Lie To Me: a gripping thriller with a shocking twist!. J.T. Ellison

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 Withdrawn over six months.”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 СКАЧАТЬ