Lie To Me: a gripping thriller with a shocking twist!

“No, I haven’t.” He noticed the little yellow-haired girl from across the street playing on the sidewalk in front of her house. She stopped and stared at him, then burst into tears and rushed into her garage. Jesus, was the whole world convinced he’d done something wrong? Or was he just being paranoid?

Focus, Ethan.

He stepped aside and let them in. Ellen was all darting eyes and pinched mouth, as if she expected Sutton’s body to be hanging and twisting in midair from the upstairs banister. Filly entered as if this were her castle, her domain, bumped the stroller over the threshold, marched straight through the foyer, and veered off toward the kitchen. Rachel, though, locked eyes on Ethan and didn’t break the gaze. Was she just stoned, or was she trying to discern something? Probably reading his aura or predicting his demise from the numbers of hairs standing up at the crown of his head or some such nuttiness. He blinked first, and she followed him into the kitchen.

They formed up, half circled him, a scrum prepared to take him down. Filly had been nominated as spokesperson for the group. She was standing slightly in front of the other two, aggressive, even for her. She cleared her throat importantly.

“We’ve talked it over, and we think you should go to the police.”

All three women nodded. The elder baby woke, gurgled, and cooed.

He leaned against the counter. “What would you like me to tell them? My wife left me a note and said she didn’t want me to look for her, then disappeared. There’s $50,000 cash missing from our accounts, by the way. She’s done a runner.”

Ellen—cool, logical Ellen, her hair in a simple ponytail, crisp and clean—spoke at last. “She hasn’t been happy. It’s possible she’d leave. But to not tell us? I don’t know that I buy all of this.”

“Meaning what?” Ethan asked.

She waved a hand. “You expect us to believe she up and left, without a word to any of us, without her things? You say she left a note. Now you tell us she took money, too? It just doesn’t feel right to me. Sutton would confide in us if she decided to do this.” A deep breath, a glance to her friends. “Did you hurt her, Ethan? Now is the time to come clean.”

“Hurt her?” As he said it, he realized all three women were shivering. Rachel was downright shaking. A dawning realization. They were afraid of him. That’s why they’d come in hard and fast together—this was more than a confrontation. They were protecting each other.

“I didn’t do anything to Sutton, and I believe it’s time for you to leave.”

His sharp tone woke the infant, who wailed to life like the squawk of a siren. Filly shot Ethan a nasty glance, reached for her bundle of joy.

“I’m serious. You lot, leave, right now. I can’t believe you’ve come over here to accuse me. I didn’t hurt Sutton. I’m worried sick about her.”

Rachel, her voice quivering but her pointed chin inching up, said, “Sutton is a gentle soul. She’s been badly bruised by everything that’s happened the past year. And you’ve been fighting lately, she told me as much.”

“All couples fight, Rachel. Ours are no worse than anyone else. You fight with Susannah all the time.”

“That’s different. We have a sacred space for conflict, we have rules—”

“Oh, for God’s sake. I didn’t hurt her. If anything, I’m more worried she went off and hurt herself.”

Three uneasy stares. He shouldn’t have said that. It just came out.

Ellen was the first to speak. “Are you saying she was suicidal?”

Ethan pinched the bridge of his nose. “No. She isn’t. I’m saying I’ve thought about every possibility this morning. She left me. That’s what I know for sure. But Rachel is right. Sutton has had a very hard time since the baby... No, I don’t think she’d do that.” He was rambling. Shut up, Ethan. “I think she wants some drama, is all.”

Wrong thing to say, take two.

Filly clutched the crying baby closer. “You are a coldhearted bastard, Ethan Montclair. How could you say such a thing? Your wife is missing!”

“That’s it. I want you all to leave.” When they didn’t move, he shouted, “Now!” at them, which had the effect of throwing a rock into a flock of pigeons.

“This isn’t over, Ethan. Now that we know... Either you call the police, or we will.” Ellen threw in the last bit over her shoulder, and five seconds later the door slammed behind them. The finality of it shocked him.

Bloody hell. Women.

He paced the house for a few minutes, gathering himself, planning. He had to do something here, had to make a decision. Had she left him, as the note and $50,000 missing from their accounts indicated? Was she up for a bit of drama to punish him for his lack of attention lately? Or was it possible that she had hurt herself, and the money was for something else? Misdirection?

