*
Ethan wrote. He hid away from it all, the condemnation and the accusations he knew were flying, sat by himself at the long driftwood desk in the big old house on Third Avenue, with the ghosts of his wife and child, writing every word he could conjure. The story was already taking shape. He had always been able to write quickly once his idea was settled; this was no different. Thousands of words poured from his fingers. He ignored the ever-ringing doorbell. He ignored the constantly ringing phone.
He ignored the fact that no one he cared about was reaching out to help.
It had been the same when Dashiell died, come to think of it, minus the words, of course. People had kept their distance. He understood it was hard to approach them, hard to say the words. I’m so sorry your child died.
They’d say everything else. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry about your pain. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
But no one could bring themselves to utter the words they really needed to hear.
He mostly didn’t care. It wasn’t like there was anything anyone could do. Sutton’s friends had hung around the first few days, bringing casseroles, changing sheets. Ivy had made Sutton shower and dress every morning. But even Ivy had eventually been drawn away, off to a conference in Rhode Island, and then it was just the two of them, Ethan and Sutton, alone in the house with the gaping maw of death surrounding them.
Ethan didn’t have many friends. Generally, he liked hanging out with Sutton. He’d been a hell-raiser in his youth, a lunatic ladies’ man, an excessive drinker and partier, but once he’d married her, his wild ways had departed, and he’d become a devoted husband. And for a little while, a doting father, as well. Oh, he had a number of men around, people to have a beer with, or a pickup game at the gym, but he wasn’t the type to go out with the boys, instead preferring to watch from the sidelines.
He was a classic introvert, and observation was his superpower. It’s what made him such a good writer, everyone said so.
He’d gone online once, earlier, after the storm, after Joel left. His meltdown was intricately documented. He’d given them quite the show. He’d made headlines nationwide. He didn’t need to read the stories. What he observed, right now: the whole world was entranced by the idea of a beautiful woman disappearing off the face of the earth. And the media bought in. They dug and pawed and scrabbled for information, sharp nails clawing for the viewer’s attention, clambering over each other in an attempt to solve what had turned into a genuine, bona fide mystery.
As for the rest of them, he ignored it all. He needed to separate himself from his reality. He ignored the strings of Dvorˇák and the crashing of Judas Priest. Turned off the internet, unplugged the router.
He returned his fingers to his lonely keyboard. Allowed the pent-up anger and lust and love and hate to explode forth onto the page. In the back of his mind, he wallowed, thinking about all the ways he’d done her wrong.
If only he hadn’t switched out her birth control pills. If only he hadn’t planned to get her pregnant. If only he’d worked harder to convince her how their lives would be enhanced by a baby, if only she’d agreed to that choice. If only, if only, if only.
He went on like this for hours, until the pads of his fingers were bruised and aching.
The catharsis of losing wife and finding words was not lost on him. The visions of her dead would not recede, and instead made their way into his story. They dripped with sarcasm, redolent of his early work, the voice he’d long lost found again.
He finished one Scotch and poured another. Wrote and wrote and wrote. Got hammered as hell.
And still he wrote.
It wasn’t until he noticed the sun had gone down and it was dark as sin that he realized his hands hurt too much to go on.
With a gentle smile, he gingerly hit Save. Stood and stretched. Played back the messages, increasingly urgent, from his agent, his lawyer, the cop.
They were looking at him now. A small flutter of something—excitement, fear? He didn’t know—coursed through him. It was time.
You knew this would happen, Ethan. Why are you acting surprised? You need their help. Pick up the phone, put it back on the hook. Call Joel, have him help prepare a statement.
You fool. You actually thought you could get away with it, didn’t you?
THE NEWS, THE DAMNING NEWS
They were in front of the house, going live for the 6:00 p.m. broadcasts. Because it had been over twenty-four hours since he’d talked to anyone, friend or foe, Ethan turned on the television to catch the show.
All had been quiet. Too quiet. In between the frantic worrying, he’d written uninterrupted for almost a full day. He knew there was a search ongoing, and he wanted to be out there, truly he did, but the media wouldn’t leave his front lawn, so he was stuck inside. Hoping and praying they didn’t find her.
He knew the police were trying to find Colin Wilde. He knew they were looking at him, too.
He’d wanted to call Holly Graham and take her temperature, find out what the heck she was thinking, what the police were planning. It couldn’t be long before they were knocking down the door with a warrant, wanting to look closer at everything.
He’d been so cooperative, though. Surely they were looking past the obvious. Surely they weren’t so lazy as to simply assume he’d done it.
Then again, this much silence wasn’t a good sign. He should probably call Joel, see if he’d heard anything. The broadcast started, the spinning chyron advertising a breaking news alert.
The reporter was pretty; of course she was, they all were. Ugly doesn’t sell on television.
He turned up the volume.
“I’m April O’Malley, coming to you live from Franklin, Tennessee, where we’ve been investigating the sudden disappearance of Sutton Montclair. The search continues, and the police seem to be spinning their wheels. We’ve had no confirmation that Ethan Montclair is a suspect in his wife’s disappearance, but you know how these cases so often go, the spouse is the one who’s ultimately responsible, and sources close to the investigation say a case is being made against Montclair as we speak. Evidence of abuse has surfaced, we’ve learned exclusively. Allegedly, actual photos exist.”
Photos of Sutton’s bruised arm and nose flashed on the screen. Where on earth had they gotten those?
Oh, her phone. The police had her phone. He fought back the urge to prank call it. Is your refrigerator running? Better go catch it.
No, Ethan, that wouldn’t be seemly. The reporter was still talking.