Lie To Me. J.T. Ellison

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      It happened like a lightning strike, fast and furious and devastating. Somehow, the whole world knew Sutton Montclair was missing.

      The reporters started calling and knocking and ringing the doorbell and peering over the backyard fence about twenty minutes after the police and Robinson and Ivy left.

      Ivy had reassured Ethan as she walked out the door. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll find her. I’ll talk to the girls, dig around, see if anyone’s talked to her. They might be more willing to open up to me instead of you.” He hadn’t seen her since. Robinson hadn’t called. He’d been so alone, just him and the bottle, and the intrepid media seizing the meaty story in their carnivorous jaws.

      The fucking reporters, who were much more interested in the news of Sutton Montclair going missing than the police were, wouldn’t leave him alone. He didn’t want to answer the phone—what if Sutton called?—but he had no choice.

      So he drank, and shouted no comment into the phone. Every time it rang, he answered with a breathless, “Sutton?” Every time, it was a stranger. New voices, same requests.

      “Mr. Montclair? This is Tiffany Hock from NewsChannel 5. We understand your wife has been reported missing, and we’ve been trying to reach you, we’d really like to speak with you—”

      He didn’t even bother saying no comment, just hung up. Moments later, the phone rang again. He eyed it like it might poison him. Lifted the receiver. It was a man this time.

      “Ethan Montclair? Tim Mappes, New York Times. I understand your wife, Sutton Montclair, is missing. Would you like to give me a comment?”

      Click.

      The doorbell rang. He could hear someone calling his name, a strange woman’s voice. “Mr. Montclair? Mr. Montclair? Will you come talk to us?”

      Holy Christ, he was under siege.

      You knew this would happen, didn’t you, Sutton? You knew the whole world would want to find you. Well played, wife.

      Finally, exhausted, drunk, but unable to sleep, he turned off the ringer, took one of Sutton’s Xanax, and passed out cold for a few hours.

      * * *

      Ethan woke to a blinding headache. The front of the house was dark. He’d passed out on the couch.

      Smart move, idiot.

      He groaned as he sat up, perched on the edge of the couch with his feet on the floor and his head in his hands until the worst waves of nausea passed. Managed to make it to the kitchen and put on some tea. Popped three Advil, drank a bottle of water. The kettle took forever to boil. When it started whistling, pain rippled through his head.

      He needed...something. Help. Support. Getting pissed and passing out wasn’t going to solve things. The media wasn’t simply going to walk away because he told them to. There was a story here, and everyone knew it.

      The phone was sitting quietly on the counter, innocuous. He picked it up, ignoring the wave of burning bile that forced its way into his throat, and turned the ringer back on. It started to ring immediately. This number he recognized, and wasn’t entirely unwanted.

      “Hullo, Bill.”

      “Hullo? That’s all you have? Where the fucking hell have you been? I’ve been trying to call you for two hours!”

      “Asleep. Drunk. Like most normal people.”

      “It’s been half a day, Ethan. You’re not a normal person, and you’re definitely not in a normal situation. The New York Times is printing a story about Sutton being missing. Since you’ve been ignoring me, I have a flight to Nashville first thing in the morning. We have to coordinate a plan, figure out how we present this—”

      “Would you calm down? It’s my wife who’s missing.”

      “And I’m your agent. You should have called me the minute you realized this was turning into a story. I could have helped. You really don’t have any idea where she is?”

      Shafts of light cruised across the kitchen, first there, then gone, then back again, fading. The beams from the news trucks as they shuffled positions out on the street. The on-again, off-again light reminded him of the past few months with Sutton. If only he could count on the clouds parting. He managed a sip of tea.

      “For Christ’s sake, Bill, if I knew where she was I wouldn’t have called the police to start looking for her.”

      “You called the police?”

      Ethan hadn’t known a man could shriek, but Bill had just offered a full-fledged shout that would make a pterodactyl proud.

      “And a lawyer.”

      Bill started moaning into the phone.

      “Listen to me. Sutton left a very ominous note. I am worried sick. I’m worried she may have hurt herself. She asked for time, but now...something’s not right. She left everything behind, and...it feels wrong. She’s been gone too long. I had to involve the authorities. I needed help. So get off my back.”

      “Bullshit. She’s just trying to hurt you. She could be holed up with some lover, laughing up her sleeve while the police make a case against you. We gotta get out in front of this. Right now.”

      Ethan rolled his eyes. “Bill, you read too many novels. There is nothing to get out in front of. I’ve done nothing wrong, and neither has Sutton. It’s been a bad time for us both. She’s had a lot to deal with, and I’m praying all she’s done is take off for a few days, like her note said.”

      “There’s your quote. I’ll call the Times, say that exactly.”

      “No story. Seriously. You have to quash it. I can’t face the scrutiny.”

      “It’s too late. And it sells books, buddy.”

      “You didn’t just say that to me. Go away, Bill. Make sure the story isn’t run. Don’t come down. I’ll call if I have news.”

      He hung up. The phone rang immediately. He debated for a moment, then turned off the ringer again. Drank some more tea. Foraged in the refrigerator, found some prosciutto-and-mozzarella wraps. He needed fuel. The idea of eating was repugnant, especially with the constant visions of Sutton lying dead and broken in a ditch that inundated him, but he’d do her no good drunk and empty.

      Ethan ate. He looked out the window. The media were still lined up, camera lights on, beautiful young reporters fluffing their hair and straightening their ties. The local evening news was about to start.

      He debated for a few moments: Turn it on? See what Sutton had wrought?

      Then: Dashiell.

      The thought of his dead son, of the things СКАЧАТЬ