His thoughts bounced between the story and Sutton. He was consumed by images of her. The lines were becoming blurred. Whose story was he writing? His? Hers? Theirs?
Waking, sleeping, writing, he couldn’t escape her. He didn’t want to, reveled in the memories. When he needed a break, he looked at old photos. Then he turned back to the pages, and wrote. He didn’t know what to make of this. His wife missing, his life interrupted, but his block broken.
The tone and texture of the book was changing, altered by the subliminal situation brewing in the back of Ethan’s mind. He typed and thought, typed and thought.
They’d been so happy. He thought they were happy, at least. The Saturday date nights, dinners around town, expensive bottles of wine. The walks on Sunday down the Franklin streets, arm in arm, dodging baby carriages and young mothers in baseball caps, then with their own three-wheeled running carriage, the finest he could buy. The parties to which they were invited, their photos always making it into the society magazines. They were such a great couple, everyone said so. Such an adorable family.
Yet he’d screwed it up, again and again and again.
He was human. He was a man. He was even semifamous, and beloved among many.
Where were all the sycophants now?
His world had narrowed to three components: eat and drink, sleep, worry about Sutton by writing the story of a lifetime.
Eat was making itself known again. He made a late lunch with the last bits of the groceries. The tea tin was nearly empty; he scraped the last of the butter on his toast. He added the groceries needed to the iPad built into the refrigerator and clicked Order Now. The grocery delivery service would automatically bring the items requested in two hours. All hail modern technology.
As he chewed, the same refrains played, over and over. Where did she go? Where had she gone? Why had she taken money and disappeared?
How will it end? How will I draw the story through? Where is the next turn? Stay away from that saggy middle, it’s getting marshy.
At the end of the day, he had another hundred pages. This, this was his atonement. This was his punishment. He was bound to the story, to the computer. Bound to the idea of a lost life.
And while he wrote, while he hid, while he lost himself, the police made the case against him.
THE GREEN GRASS ACROSS THE WAY
Every case breaks. Especially when there are so many moving parts, so many edges, crevasses to climb in, dark, moist corners ripe for dissection.
The blackmail was a stroke of genius, truly it was. Everyone rushed off in the wrong direction, and here I am, left to pick up the pieces.
We’re reaching the endgame. I can’t imagine she won’t be found soon. And when she is, Katie, bar the door.
Isn’t that a stupid phrase? It’s a Southern thing. It means a tempest is brewing. A storm of epic proportion is about to blow in your door. A woman will lose her temper, a man will become a raging beast.
These are the inevitabilities of life. We are afraid to die, and so we are afraid to live.
Do you think Ethan is to blame? That he put his hands around the pale stalk of her gorgeous neck and squeezed until no breath would ever be drawn again?
Do you think the cop will be smart enough to figure any of this out? Truly, how much more does she need to put it all together?
I think it’s nearly time for the show to start, don’t you?
I’m not saying I’m playing the man. I’m not saying I killed the girl. I’m just saying I think everything is going to change, very, very soon.
A CHALLENGE IS GIVEN
The ringing phone was Joel Robinson. Ethan had programmed specific rings into his mobile so he’d know when the calls were important and could ignore the rest. Joel was Judas Priest’s “Breaking the Law,” Bill was Dvorˇák’s “New World Symphony,” Officer Graham was the Darth Vader theme from Star Wars.
“We may have a problem,” Joel said. “I need for us to have a little talk. You around?”
“I am.”
There was heavy knocking on the back door. “Is that you?”
“It is. Hurry up and let me in before the vultures see me.”
Ethan had almost forgotten the tribe of newspeople camped in his front yard. He was rather surprised the Franklin Police hadn’t shunted them off; from what he could see, they were practically blocking traffic coming off the circle onto Third Avenue.
Ethan unbolted the back door. Joel slipped inside. He was disheveled and sweating. He’d clearly run over.
“What’s going on?”
“Like I said on the phone, we have a problem. Several, actually. A witness has come forward.”
Ethan felt a spike in his heart rate. He tried to keep his tone even. “They found her?”
“You should sit down.”
Sit? Ethan felt like collapsing in a heap, throwing a tantrum, screaming, and beating his fists against the custom wide-planked rough-hewn white oak floors. You’re better than that. You need to stay cool.
“Tell me,” he said, steel in his voice.
“No, they haven’t found her. But this witness is claiming you killed Sutton. That you were systematically abusing her. They claim you killed the baby, too. The police are reopening Dashiell’s case.”
There were many things he was expecting Joel to say. This was not one of them.
“Dashiell?”
“Yes. The witness claims you poisoned him with an overdose of diphenhydramine. That Sutton discovered this, and you killed her to keep her quiet. It’s a very tidy story, and the police are all over it.”
Ethan felt the bottom of his world falling, slowly spinning away, until he was left standing in very thin air. Wind whipped his hair, lightning flashed. The storm blew in so quickly he didn’t know where it had come from. Rain began to pelt him, and he was quickly soaked to the bone.
To the bone.
To the depths of his soul.
Joel was screaming at him, pulling his arm. Ethan realized the storm was real. He was standing in the middle of the street, exposed on Third Avenue, surrounded. The newspeople were shouting at him, cameras were clicking. A sharp flash of lightning and an immediate rolling thunderclap shook the ground, and everyone gasped and scattered, seeking cover.
Joel tugged at him, finally got his feet moving, towed him onto the porch. Shouted in his ear, “We need to go in, Ethan. It’s dangerous out here.”
“No.” Ethan wrenched his arm away, sat hard on the porch swing, ran his fingers along the metal chain that bound it to the ceiling. Started to rock. The wind played along, helping him move. Movement was his friend. Joel stood in the front door, arm on the jamb, watching, calling, but Ethan stayed planted on the swing. Inside the news vans, he knew video was being shot, knew photos were being taken. He raised a middle finger toward them, held it long enough for everyone to get a good view.
When the storm abated, he went inside. Joel had made tea. They sat at the kitchen table, unspeaking.
Finally, Ethan said, “When will they arrest me?”
Joel shook his head. “I don’t know.”