Kitabı oku: «Lie To Me», sayfa 2
THERE ARE CRACKS IN EVERY MARRIAGE
Ethan shut the door on Siobhan, proud of himself for not slamming it. He went into his office and poured a crystal lowball half-full of Scotch. He had a nice mirrored bar cart set up in the corner; it felt very Fitzgerald to him, and he’d always taken pride in it.
Now it looked like failure. He’d been drinking too much this year. Understandable, of course, but he’d been using it as a barrier against Sutton.
It was early to get pissed, he knew this, but he downed the Scotch and poured another. If it was good enough for Fitzgerald and Hemingway, it was good enough for him.
He sat at his desk, glanced at the picture of the three of them placed discreetly in the corner, between the drooping spider plant and the phone. He’d never had the heart to put it away. He liked the photo. They were all happy. Smiling. They’d been at the beach, noses sunburned, the baby wearing a silly sun hat, a breeze blowing Sutton’s gorgeous red hair around. Toothy smiles and hugs and goodwill. Their lives, captured, a moment in time that could never be re-created.
He reached out and touched the silver gilt frame, then drew his fingers back as if burned.
He’d thought having a baby would fix things.
It was a stupid thought. Barmy. He should have been committed for thinking a baby would make things perfect again. But at the time, he hadn’t thought it through. He’d been driven by his own emotions.
Yes, that was it. His emotions had led him astray. Men weren’t supposed to have such deep feelings. It was the artist in him. He wanted things from this life—a career writing, a wife to love him, a home to call his own. Heirs were simply part of things, a fact unstated and understood.
Still, the baby. He didn’t think the concept was terribly complex. Sutton was a woman. All women wanted babies. Right? She said she didn’t, that her life was perfect the way it was, and really, how would they write with a tyke underfoot, but more than once, he’d caught her looking after women with prams with such bald yearning on her face that he expected she’d start hinting it was time. And she’d told Ivy that she loved kids; he’d heard them in the kitchen one day, gossiping over the teapot.
But she never did hint, and every time he broached the subject, Sutton always told him no.
Maybe it was selfish of him, maybe it was wrong. But he’d wanted a baby. He’d wanted to change things between them. He’d wanted Sutton to look at him with wonder in her eyes again. Because he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Sutton used to love him.
He just wasn’t sure when she’d stopped.
He shook himself like a wet dog, the old images of their once-happy life shedding onto the floor. He didn’t know what to do, so he got up and paced through the house. Went from room to room, replaying memories, seeing shadows of his wife in all the right places—the couch, her feet tucked up under her legs like a cat; her office, head bent over the keyboard in that odd way that made her chin look pointed like an elf’s; the bedroom, where she lay willing and open, ready for him to come into her and make her scream.
Their life had always been amazing. Sutton used to make him feel sexy, witty, smart. Every word he wrote was meant to impress her, everything he did was a subtle bit of bragging. Look at me, wife. Look at all that I am for you.
He tried harder for her than anyone he’d ever been with. Gaining a smile, a laugh, made him happy to his core.
He didn’t know when things went south. Didn’t know when she’d stopped loving him, when she gave up on their marriage. It was well before Dashiell, that he knew. Was it when they’d renovated the behemoth? Weren’t renovations a major driver in divorce cases, like Facebook and affairs? He thought he’d read that somewhere.
Or was it when the words he wrote for her dried up, and he stopped working entirely? Before he got desperate. Before he made the greatest mistake of his life.
No, he thought it was maybe before all of that when his warm and sexy wife had grown cold. Frigid. Unwilling. Distant.
The laughs had become few and far between. She’d looked at him with a mix of derision and bemusement, as if she’d woken up one morning married, and to a stranger, to boot.
He’d asked her, one very drunken night, why she’d stopped loving him. She’d laughed, harshly. “I love you more now than the day we met. That’s the problem.” And she wouldn’t say anything more.
And here they were. Five years later, parents of a dead baby, their ruined marriage strewed on the rocks, mistakes piled like a stack of ancient newspapers against the door.
He was responsible for Dashiell’s death. For Sutton’s madness. For the missed deadline, the stalking, the canceled book contract. Ethan knew this, knew it to his bones.
He’d made so many mistakes, there was no recovering from them all.
There was just one problem.
He loved Sutton to his core. He’d never loved a woman as much as he loved her. He would do anything for her. Anything.
He had to decide whether Sutton was simply hiding from him for a few days, or if she’d left for good. Problem was, if she didn’t show up by this evening, he was going to have to bring the police in to search for her, because everyone would be suspicious of him if he didn’t, and the subsequent investigation was going to rip apart their very carefully cultivated lives, and who knew what sort of roaches would scurry out of the woodwork?
