Finally, finally, the lights were shut down, and the doors locked. There were high fives, and backslaps. Moreno presided over them all with a benign eye, a proud papa. Instructions were given. They were going to hit him early, a predawn knock, start his day off right.
The jokes, the excitement, it all felt slightly scary to her. They were all 100 percent convinced Ethan Montclair had killed his wife. That it was only a matter of time until Sutton was found. Bodies almost always surface. It’s hard to hide them properly in the spring.
She heard it over and over again. Great job, Graham. Keep up the good work. Get some rest. Tomorrow’s going to be a big day. And from Jim, a hopeful, “Wanna get a beer?”
She’d smiled and yawned and demurred and headed home.
She had her own copy of the murder book—everyone had a copy, things were done in triplicate.
She poured a glass of wine. Heated up some dinner: a simple piccata sauce over mahi-mahi with shrimp and roasted vegetables. She was a good cook. She didn’t cook for many people, she had performance anxiety about it not being perfect, but she knew what she liked, and dinner was ready quickly.
She took it and her wine into the living room. Put on a movie. Ate slowly. Watched and laughed. And when she was done, she cleaned up, took a shower, and got in bed with the murder book.
She’d practically memorized it. Memorized them. Memorized him.
She ran her fingers over a photo of Ethan Montclair. It was his author photo, printed off his website. He was impossibly handsome, younger, not marked by the ravages of life and time. She imagined he looked about like this when he’d met Sutton Healy.
Floppy hair, penetrating light blue eyes—had they been Photoshopped? She thought back to her interviews with him—no, they were that blue, like a late-summer lake, clear and deep. He hadn’t shaved, there was just a bit of scruff. His shirt was a crisp white, his jacket deep blue, offsetting his eyes. He wasn’t smiling, or rather, he was, but it was a charming half grin. A smug smirk, Moreno had called it, but Holly could almost feel the amusement coming off Montclair. She could hear him in her mind: I have to sit here and look serious now. This is my author face. Good God, take the shot already.
Is it possible for passwords to be changed remotely?
Everything—everything—pointed directly at him. So why was she lying in bed, a hand inching down, staring at his picture like he was a model in a magazine and not her prime suspect?
Because you’re an idiot, Holly Graham. Go to sleep.
She closed the book and turned out the light. But sleep was long in coming.
LIVE FROM A CRIME SCENE
A phone, ringing. A long tunnel, harsh white light, burning her eyes.
Holly was disoriented for a moment. Where was she? What was ringing? Who was lying next to her?
Then the pieces fell: the person next to her in bed was Ethan Montclair.
She was naked. She was sore. They’d done it for hours.
And she was dreaming.
A delightful dream, indeed, a bit embarrassing, actually, considering he was a double murder suspect, but it had been a good one, the echoes lingering in her flesh, and she felt sated in a way she hadn’t in months. She’d clearly been alone too long.
The dream faded. She felt a hot rush of embarrassment—yes, Montclair was handsome, but he was a killer. What was her subconscious thinking?
That he’s hot as hell, clearly. And good in bed, to boot.
She came all the way awake with a jerk. Oh, no. Oh, no! She’d slept through her alarm. And the ringing was real: her cell was jangling. She squinted at the phone’s screen. 5:05 a.m. She was supposed to be at the office in fifteen minutes. Crap.
The number belonged to Sergeant Moreno. This couldn’t be good. Of all the days to be late. Oh, she was going to get reamed. She sat up, cleared her throat, braced for the attack.
“Graham.”
“Get dressed and meet me at Gentry’s Farm. We found her.”
*
Holly stood in the middle of the fallow field on the edge of the forest in the middle of Gentry’s Farm off Highway 96 where they’d discovered the body, waiting for Moreno to wave her over. She prided herself on being tough as nails when it came to death and dismemberment—she’d caught her fair share of gruesome car accidents, and people died all the time and she was almost always second or third on the scene; dead bodies were simply a way of life in law enforcement—but homicide was rare in these parts, and she hadn’t ever been on the scene of an intentional murder. Not like this. In some ways, she felt like she knew Sutton Montclair. She mourned with her at the loss of her son. She felt anger for her at her treatment by the news blogger. She was maybe even a teensy bit jealous of her once-happy marriage to her excessively handsome husband.
And now she was dead, partially covered in brush, decomposing for all to witness. It bothered Holly. Tremendously. Both that the woman was dead, and that the team she’d been working with had been right about the husband.
She’d heard the rumblings when she pulled up and signed into the scene. Now she waited to see for herself whether the rumors were true. If they were, it was rather clear Sutton Montclair hadn’t been the agent of her own demise.
She’d most definitely been murdered.
And everything they had pointed directly at Ethan Montclair.
The sun was coming up, peeking through the large row of oak trees to her east, casting strange, grotesque shadows across the roped-off area. People milled around; there was no urgency. The forensics team were collecting soil and insects from under and around the body—their composition would tell them how long the body had lain here, hidden practically in plain view. Chances were she’d died soon after disappearing in the wee hours of Tuesday morning, but it was possible she’d been held someplace first and then killed. From what Holly could gather from the comments floating past, there was a lot of decomposition for this early in the year. But they’d had a number of hot days in a row, and a couple of storms, so Holly wasn’t too surprised. She’d spent a week studying at the Body Farm, up in Knoxville. She knew just what a muggy atmosphere could do to a body.
There were multiple jurisdictions on-site in addition to Franklin Police, namely two agents from the TBI and two deputies from the Williamson County Sheriff’s Office. The foursome had been enjoying a pre-eighteen-holes breakfast together at Grays on Main to talk about a case and “came on by” when they heard the news. But there would be no jurisdictional fights: this case already belonged hook, line, and sinker to the Franklin Police, and the body was found well within their borders. Anyway, the body would go to the morgue in Davidson County no matter who was the lead. And she would be there, side by side with Ethan Montclair, as he identified his wife.
They hadn’t told him, not yet. They wanted to be sure. Holly was going to head over with the preacher and Moreno to do the notification shortly—and the arrest, Holly, you’ll be arresting him moments after he learns the news—and she wanted to get a good look at the body first.