Sutton shook her head.
Badeau sat for a moment, unmoving, unspeaking, then shrugged. “My superior is at this moment making a call to the police in your town to tell them we have you in our custody. And that we will be charging you with double homicide. It would not surprise me at all if a third charge will not be pending.”
“A third?” Sutton blurted out.
“Mais oui, madame. It seems quite logical to me that you attempted to obscure your flight from the United States by murdering someone, putting your rings on the poor soul’s finger, and fleeing here to Paris. Your murderous rage took you to Sacré-Coeur, where you killed the two innocent students, hid the murder weapon, then casually returned to the scene of the crime to lay flowers in an effort to make yourself look sympathetic. You are quite the dangerous creature.”
Sutton felt the blood draining from her head as the woman spoke, each word a nail to her heart. This was not what was supposed to happen. This was not how she meant for anything to go. A sick and deep nausea gripped her. She knew she was going to be ill. Sutton clapped a hand over her mouth.
“Please, the trash can.”
Badeau shoved it toward her with her foot.
But she didn’t get sick, just sat miserably, sweating, the gorge rising. She hadn’t eaten, there was nothing to throw up. Her stomach churned. What had happened? What was going on? A dead body, wearing her rings? She’d left them behind in Franklin, with...
Everything, crashing into place. The past month: the plans made, the precautions taken, the confidences given. The “plan” was for Sutton to get away from it all, to start a new life. To excise Ethan without the messiness of a separation and divorce. To get away from the man she was afraid of, the man she feared killed their child. Self-preservation, yes, but something more, something else. Punishment. For both of them. For what had happened, and what was to come.
Paris was the obvious choice. The place they’d talked about. The dream location. If you’re going to escape your life, you might as well do it right.
And now there were bodies, one wearing her rings, two more practically lying at her feet, and a horrible realization started deep within her.
Ethan, arrested.
Sutton, arrested.
Only one person knew what she’d planned. Had helped. Had encouraged. A shoulder to cry on, a compatriot in the plot. And now...
She had to get out of here. She had to get home. She had to fix this. Dear God, what had she done?
“Are you going to be unwell?” Badeau asked.
Sutton coiled her hair in her hand, lifting its mass off her neck, passing her hand quickly behind to fan herself. “Yes, I’m going to be unwell. How would you feel if someone accused you of murdering three people when you did no such thing?”
Badeau smiled, briefly. “It is warm in here. Would you like a drink of water?”
“Yes, I would.”
The door opened and a bottle of Evian was handed in. Sutton opened it and drank. She felt better. It was hot in the stifling little room. She hadn’t had any sleep, or food, and she was tired of being harassed. It wasn’t smart, speaking without counsel; she could hear Joel Robinson’s voice in her head, warning her off. Actually, it was terribly reckless, but she was sick and scared, and being pushed was never something she could handle. And truth be told, Sutton’s specialty was recklessness.
There were more people listening to the interview; the water had been forthcoming almost immediately. She needed to be careful, but she needed to talk, to clear herself, to get home to Ethan. She needed him. He needed her. They were going to have to face this threat together.
“I didn’t kill anyone,” Sutton said.
“Are you willing to make a statement, for the record, then?”
“Yes. On one condition. When I finish, I want to call my husband.”
“We cannot guarantee anything, madame. But I agree to pass on a message to your husband should you answer our questions adequately.”
Sutton took a deep drink of the water. And then she told them. She told them everything.
ONCE A JUVIE, ALWAYS A JUVIE
Holly didn’t think she’d ever seen anything so insane as the media frenzy when Ethan Montclair walked out of jail and the chief had to eat crow for arresting him before they’d formally ID’d the body found at the farm off Highway 96. Which the ME hadn’t been able to do yet. There were no other officially missing women in the area, so unless a family member came forward or the dental database got a hit—which she doubted they would, because the victim clearly hadn’t been being treated by a dentist recently, so current radiographs were a long shot—they had a Jane Doe on their hands.
An anonymous victim. Lost. No way to determine age, ethnicity, or identity, thanks to the very well-placed fire. A stranger, wearing Sutton Montclair’s wedding set.
Rings on her fingers, bells on her toes. Holly couldn’t get the refrain out of her head.
Once the crow had been eaten, the friends lined up for more interviews, both with the Franklin Police and the media, now begging Sutton to come forward, to show herself, to stop the charade. Ethan Montclair drank himself into oblivion while Joel Robinson gave proxy interviews begging Sutton to come home.
Holly ignored it all. She shut the doors to the conference war room and went back to work.
Because now, they were acting under the assumption that Sutton Montclair was a murderer.
It was quite clear from all the interviews that she’d been parceling out information to her friends. Phyllis, the comforting knowledge she was the only confessor. Ellen, the honor of intelligence and professional intimacy. Ivy, taken advantage of the most, given the Benadryl bottle to make it look like her husband had killed their child. Holly imagined Sutton to be a disturbed woman, volatile and unpredictable. A woman with problems, who was lashing out at everyone and everything around her. A woman who lost her child, Holly. That alone would drive anyone insane.
Lost? Or was Sutton Montclair responsible for her baby’s death?
It was an easy hypothesis. Kill the baby, lose her mind, fake her own death, set up her husband. Perhaps it should be the realm of fiction, but it wasn’t outside the bounds of reality. People had done worse for less.