A moment of actual sanity hit him. Sutton’s friends thought he’d hurt her. The police would, too. It was time to talk to the lawyer.

BURN ALL THE LAWYERS

Joel Robinson’s office was three blocks away. Ethan decided to walk. If the lawyer wasn’t there, he’d leave a note. He simply had to move, to get out of the house. Get away from Sutton’s shade, lingering about like a malevolent ghost.

Robinson was short, round, red-nosed, a cheerful Santa Claus with white hair and a long beard. He worked out of the third story of a lovely Victorian on Fifth Avenue that had been converted to individual offices a decade hence. He had no secretary, opting to manage all of his clients in a state of utter secrecy. While they’d been social acquaintances for several years, Ethan never thought he’d grace the man’s professional door. Yet here he was.

Thankfully, said door was unlocked, and Robinson himself was inside. What luck.

Ethan rapped his knuckles on the door frame.

“Joel? Am I interrupting?”

“Ethan. Hello. Just prepping for a case, court later this week. What’s up? You ready to schedule that drink?”

“I was hoping I could buy you lunch. I need to run something by you.”

Robinson cocked his head to the side. “Sorry, no can do today. Client coming in shortly. Why don’t we shoot for tomorrow?”

In his hesitation, something must have shown on Ethan’s face, because Robinson waved a hand and said, “But I have fifteen minutes now. Tell me your troubles.”

Ethan gave a humorless laugh. “It seems my wife has left me. Here’s the note.”

Robinson read it, brow furrowed, then handed it back. “That’s too bad. I always thought the two of you were thick as thieves. Don’t worry yourself too much. With any luck, she’ll see the error of her ways and come home soon.”

“Here’s the issue, Joel. She’s left without her things. No wallet, no phone, no laptop. Fifty thousand is missing from our accounts. On the surface, this all looks standard, I know. But I have a bad feeling. Something’s wrong. She’s been very depressed and upset since our baby...since Dashiell died. My head says she left. My heart is concerned that she’s done something stupid.”

Robinson tapped his fingers on the desk, rhythmic, endless, processing.

“Suicide makes no sense. Why take money? If you’re planning to off yourself, why the cash?”

“Exactly. I agree. Problem is, none of her friends know where she is, and get this, they think I had something to do with her disappearance. They came by to confront me. I could tell by the way they were acting, they’re scared of me. They said if I didn’t call the police they’d do it for me. I don’t—”

A hairy white brow rose, and Robinson held up his hands. “Stop. I don’t want to know.”

“I didn’t—”

“Seriously. Stop. Right now.”

“No. Listen to me. I didn’t hurt my wife. But I think it’s time to call the police. Get out in front of this. Just in case.”

Robinson was shaking his head, eyes closed. “You’re screwed if you do. They will tear your lives apart.”

“I can’t sit around and do nothing. I’m worried about her.”

“Sit down.”

Ethan hesitated for two seconds, then sat.

“Here’s how this is going to go. If you call the police, they will immediately consider you a suspect. Every word you utter will be parsed. Say they find her living it up in Rio, all fine and dandy. But say something has happened to her. God forbid, I know, but if someone has harmed her—”

“God, no. Don’t even say it.”

Robinson sighed. “It’s a terrible thought, I know. But no matter the circumstance, you are going to be turned inside out. They will investigate you until warrants are coming out your ass, and if they find nothing, you’ll be convicted in the media regardless. You know how they love to spin things. Once word gets out on this, you can’t turn back. Have you tried looking for her?”

“Not really. I mean, I’ve been giving her space. She asked me not to look for her. I’m honoring that request.” He sounded prim, like a schoolmarm, and Robinson shook his head again.

“Come on, Ethan. Think. That’s a guilty man’s answer. The media will spin your hesitation into the story. They’ll claim you’ve been buying time, making sure your tracks are covered.”

“What would you have me do then? Lie? Say I’ve been combing the town looking for her? If she left, that makes me look like an abusive asshole.”

“Lose-lose, dude. Sorry.”

“Great. So now what? I go home and wait for her to show up? What if something has happened? They find her dead, and I haven’t reported her missing? Then I do look guilty. You know I have to call them. If I don’t, her friends will. I don’t have a choice.”

