Sutton nodded. “It’s the truth. I didn’t hurt anyone. I swear it.”
“And yet we have two murdered students at Sacré-Coeur, a female victim in Tennessee, and you’ve admitted to traveling under false papers, which, as I’m sure you know, is a very serious crime, especially in light of our current security situation. You are a contradiction in terms, as they say.”
“I didn’t do any of it, except for getting the fake passport. I swear.”
Badeau nodded. Was the woman softening? Sutton felt a glimmer of hope.
“Tell me again how you came by the false papers?”
“My friend got them for me. She said she knew a man who could help me disappear. He does work with women’s shelters, getting abused women new identities so they can flee their situations and still be able to get a job. He creates a whole backstory, gives them a new passport, new license, new everything. It’s like witness protection, only run by real people, not by the government.”
“I will need this man’s name.”
“I don’t know it. My friend handled everything. Inspector Badeau, please. I know you don’t believe me, and we can hash through the details as long as you want, but I have to make a call. I need to warn my husband. If my friend is behind this, if she’s trying to hurt me instead of help me, I have to talk to him. I have to make sure he’s watching out. If he gets hurt because of my stupidity, I’ll never forgive myself.”
“I must alert the police in your home state about this situation. Once we have discussed things, you may make a phone call.”
“Are you arresting me? Formally?”
“Not yet.”
“Can I leave?”
“Most certainly not. As I said, there are many unanswered questions. You have broken a number of laws, and you must answer for those crimes. To start, I will need the name of your friend, the one who got you the papers.”
Sutton nodded. She hoped like hell she was wrong, but there was only one person who knew where she was. “Her name is Ivy Brookes.”
Badeau took down the name as if Sutton hadn’t just betrayed the past few months of her life by uttering those innocuous words. She stood. “I will have food brought to you. I will be back soon, madame.”
Sutton put her head in her hands on the table.
Oh, Ethan. What have I done?
THROUGH A GLASS, DARKLY
Ethan walked through the door to a stranger’s house. The home, their beautiful Victorian home that they’d rebuilt from the inside out, still stood grandly, but he no longer recognized it. Too much had happened. Too many hurts and lies and painful nights brewed together under the roof. Too many ghosts. Far too many ghosts.
He was exhausted. First his wife was missing, then dead, then missing again. Someone, a stranger still, had been murdered, wearing Sutton’s precious rings. The idea that Sutton would go to such lengths to escape him broke him in places he hadn’t previously known existed. To kill another soul, to murder someone to make them look like her, that took a mind so devious, so black and twisted, that he could hardly believe his wife was capable of such a thing. And now Robinson had said they were reopening Dashiell’s case. Why? Why would they do that?
Unless there was new evidence. Unless Sutton had killed Dashiell.
He sank to his knees in the foyer, finally allowing the reality of his situation to seep in.
How was he supposed to recover from this? His beloved wife, turned grim reaper? And was this the first time?
It was terrible of him, but he’d always wondered if she’d done it. Accidentally, of course. Not on purpose. She’d been drunk, she’d been last in the nursery. But the autopsy had been so clear, everyone so adamant. It was a tragic event, but you’re not to blame. You’re blameless.
They were never blameless. Not him, and not Sutton.
And now, with the police looking closer at Dashiell’s death, what horrible truths were they going to find?
A knock on the door. His entire body tensed. Friend, or foe?
He clambered to his feet, went to the window, glanced out. The media hadn’t gotten themselves set up on his doorstep yet; they were still all at the jail, interrogating the chief.
He opened the door. Ivy stood on the porch. She had a bottle of wine in one hand and a yellow bowl covered in plastic wrap in the other, something like a smile on her face.
“Food and drink. I figured you could use it.”
“Thank you. Come on in.”
She set the bowl on the counter. “Pasta salad. Fresh. And a nice Nebbiolo. You like the Langhe, don’t you?”
“How do you remember these things, Ivy? Do you secretly write them all down in a notebook when we’re not looking?”
“That’s exactly what I do.” She laughed, getting out two glasses for the wine. She set them on the table. “I’m so glad they let you go. I’m so glad she’s still out there somewhere. It gives me hope that this horrible week might end well. And since you’re free and clear, I thought we should celebrate.”
Ethan watched her move around the house, so practiced, so casual, as if it were her own. Something niggled at him. He didn’t feel like celebrating, and what an odd choice of words. How could he celebrate? A woman was dead. Sutton was still missing.
“I appreciate the thought, Ivy, but I’m really not hungry. I was planning to have an early night. I didn’t get any sleep at the jail.”
She ignored him, started opening the wine. She was wearing a red dress, and he could see the outline of lace beneath it, cupping the roundness of her ass. He felt the usual shameful stirring, the odd combination of loathing and longing he felt every time she was around.
She began to pour, the ruby liquid splashing recklessly against the glass. A few drops landed on the counter. She ignored it, handed him a glass, raised hers in a salute. Took a sip.
“Did you ever tell her about us, Ethan? I mean, she knew about the affair, that awful blogger made sure that happened. But did you ever tell Sutton that it was me you slept with that night?”
He nearly spit out the wine. They didn’t discuss this. It was an agreement. That night had never happened. He couldn’t remember it, didn’t want to remember it.
“Of course I didn’t. She was hurt enough as it was. And like I told you, no offense, but I was so drunk that I don’t remember that night at all. Just waking up. I got most of the story from that arsehole blogger.”
Her face had whitened, her mouth a thin line. “You don’t remember anything? It was good. It was fantastic, actually. I’ve always wanted to do it again.” She set her glass down, inched closer to him. She started to slide her dress up her thighs. “What do you say, Ethan. Shall we give it another go? This time, I swear you’ll remember everything.”
“Ivy. I don’t think now is the time.”
“I think now is the perfect time, Ethan. You know you want to. I see how you look at me. I see the way your eyes follow me when I cross the room. What’s it been like, all this time, with Sutton cold as a fish, knowing that I have been ready and waiting for you?”