“Sweetheart, would you rather I suggest you give up your work to raise a child? It’s very 1950s, but if you want me to act the caveman...”
“I think you should give up your work.”
Ethan didn’t move.
“Seriously, Ethan. If you want a baby so badly, then you give up your work, and take care of it.”
“I’d be willing to do that if you truly want me to.”
“A baby means more to you than your books? Than your mark on the world? You’re leaving something concrete behind, Ethan, we both are. Children aren’t the same—it’s a genetic lottery. It could be smart, it could have birth defects. You never know. And we aren’t at all equipped if this child isn’t absolutely 100 percent perfect, in every way. I don’t want to be saddled with a child. You can’t take the risk of a child ending your career. It’s better for us to just take care of things, and never think about this again.”
“You don’t mean that,” he whispered. “Please, Sutton. I know you don’t. I know you want this, too, deep inside. I know it. And I swear, I will handle everything. If you truly want nothing to do with raising our child, I will do it all. I am more than willing to abandon my art for this. For us, and our family.”
She sat quietly, watching him, the red hair floating around her face. “God, you actually mean that, don’t you?”
“I do. I swear it.”
She said nothing, stared over his shoulder. There was a bird feeder outside the window; he could hear the birds, dancing around the edges of the feeder, grabbing a bite, fluttering off, then rushing back. Wings beat the air. His heart stood still.
“I’ll think about it,” she said, finally, and he realized he’d been holding his breath. He gathered her into a hug, and she let him.
Now
Ethan went through the rest of Sutton’s things quickly. There was nothing unusual about anything, outside the fact that the lifelines she clung to like air were here, and she was not.
He saw nothing that stood out on her computer. Her Dropbox was password protected so he couldn’t open her current work in progress—he knew she was working on some sort of big set piece fantasy novel, lots of bursting seams and knights with hard-ons—but she’d always been totally paranoid when it came to her work; she hid it from everyone until it was finished and in the hands of her agent.
The agent.
Stupid, Ethan.
He opened her contacts, pulled up the name—Jessamin Fleming—picked up the phone, and dialed the number. Jessamin’s assistant answered perkily.
“Ms. Fleming’s office.”
“This is Ethan Montclair. I need to speak with Jessamin straightaway. It’s an emergency.”
“Oh! Yes, sir, of course. Hold, please.”
A moment later, Jessamin herself came on the line. She was a big woman, tall and shapely, with a voice like a truck driver after a lifetime three-pack-a-day habit. He liked her.
“Ethan? What’s wrong? Did something happen to Sutton? Ally said it was an emergency.”
“Have you spoken to her, Jess?”
“Not since last week. Why? What’s wrong?”
“She’s gone. She left me a note, said not to look for her.”
Silence. Dead, empty, cold silence. Then, coolly, “Well, Ethan. This sounds like something between you and Sutton.”
Shit. “Please, Jess. If you know anything, tell me. I’m very worried about her. She left everything behind, her laptop, her phone, her purse. She’s been upset, sad, and I’m worried she might have tried to hurt herself.”
“Or she’s left you.”
“Without her things? I mean, yes, I’m a right bastard, but without her things, there’s no way. Something’s wrong, I can feel it.”
“New things can be bought. Perhaps she truly doesn’t want you to look for her, Ethan.”
The doorbell rang, and Ethan started moving toward the foyer. “Jess. You know her as well as anyone. Did she tell you she was leaving me? Because if she is, that’s fine. I’ll be devastated, yes, but I won’t fight her. I’m truly worried about her. If I know she’s left purposefully, then I can stop pacing the house, freaking out.”
“She didn’t say anything to me, Ethan. If you’re so worried, perhaps you should call the police.”
“That’s my next step.”
“Well, then. Keep me posted.”
“You don’t even sound concerned, Jess.”
“I am concerned, Ethan. But Sutton is her own woman, always has been. And since Dashiell...”
“Yes. I know. Thank you, Jess.”
Thanks for absolutely nothing, you loathsome old bitch.
He pocketed the phone and swung open the door, was faced with a trio of women. Filly, Ellen, and Rachel. He couldn’t help but think, Fair is foul, and foul is fair: Hover through the fog and filthy air. These three brought chaos and destruction in their wake, and he could smell it coming off them like brimstone.
“Ladies.”
“Have you heard from her yet, Ethan?” Filly had both her babies, the one born alongside Dashiell, only a few days apart, and the accidental second baby, still a newborn, conceived the first time she and her husband had sex after the gynecologist cleared them. Of course Filly had waited the proscribed six weeks. She was not a rule breaker. Not like Sutton... And never mind that it might cause him pain to see the perfectly wrapped cherubs in their ridiculously expensive running stroller.
“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