“I want to be there.”

Ethan felt a surge of panic. “I was worried you’d say that. If I show up with you by my side, isn’t that going to look even worse?”

“If anything, it will help. I know everyone on the force down here. If I’m there, no one’s going to try and jam you up without cause. They will interrogate the living shit out of you, though, so it’s better if I’m there in case they start off into territory that could get dicey for you later on. I’ll just sit quietly in the corner unless something goes awry. I promise. But you want me there.”

“All right. When do we call?”

Robinson glanced at his watch. “I need to get going. Give me two hours. I’ll meet you at the house at five.”

“Thank you, Joel.”

Robinson stood, shuffling papers into his briefcase. “No thanks needed. I’m just trying to watch your back. Now, for God’s sake, go out and look for her.”

THE TANGLED WEBS WE WEAVE

Ethan took his time going home. He knew he needed to search for Sutton, but he had no idea where to look. Where would she go if she was trying to hide from him? Franklin was a small town. She had no real ties outside of it, no family in California or anything so convenient.

He stopped in the Starbucks, looked around, as if Sutton would be sitting at the table in her favorite corner, writing away. She can’t write here anyway, mate, her laptop’s at the house. A pang in his heart. He sometimes walked up to meet her, days when he couldn’t do his own work. Just a quick hello, popping in for a cuppa, how are you getting on? Though it wasn’t exceptional interest in her work that drove him to seek her out, and she knew it. He didn’t like being far from her for very long. Three hours was enough to make him jittery. Three days felt like a lifetime. Leaving was an effective punishment; she knew how hard he found their separations.

Nothing at the Starbucks, so he moved on. Walked down the street to the Coffee House at Second and Bridge, his preferred haunt, ordered himself gluten-free crepes and a cup of tea. He ate in the back room, the plate balanced on his knee, the squashy leather chair he was in almost too comfortable. It felt terrible to him, eating and drinking tea as if nothing was wrong in the world, as if Sutton was simply off at yoga, or working.

Keep up your strength, mate. You need to keep things in hand.

He kept the refrain on a loop as he walked home. Keep it together, keep it together, keep it together.

What if someone had harmed her? His stomach heaved at the thought.

Inside the too-empty house, he puttered from room to room. Imagining. If she wouldn’t be coming home, was he obligated to keep the heavy orange silk curtains he didn’t like? Then admonishing himself: Don’t be daft, man, she’s coming back.

He’d felt this same way when Dashiell died. He’d known his son wouldn’t ever be found giggling in his crib again, and yet he’d circle the house and find himself staring into the nursery as if he could conjure the child from thin air.

Ghosts. He was surrounded by ghosts. Of those he’d wronged, and those he’d disappointed, and those he’d failed.

The doorbell rang. He ran to the foyer and pulled open the door with teeth bared, only to see Ivy on the step, suitcase and briefcase in hand, an UberBLACK Suburban driving away.

A calm came over him. He took his first real breath all day.

“Thank God. Sanity arrives. You got here fast.”

“I was able to get an earlier flight.”

He took her suitcase, ushered her inside, and shut the door gently behind her. “Why didn’t you go home first? It’s not like it’s far.”

“I could tell how worried you were. Are. I’ll go home once we have a handle on what’s happening.”

“You’re a good friend, Ivy.”

A good friend, and a handsome woman. He didn’t want to notice, but he was a man, after all. It was hard not to. Since she’d moved to Franklin, and she and Sutton had become bosom buddies, he’d been treated to Ivy in every stage of dress. She didn’t try to hide her real self from them.

Today she was all done up, and the effect was pleasing. Short black skirt, long bare legs, those nude pumps Duchess Kate wore all the time. She’d cut her hair since he saw her last—what was it, two weeks ago, when they’d had dinner at Grays? It was blonder, a fashionable long bob with the back slightly shorter, asymmetrically driving toward the front. He purposely skipped over her torso, did not see the button undone nor the black lace spilling out of the crack in her blouse, no he did not.

“Nice do.”

She touched the back of her hair self-consciously. “Thank you. Still no word?”

“No. The weird sisters were by, though.”

“I wish you wouldn’t call them that. They’re my friends, too, you know.”

“But you’re the only one who can remotely understand the reference. Outside of Sutton, of course.”

