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?”
Ivy tapped her finger on the return key. “Of course she does. It’s in her notebook, on the last page. I don’t see it here on her desk.”
“I didn’t know that. She keeps the old ones in the closet, in chronological order. Maybe it’s in one of them.” He pulled open the doors and went rummaging. It only took a moment to find the most recent notebook—Sutton’s organizational system put the local library’s Dewey decimal system to shame.