Moreno smiled. “And yet, young Graham, this is exactly what we have. Here’s the thing about criminals. They’re stupid. They think they’re brilliant. They think they can get away with it. Some of them are total sociopaths who can, but the vast majority are ego-driven little psychopaths who get their jollies trying to out-puzzle us. The thing is, we’ve been trained. We know how they think, how they pretend. In the end, a small bit of evidence, a hair, a fingerprint, a flake of blood, is all it takes to catch them in their lies.

“Now, it’s going to take a little time to set everything in motion. You’ve been at it for two days nonstop. Go get a shower, get some food, get some rest. We’re going to hit this hard very soon, and you won’t have a chance to breathe for a while.”

“But, sir—”

“No buts. You earned yourself a couple of hours off. Go. And, Graham?”

“Yes, sir?”

“We will find the truth that Mr. Montclair thinks he’s hiding. Believe me.”

When he put it that way, so vehemently and so plainly, she almost did. Almost.

A Cry, But Not For Help

A CRY, BUT NOT FOR HELP

Another nasty, empty morning. Ethan thought he might still be drunk. He was definitely hungover. His hands and wrists ached. He had crawled into bed somewhere around three in the morning, after writing nearly eighty pages of material. He’d never tapped in so completely. His previous one-day record was fifty pages and that had taken sixteen hours, with regular breaks, when he was young and dumb and didn’t know any better.

He’d written almost a third of the story in one sitting. And it was good. Solid. Usable.

He did some light stretching, popped a few Advil and drank a liter of water, made tea, choked down some cereal, and reopened the manuscript.

His thoughts bounced between the story and Sutton. He was consumed by images of her. The lines were becoming blurred. Whose story was he writing? His? Hers? Theirs?

Waking, sleeping, writing, he couldn’t escape her. He didn’t want to, reveled in the memories. When he needed a break, he looked at old photos. Then he turned back to the pages, and wrote. He didn’t know what to make of this. His wife missing, his life interrupted, but his block broken.

The tone and texture of the book was changing, altered by the subliminal situation brewing in the back of Ethan’s mind. He typed and thought, typed and thought.