“I know, you’re the intellectual giant among us. I’d think Ellen would get it, at least. She is a librarian—”

“Ellen’s an ignorant shrew, and you know it.”

That brought out a rare smile. “Still.” Ivy helped herself to a glass and pulled a bottle of water from the fridge. “Talk to me, Ethan. What do you really think is happening here?”

“Honestly? I don’t know. Maybe she’s paying me back for everything by making me sick with worry. I expect her to come waltzing in the door any minute and yell, ‘Surprise!’”

“Sarcasm doesn’t become you.”

“I’m only half kidding. What I don’t get is the missing money.”

Ivy didn’t bat a perfectly groomed eyelash. “I agree, that is odd. How much, and from where?”

“Our investment account. Fifty thousand. Withdrawn over six months.” He handed over the spreadsheet, felt a small spark of pride. Ivy understood money. It was in her blood. She’d appreciate his effort, at least.

She perused the paper, biting on her lower left lip. A bad habit she had; it made her seem young, breakable. It was the only dent he’d ever seen in her armor. Not that he’d been paying attention.

“This could be for anything.”

“It could. But it’s not. I think she’s fled.”

Ivy set the paper down on the marble. Took a sip of her water. “Why would she run away from you, Ethan? Sutton has been through hell, yes, but so have you. I can’t imagine her just up and leaving without a word. She’s stronger than that.”

“She left word. She left a note.”

“Oh, that’s right.”

She read it with the same concentration she’d given the spreadsheet, carefully, fully, allowing the words to sink in.

Another little lip gnaw.

“Well, Ethan, what do you want to do?”

“I want to find her and strangle her for making me worry like this, that’s what.”

“I’m not sure that’s the most productive angle. The police might take offense were they to hear you talking in those terms, too.”

He ran both hands through his hair, shook his head. “It’s just...what the hell is she thinking? If she wanted out, why not be up front about it? Why steal fifty grand and sneak away in the night? It doesn’t seem like her. Something’s not right about all of this. I’m no longer feeling comfortable with she decided to leave as an answer.”

“Then it is time to call the police. Let them make the decision for you. Don’t you think?”

“I went to see Joel Robinson. He wants to be here when I talk to them.”

“That’s good. At least you’ll be protected. Don’t worry. We’ll get to the bottom of this. I promise.”

He looked at his Breitling, a relic passed down from his grandfather. Took a deep breath. “Joel said he’d be here at five. It’s 4:40 p.m. now. Here goes nothing.”

He reached for the phone and dialed 9-1-1, trying like hell to keep his mind focused on his missing wife, not thinking about the last time he was forced to do this.

SIDS, OR NOT TO SIDS

Then

The baby wasn’t breathing. He was cold and blue, and Sutton was standing over the crib with a look of shock on her face. Her voice was high and reedy, bordering on complete hysteria. She was slapping at her head.

“Do something! For God’s sake, Ethan, do something!”

What was he supposed to do? The baby was clearly dead. He’d seen enough dead things to know. The numbness spread through him, burning and cauterizing as it went. This is your son, not some...thing in a backyard, on the side of the road, or in a coffin. This is your son. Feel something.

Shock, you’re in shock.

Sutton had gone over the edge, was keening. She started to reach into the crib to pick up the baby—Dashiell, his name is Dashiell—but Ethan grabbed her arm. “Stop. Call 9-1-1. Don’t touch him.”

She lost all affect, the hysteria fleeing. Her calm was eerie, unsettling. It was as if his touch had switched off a light inside her; one flick of the switch and the wife he knew was gone. Her voice was hollow, girlish. “He’s my baby. I want to pick him up. I want to hold him.”

“Sutton, we need the police to see that you didn’t do anything to him.”

She turned, eyes wide, and slapped him, hard across the cheek. The fire returned to her eyes. “How dare you? How dare you? I didn’t hurt him, you know I didn’t. I’d never hurt him. How could you possibly insinuate that I killed our baby? You bastard!”

He grabbed her by the arms, squeezed hard, as if he could keep the demons from spilling out. “Sutton, listen to me. They’ll look at you. They always look at the mother. And now that you know... Calm down. Please, darling, just calm down.”

She ripped herself from his grip and rushed out of the room. He heard her crying, cursing, begging, the words running together, a wailing crescendo: No, no, no, no, no.

