“Why do you think he did something to her?”
“It’s the only logical explanation. Sutton isn’t the type to run away. She’s strong. One of the strongest women I’ve ever known. Smart. Cunning, even. Loyal and intense. If there was ever a person who wouldn’t run in the face of adversity, it’s Sutton.”
“From what I’ve heard about her, she was broken. The death of her son, the problems with her publisher, the reviewer—”
“It’s not true. I mean, yes, she was devastated when Dashiell died. Anyone would be. But she’d come out of it. The thing with her publisher, the reporter, the reviewer? It’s been completely blown out of proportion.”
“I’ve read the reports, the articles—”
“It was a stunt. I’m convinced.”
“What?”
“She was writing a book. A new book. About how modern society is collapsing. In her spare time, that is. She was stuck in a contract she couldn’t get out of, writing a book she hated and didn’t want to do. Her publishing house had been bought, her longtime editor was canned, and they gave her some kid barely out of school who had no clout. Her old editor got in touch, told Sutton privately she’d take her on at the new house if she could get out of the contract.
“And Sutton was game. She told me she’d rather go up in flames than write the book they’d contracted for. She wanted to switch gears. Wanted to write something much more serious, postmodern. Like her husband does. The reviewer is a jerk, and the blogger, well, everyone knows not to believe anything that appears there. It’s a parody of sorts.”
“A parody.”
“Yes. If you ask me, it seems things just...got out of hand.”
Lips then pursed, she sat back and let Holly put together the pieces.
“So you’re saying this whole thing was staged? She planned it all? That she attacked the reviewer for giving her a bad review, which was supposed to get her out of the contract, and things fell apart from there?”
“It’s the only explanation. I mean, it went much further than anyone could anticipate, absolutely. That blogger, Wilde, he stuck his nose in and the whole thing blew up. The publisher was going to let her go quietly into that good night, she was out of her noncompete, and everything was moving along perfectly. Of course, when Ethan found out, he was beyond furious. I think he just didn’t want the competition—Sutton is the better writer, and we all know it.”
“Furious enough to hurt his wife?”
Filly’s eyes were a watery blue. “You don’t know Ethan Montclair very well, Officer Graham. So let me make this very clear. He has a temper. They fought, all the time. Screaming, plate-smashing fights. I’ve never seen anything like it. She was scared to death of him, of what he’d do to her when he was in a black rage. She wanted a divorce. She wanted out. She just didn’t know how. If I’m going to make a guess at what happened? She finally told him she wanted an official split, and he killed her.”
“All right. What about abuse?”
Silence.
“Mrs. Woodson? Were you aware of any physical or emotional abuse going on in the house?”
“What do you think? I’ve already told you how they fight.”
“But arguing isn’t hitting. Did he hit her?”
“I don’t know. And that’s the truth. I never saw any black eyes or bruises, but that doesn’t mean anything. She was scared of him. That I do know.”
“Can anyone corroborate your story, Mrs. Woodson?”
Filly stood and started clearing the tea things. “I don’t know who else she confided in. Like I said, she was my best friend.” Her tone was mulish, as if she’d been caught lying.
“Your best friend, who you were planning to go to Paris with?”
“France in general. It was a dream for both of us.”
“Had you made any plans?”
“Nothing concrete. Nothing official. We were only daydreaming. It’s not like we could abandon the boys and the babies, and run off.”
“Is it possible Mrs. Montclair was doing more than daydreaming?”
“Anything is possible, Officer.”
“That’s good to know. Is there anything else?”
“She didn’t get along with her mother. Not at all. Siobhan Healy is her name, and that is a seriously vile woman. None of us can stand her. She’s so...gauche. Crass. Obsessed with money, and she’s a drinker, too. She and Sutton couldn’t be more opposite.”
“Does her mother live nearby?”
“Yes. She’s out by Leiper’s Fork. I’m sure Ethan has the number. He doesn’t like her, either. No one does.”
“Great. Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”
Woodson showed her out. As the door was closing behind her, she heard the baby begin to squall. She turned and caught the handle before it closed, tucked her head back inside.
“One last thing, Mrs. Woodson. About their baby. Any chance something else went on there?”
Phyllis Woodson’s long face creased, her mouth shrinking into a thin, sharp line. “Absolutely not. Dashiell was an angel, and they both loved him dearly.”
STOP THE MADNESS
Then
They’re fighting again.
They are easily heard: their voices, vicious and stressed, carry so well. They are taking it out on each other. They are punishing one another.
You were supposed to be watching him.
You weren’t supposed to come home falling-down pissed.
How could you think I am responsible? You’re the one who tricked me, remember?
I love you.
I hate you.
Their words seep into my bones. How has it come to this? How has the hate between them grown to this level?
We sip tea and look at each other, listening. Do they not know we can hear them? Do they not care? It’s understandable to a point, their loss, so great, so unimaginable. No one should have to bury a child. No one should bear that burden.
And yet...people do. All the time. Children die, incrementally, all the time, whether their hearts stop or their babysitter decides to teach them the birds and the bees or their parents do drugs and beat them. They all die, little pieces falling off them as they age. Some go in the ground; others, the ones who are still breathing, are stripped of their inner joy.
It is inevitable. It is life. Even if they make it out of their adolescence, especially then, the sparks that flame them into individuality are extinguished.
Is it better to be a walking corpse, a shroud of who you could be, or leave this world before the disappointment of your lack of potential emerges?
Philosophy. Such a devious monster.
But the yelling, the yelling.
We sip more tea and look wide-eyed at each other.
Should we do something? Should we call someone?
If we do, the police will come, and it will be embarrassing for them both.
But she will be safe.
We must keep her safe.
We make the call. Wait, and watch, as the cruiser pulls up. The officer marches to the door, knocks three times. Another car slides around the corner.
The screaming stops.
We smile.
*
It’s hard, keeping up this facade for everyone. You know I like the fighting, don’t you? You’re putting it together, I know you are.
SHE WHO KNEW HER BEST