Ethan’s patience was running out. Not only had he sat in this infernal cell all night, counting the bloody tiles (four thousand four hundred and seven tiles on the floor and wall; he managed to count them twice), the towheaded cop had rushed in, asked him strange questions, and rushed away before explaining what the bloody hell she was talking about. And he’d been left alone again.

Graham was clearly mad. Sutton didn’t own a wig. Did she?

Did he know his wife at all anymore?

Oh, what did it matter? She was dead. He was in jail. He shifted uncomfortably on the hard pallet. In jail, about to be arraigned, paraded in front of the courts and television cameras.

Bill would be thrilled. There would be a massive bump in backlist sales. Offers would come from every house to write the true story of his marriage’s demise. He could hear the rejoinders now: Why did you do it, Mr. Montclair? Why did you kill your wife?

Would they let him do pressers from the penitentiary?

He’d been on this thought train for about an hour when the door opened and Joel Robinson walked through, eyes shining in excitement.

“We need to talk,” he said.

“I only want to hear that you can get me out of here, right now.”

“Actually, I think I can.”

Ethan stood up. “What’s happened?”

“You might want to sit back down.”

“Joel. Please.”

“They aren’t 100 percent sure the body they recovered is Sutton.”

Ethan sat, hard. “What? How? Her rings...”

“That blonde cop, Graham? She’s saved your ass. She’s insisting you’re innocent and the body isn’t Sutton’s. Apparently, there was an inconsistency at autopsy. We’re still waiting on dental and DNA, dental will be in anytime, but she’s already pushing for you to be released.”

“God bless her. Now, tell me everything.”

Robinson adjusted his pants. “You sure? If it turns out she’s wrong...”

Ethan only paused for a moment. “I’m sure.”

“Okay. I have two shots they let me take from the crime scene photos. The body was burned, right?”

He grimaced. “So I heard.”

“They have Sutton’s wedding set, recovered from the victim’s left hand. Here’s a picture. These are her rings, yes?”

He turned his phone to face Ethan. It was a close-up shot. All he could see was the shine of platinum and diamond against a sort of ashy black background. He swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes, those are her rings, without a doubt. The wedding band was new when we married, we picked it out at Tiffany, but the stone is my grandmother’s. I’ve been seeing it all my life.”

“All right. Here’s the other.”

Robinson swiped to the left, and Ethan saw a mass of red hair on the ground.