If she was hiding out for a few days, all well and good. If she’d actually run, he would have to go after her. For her to disappear permanently and thoroughly would have taken planning.
Either way, Sutton was a very cunning woman. He simply had to think like her, and he’d find the path to her again.
And then it hit him.
The bank account. He hadn’t checked the bank account.
BEAUTY AND THE BEAST
Then
Ethan’s agent nudged him. “There is a woman watching you from across the room.”
Ethan glanced over, didn’t see anyone of note. Then again, he was lubed up, like a lock drenched in oil. He’d already had a few cocktails, and had plans for a few more before he passed out in his soft king bed upstairs. He liked the rooms in the hotel; they were clean and spacious and pleasant, not at all threatening, unlike some of the aggressively modern places his publisher put him up at, thinking the extravagant price tag was a justifiable expense to keep their cash cow happy.
All he wanted from the evening was a solid drunk and a good night’s sleep. He didn’t have to fly back to Nashville until late in the afternoon. He could sleep in, have some room service delivered, take a long, hot shower, and grab the car to the airport with plenty of time to spare. He had nothing else on his calendar, and he was glad for it. The week in New York had damn near killed him. Breakfasts and lunches and dinners, a few women taken back to that soft king bed, endless talking and applauding and schmoozing.
He needed a break from his life.
You wanted this, jackass. Be careful what you wish for.
“Ethan. Did you hear me? There’s a woman over there who’s practically drooling.”
“Bill, I have no time for more women. You know that.”
A hearty laugh and a punch on the arm. Sometimes he wondered if Bill was humoring him, being kind because he was making them both so much money. He thought they were friends; Bill knew almost everything there was to know about Ethan. Almost everything. But sometimes he wondered. Ethan had made Bill rich. Very, very rich. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that the man loathed him and was simply in it for the house in the Hamptons he would soon be able to buy with his 15 percent.
Bill leered at him. “If you’re not interested, maybe you could throw an old dog a bone.”
“You’re married.”
“I’m married, I ain’t dead. I can look. Pretty please? Her dress is cut so deep in the front I won’t even have to stand on my tippy toes to look down it.”
Ethan glanced down at the much smaller man, shrugged. “Fine. Let me get a beer and we’ll wander over so you can gander at the lass.”
There were two lines at the bar. It was moving quickly. Maybe he’d have a Scotch instead of a beer. He started looking at the bottles lined up behind the bartenders, saw a Macallan 18. Nice. That would do.
He felt a hand on his arm. Glanced to his right. A woman stood next to him. Not the one from across the room. This one was tall, with long strawberry blond hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, and seemed endlessly fascinated with his arm. It wasn’t like she was touching him to get his attention, it was almost as if she was caressing him. It was a strange touch, wildly erotic, and the rest of the room bled away in an instant.
Was she drunk? She didn’t seem drunk. She seemed...hungry. And not in the let me take you to dinner way.
He smiled down at her. “I have another, if you’re wondering.”
She jerked back as if burned. Her face turned a becoming shade of red. She had freckles across her nose. Clean skin devoid of makeup. She didn’t need any. But no mask? In this mess? Interesting.
“Can I help you with something?” he asked.
She started to move away, still watching him.
“Wait.” What are you doing, you fool? Chick’s crazy, just another groupie. Let her go, stick with the plan.
The stranger halted, a deer in the headlights. Her eyes showed deep embarrassment and something else, something intriguing and attractive.
Her voice was soft, and he felt something stir deep inside when she spoke.
“I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I promise you I don’t go around touching strange men.” She turned on her heel and started away.
He stopped her, grabbed her hand. “Wait. Don’t run off. I don’t even know your name. I’m Ethan.”
She froze, glanced down at his hand, so large over hers. “I know. Ethan Montclair. I’m a fan of your work.”
He heard it so often it had become rote, but from this woman’s lips, it felt different. Like a prayer. A promise.
“Who are you with?”
“I’m sorry?” She finally met his eyes, and he had his first good look at her. What he saw was entrancing. She was pretty, wholesome, Irish descent, probably, with that reddish hair and the blue eyes. Her sleek black dress showed off a great figure, hourglass but lithe. She looked fresh, innocent. Girl next door, the kind you grow up crushing on, your best friend’s older sister. And then you become old enough to bed her legally, and the tables turn. This one, though, still had the suburban stink all over her. Intern, he thought.
“I meant, what house are you with?”
“Oh. None.”