He stared once more at the still body of their tiny son. Oh, Sutton. What have you done?

He had to call the police.

Time passed in a blur. Strangers came. Neighbors lined the streets. Rain started, chasing all but the nosiest inside to watch through their windows.

Ten hours—a lifetime—later, they carried Dashiell’s body from the house. When the door closed behind them, it felt so empty. He didn’t know how to feel. Sutton had been given a sedative and was passed out cold in their bed. He wanted a sedative. Why did he have to be the brave one, the together one, the strong one? Because he was a man? He’d lost his son, too. And probably more. His marriage, his wife. His life, so strategically built.

He opened a bottle of Scotch, poured half a glass, drank it down without breathing. The liquor burned, and he swallowed hard to keep it down.

Two drinks later, he’d finally admitted to himself this could have been his fault. He shouldn’t have told her. It was a stupid thing to do. But the guilt of it was weighing on him. Holding the secret inside, letting it eat at him, tear away at him, had become a permanent Charybdis churning in his soul.

Sutton loved Dashiell. Carried him with her everywhere. He’d outgrown the withy basket she kept by her desk and spent his out-of-arms time in a car seat stationed within five feet of her at all times. Ethan had finally won the battle to let the tyke sleep in his crib in his nursery instead of in their bed. It had been hard for Sutton, even harder for him. It was impossible to sleep well knowing Sutton was getting up to check on the baby every hour.

He’d told her because he knew she’d gotten used to it. To being a mother. To having a child. To being a family.

He knew she loved Dashiell.

But when he admitted what he’d done, it was like something inside her snapped.

THE STRANGE CASE OF THE MISSING WIFE

Now

Dialing 9-1-1 felt holy, prophetic. He’d only done it once before, the night they’d found the baby dead, and the whole event replayed itself in minute splashes of memory. Pick up the phone the police arrived depress the buttons they looked right through you, as if they knew you were responsible it rang, once, twice, three times there will have to be an autopsy, I’m sorry.

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”

My baby is dead.

Ivy was staring at him. He cleared his throat. “My wife is missing.”

A slight exhalation from the operator, as if she were relieved it wasn’t a real emergency.

“Is your address 460 Third Avenue South, Franklin?”

“Yes, that’s it.”

“What’s your name, sir?”

“Ethan. Ethan Montclair.”

“What’s your wife’s name, sir?”

“Sutton Montclair.”

“How old is she?”

“Thirty-eight. No, thirty-seven. Oh, her birthday...”

“Height, weight, hair color?”

“Five-eleven, strawberry blonde, maybe 140, 150? I don’t know exactly. She hasn’t been working out. She’s very pretty.”

“When did you see her last?”

“Monday night.”

“Yesterday?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Is there any reason to assume she’s in danger, sir? Has she been receiving strange phone calls or threats?”

“Um, not that I know of. There was a reporter who was hassling her—she’s a writer, we’re both writers. But it wasn’t physical.”

“And why do you think she’s missing?”

“She left a note, told me not to look for her. Normally I’d respect her wishes. But I, we, lost our baby recently. It’s not probable, but she could have tried to hurt herself.”

A pause, then a kinder, gentler operator emerged. “I see. I understand. The police will be there shortly, sir.”

“Thank you. Thank you very much.”

He hung up. Ivy raised a brow. “They’re sending someone.”

“Good. Now, let’s see if we can get into her computer while we’re waiting.”

Ethan followed Ivy to Sutton’s office. “Do you know her password?”

“I can guess.”

“I couldn’t.”

Ivy gave him another strange, appraising look.

“Why does everyone suddenly seem to know my wife better than I do? First her mother, then the weird sisters, now you. What the bloody hell is going on around here?”

“God, you talked to Siobhan? Sutton won’t like that one bit.”

“She came for her allowance. It was poorly timed.”

Ivy sat at Sutton’s desk, opened the laptop, touched the trackpad. The screen saver disappeared and the password page came up.

Ivy stared at it for a moment, caught her lip in her teeth, then typed in a few letters and hit Return. The password dock shimmied but didn’t let them in. She tried again. Same result.

“Do it too many times and you’ll just lock us out. Doesn’t she keep it written down somewhere?”