sling, another, slightly older, playing on a multicolored rubber pad. The husband was going to be working late—he was always working late—and dinner was already bubbling gently in the Crock-Pot. The house itself would have been modest in another neighborhood, but in downtown Franklin, it was a million-dollar cottage, done up in creams and sea green, impeccably decorated. Holly resisted the urge to make sure there was no mud on her boots when she came through the door.
They were at the kitchen table, a glass wheel somehow devoid of sticky handprints, sipping organic chamomile tea from Royal Doulton china.
Her father’s voice in her head: Remember, Holly, appearance is everything.
“Mrs. Woodson—”
“Oh, Filly, please.”
“Yes, ma’am. Filly. I’ve hit a dead end searching for Sutton. I can’t seem to find anything that explains her actions. And there’s no sign of her at all. So tell me. Is there anything we need to know about Ethan Montclair, and their marriage? Anything at all?”
A genteel sip, a clink of china. “Sutton is my best friend. We were pregnant together, did you know? Dashiell and mon petit Henri were only a few weeks apart.” She said the name with an impeccable French accent: moan pa-teet Ohn-ree.
“Is your husband French?”
“Oh, no. I’m a Francophile. I’ve always been fascinated with France—the country, the language, the food, the wine. Sutton and I have been talking about going. Though I suppose that’s never going to happen now.” A small sob escaped her lips. “What has he done to her?”
“He, who?”
“Ethan, of course.”