“What are you doing here, then?”
“I...” The way she dropped her eyes when she was embarrassed, like a courtier looking up at him from her lashes, was maddening, in all the best ways. She took a deep breath. “Okay. We’re at the same house. You’re light-years ahead of me, though.”
A small zing. “You’re not an intern?”
“I’m a writer.”
“Do you have a name?”
The blush deepened. “Sutton. Sutton Healy.”
Irish all the way, though she wasn’t accented. Second generation, then, but he’d bet a pound her family was recent. He knew the name, but he wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of that knowledge. He was enjoying her discomfiture. Most women he met went all sycophant on him within moments. This one was truly tongue-tied, and eyeing him like he was a juicy steak. He thought it was cute. Check that, he thought it was hot.
“Can I buy you a drink, Sutton Healy?”
“From the open bar? Sure.”
She’d touched his arm again then, slower this time, and he’d known. He was going to take her upstairs, and they were going to spend the night together, and he was going to get to know Sutton Healy biblically, and he was going to enjoy every minute of it.
He heard Bill’s voice behind him, a harsh whisper overlaid with laughter. “Sucker.” Ethan flipped him off behind his back.
Sutton Healy wanted Macallan, too, so he ordered doubles. They wandered off to a corner of the ballroom. He turned her to face the room so his back was to the crowd. They managed to stay that way, uninterrupted, for half an hour. He may have run his hand through his hair a few times. He was a little fuzzy on that, but it usually drove women crazy.
Two drinks later, he admitted he’d heard of her work.
“Historical romance, right?”
“Did your agent slip you a note with that information?”
“I read.”
“You read historical romance? You have to be kidding me.”
“It’s very soothing. Besides, I like seeing how women think heroes should act. Gives me guidelines. I need all the chivalry schooling I can get, especially now, with the sensitivity training they make us do. It can get very confusing, where the lines are supposed to be drawn. If we acted toward eighteen-year-old virgins the way your heroes do, we’d be jailed. Can you imagine the juice the press would get out of it?”
“You, Ethan Montclair, are full of crap.”
“Maybe I am. Maybe I’m drunk.” Yes, he had run his hand through his hair then, knowing the thick waves would stand up a bit, mussed, as his mother used to say. He’d given Sutton Healy a slow, lazy smile. “Or maybe it’s the way you’re affecting me. Speaking of crossing lines, you want to get out of here?”
He worried for a moment he’d shifted gears too quickly, sounded too wanting, but she hadn’t hesitated. “God, yes. I can’t stand these parties. Can we go now?”
He remembered every one of the fifty steps it had taken to get to the elevator, anticipation buzzing in his veins. He had a hand on the small of her back—gentle, proprietary—could feel the smooth column of muscle where her spine met her finely shaped rump. He waited until the doors slid closed to kiss her. Her mouth was sweet and smoky from the Scotch, and when she threw her arms around his neck and pulled him deeper into the kiss, he felt his heart begin to race. It was more than the usual turn-on, too. There was something about this woman that was absolutely intoxicating. He had a feeling he would remember this trip to New York for a long time to come.
They had rooms on the same floor, the conference block. He motioned toward his door, but she shook her head. “I need ten minutes. Give me your key.”
He swiped the small plastic card, opened his door, and handed her the key card. “Don’t disappoint me.”
She grinned, eyes a wee bit unfocused. “Never.”
She scooted off down the hall. He paced. He brushed his teeth. He debated pouring another drink from the minibar, decided he was pretty well pissed and would ride the buzz a while longer.
And true to her word, she returned eight minutes later. He couldn’t remember the last time he was so happy to see anyone.
Inside the room, she rubbed up against him like a cat. He quickly discovered she’d taken off her knickers, and he was so turned on by the juxtaposition of naughty and nice he barely got her to the bed before he was inside her.
At four in the morning, sated, sitting naked in the rumpled sheets with an array of strawberries and chocolates and champagne he’d managed to have delivered from a very grumpy front desk overnight manager, watching his dress shirt fall off her pale, freckled shoulder, he decided that he loved her.
DISCOVERIES ARE MADE
Now
He left the Scotch in his office, grabbed the semiwarm cup of tea from the kitchen counter, went to Sutton’s lair on the other side of the house, and booted up the desktop. The banking was always done on her computer. She had the tax files, so it made sense that the financial info was in the same place. Sutton had never shown an interest in the money Ethan brought to the marriage—she paid her mother out of her earnings, as he insisted—but was diligent about making sure the quarterlies and annual taxes were paid.
His family money. Most of it was gone now anyway, eaten up by the price of the house and subsequent renovations. They should have gotten a mortgage, it was insanity to pay $1.4 million in cash, but Sutton wanted to be free of debt, so Ethan had signed on the line and handed over his nest egg.
At the time, money gone wasn’t a big deal. It was simply expected that he could continue earning; his highly anticipated third novel was due to release the following June. But, despite his best efforts, the trials of the past year had been too much for even his prodigious mind to handle; he couldn’t make it happen—the ending was elusive, the words juvenile and trite. Without any sign of a book the publisher had gotten antsy and the contract had fallen through. Bill tried everything he could to stall them, but, apologetically, the publisher had asked for—demanded—the very substantial million-dollar advance back. The brilliant book with the plot that ruined his marriage was officially canceled; Ethan was publicly humiliated in the industry trades and on social media. How does a man recover from such an embarrassment?
But far worse, far worse indeed: Ethan was now reliant on Sutton’s income to support them. Even knowing a royalty check would be coming, they had to reassess their expenditures.
It made him feel like less of a man, less of a husband, less of a writer, but even those indignities hadn’t broken him free of the writer’s block.
Ethan simply hadn’t been able to write a word since Dashiell died. Every time he laid hands on his keyboard, it all felt so fruitless. Pointless. The words drowned in the accusations, in the horrors and sobbing and cries. He’d helped create a life, and helped take it away. The child had depended on them for love and nurturing, and they’d nurtured him right into the grave. How could they forgive each other? How could they move on, move past? Worse, how could words—insignificant, paltry words—heal such a wound?
But dead baby or not, they had to eat. And Ethan wasn’t the type to get a job. Family money had lasted him this long, the small but flush trust fund to which he’d added the impressive advance of his debut novel, but once his parents bit it, there was an estate issue, and some of the money was tied up in a trust, and some went to pay off the accumulated debts, and the rest he’d sunk in the house, so he had all he was getting, at least for now.
And it wasn’t enough to make the monthly nut.
So Sutton became the breadwinner. Sutton was the one bringing in the money.
It had gone to Sutton’s lovely little head, the one who couldn’t be bothered with all his money, but took a sort of sinful pride in hers. She’d callously talked about investments and 401(k)s over breakfast, ways to save for the future, how they would have to be careful from here on out.
No thank you for supporting us all these years, Ethan. No I am so grateful you wiped out your family money to buy us this house, Ethan. No don’t worry, sweetheart, you’ll find your words again. I promise, either.
They were alone now. No nanny. No baby. Just the two of them, knocking around in the grand old Victorian, the incessant tap, tap, tapping away from her end of the house, at all hours of the day and night, Sutton pouring her heart and soul onto the page while Ethan suffered through his drought alone.
She could work. She could talk about finances. Why couldn’t she talk to him?
They hadn’t had a real conversation in months.
Bitch.
Stop that, Ethan. My God.
He felt odd sitting at her desk. There was a half-full teacup with a scum around the edge, notepads and notebooks and pens—her favored fountain pen, a simple Pilot Metropolitan. He ran a finger along the edge of the pen. It was white, pearly, and he imagined it still held a hint of warmth from her touch. Ethan preferred the Blackwing 602 pencil—sturdy, reliable, never running out of ink or exploding onto unsuspecting fingers. Sutton had laughed at how persnickety he was.
You’re dithering.
He didn’t want to see the bank accounts, because knowing it was all hers made him feel...less.
“Man up, you bloody fool,” he said, and opened the bank’s website.
They had two accounts, one for day-to-day expenses and one for the investments.
Neither seemed disturbed. The last entries on the daily account were for Publix, $124.76, and a $25 charge to Starbucks, both dated Thursday of last week. Groceries, and she’d refilled her card. Ethan much preferred the grocery delivery service, but Sutton liked going to the store. He used to tease her that she only went to show off the baby. Of course, that wasn’t the case anymore. They’d taken to using the service lately, so Ethan was a bit surprised by the fact that she’d gone to the store directly, but hey, there was nothing sinister about it.
The Starbucks card, though, that was a regular expense. Ethan knew she refilled the card religiously once a week. He saw the entry with a pang of... Was it happiness, sadness? He didn’t even know. Sutton always loved walking to the square, loved the crowded Starbucks with its skinny building and long wooden tables. She went there every day, either with Ellen and Rachel after yoga, or with Filly, when they could push the strollers, their ponytails bouncing, or with Ivy, when she was in town and didn’t have early-morning meetings, but every day, she was there. It was her favorite part about their house’s location in downtown Franklin—how everything that mattered to her was within walking distance.
Who buys groceries, refills their Starbucks card, then decides to run away? It made no sense.
He scrolled back through the records. As far as he could see, the day-to-day account had no unusual charges for the past several days, and the last substantial withdrawal was one he’d made that past Friday. Sutton used a debit card for everything, hated carrying cash. Ethan was the opposite; he loved the tangible feel of money.
Part of him was relieved, and part of him was frightened. She hadn’t fled with cash in her pocket.
Call the police. You need to call the police. Something is wrong. The note, it could have been written under duress.
The other side of his mind said, Just...assemble all the facts first.
He switched to the investment account. This one was much more complicated, with multiple subaccounts, separate ones for tax and investments, the latter loaded with high-performing stocks, puts and lets and shorts. There was even one account with a separate money manager who essentially did day-trading on a variety of stocks and bonds for their well-managed portfolio. He thought it a waste, thought they should use Ivy, but Sutton had put her foot down. Money and friendship never, ever mix.
He kept scrolling. He was surprised by the balance of the managed account, much more than he’d expected.
It took him an hour to find the pattern of withdrawals, because she varied the time of the visits and the amount, and made cryptic notes in the withdrawal slips. But when all was said and done, there was at least $50,000 unaccounted for.
It wasn’t a huge sum. Truly, he could probably explain it away as incidentals, money Sutton had spent on clothes, or things for the house.
But something in him said, No, mate, this is it, this is something.
He printed out the spreadsheet he’d built with all the withdrawals and their corresponding dates in it, then shut off the computer. He was barely out of the office when the phone rang.
He glanced at the caller ID. Ivy.
He grabbed the phone, ignoring his fumbling desperation. Depressed the Talk button and practically shouted, “Have you heard from her?”
Ivy’s voice was smoky and low. He could hear a din in the background. She was at a conference, somewhere in Texas. Sutton had been invited—Sutton was always invited; Ivy thought the different locales good for research—but Ethan knew she’d declined this trip, saying she wasn’t in the mood to travel. She hadn’t been in the mood for much of anything lately.
“Ethan? I can hardly hear you.”
“I said, do you know where she is?”
“No, I don’t. There’s been no word, and her accounts are turned off. You still haven’t heard from her? Where could she have gone?”
“What do you mean, her accounts are turned off?”
“It looks like she committed social media suicide.”
“I thought she’d done that ages ago.”
“Oh. Maybe she did, I don’t keep up with Facebook like I should. Where could she be?”
“I don’t know, but I’ve been searching our bank accounts, and there’s some money missing. The note she left... Ivy, I don’t know if she’s run away or if she’s hurt herself.”
An intake of breath. “Have you called the police?”
“No. They won’t do anything, you know that. Not so soon.”
“Ethan, you need to talk to them.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but do you think I need to speak with a lawyer first? I assure you, I haven’t done anything wrong. There’s nothing to protect myself from. But the moment I call them, you know how this is going to look.”
To her credit, Ivy didn’t slam down the phone. Her voice got mean and tight. “Swear to me right now, Ethan Montclair, that you have not done something to my best friend.”
“My God, Ivy, of course I didn’t. I love Sutton. I’d never hurt her. I’m scared, okay? And embarrassed. I know how the world thinks. The minute I call them...”
She sighed. “They will look at you. The husband is—”
“Always the first person the police look at. I know. But I’m not worried about that. I haven’t done anything wrong. I swear. I was only thinking, just in case, a sounding board wouldn’t be a horrible idea.”
“The police may see things differently. Didn’t you guys have dinner a few months ago with Joel Robinson?”
“He’s not just a lawyer, Ivy, he’s a well-known criminal defense attorney. Wouldn’t hiring Joel look bad? I was thinking just a regular guy.”
“What, you thought you’d talk to the man who drew up the contracts on your house? Look, you’re a British national, even though you have dual citizenship. You’re a public figure. Your wife is missing. No matter what, when you involve the police, they are going to take apart your lives. If you’re going to talk to anyone, Robinson is the best choice. Trust me.”
“Okay. I’ll call him. I promise. It’s only...”
More noise, the fever pitch growing louder, then a sudden silence. Ivy’s voice echoed. “Sorry, it’s madness here. I’m coming home right now.”
“I don’t know if there’s anything you can do to help, Ivy. I don’t need—”
“Stop it. Of course you need help. You two always need help. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Hang tight, okay?”
The relief he felt was palpable. Lately, Ivy was always better at handling Sutton than he was. His eyes closed and he said, “Okay. Travel safely. And, Ivy? Thank you.”
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