There were more people listening to the interview; the water had been forthcoming almost immediately. She needed to be careful, but she needed to talk, to clear herself, to get home to Ethan. She needed him. He needed her. They were going to have to face this threat together.

“I didn’t kill anyone,” Sutton said.

“Are you willing to make a statement, for the record, then?”

“Yes. On one condition. When I finish, I want to call my husband.”

“We cannot guarantee anything, madame. But I agree to pass on a message to your husband should you answer our questions adequately.”

Sutton took a deep drink of the water. And then she told them. She told them everything.

Once a Juvie, Always a Juvie

ONCE A JUVIE, ALWAYS A JUVIE

Holly didn’t think she’d ever seen anything so insane as the media frenzy when Ethan Montclair walked out of jail and the chief had to eat crow for arresting him before they’d formally ID’d the body found at the farm off Highway 96. Which the ME hadn’t been able to do yet. There were no other officially missing women in the area, so unless a family member came forward or the dental database got a hit—which she doubted they would, because the victim clearly hadn’t been being treated by a dentist recently, so current radiographs were a long shot—they had a Jane Doe on their hands.

An anonymous victim. Lost. No way to determine age, ethnicity, or identity, thanks to the very well-placed fire. A stranger, wearing Sutton Montclair’s wedding set.

Rings on her fingers, bells on her toes. Holly couldn’t get the refrain out of her head.

Once the crow had been eaten, the friends lined up for more interviews, both with the Franklin Police and the media, now begging Sutton to come forward, to show herself, to stop the charade. Ethan Montclair drank himself into oblivion while Joel Robinson gave proxy interviews begging Sutton to come home.

Holly ignored it all. She shut the doors to the conference war room and went back to work.

Because now, they were acting under the assumption that Sutton Montclair was a murderer.

It was quite clear from all the interviews that she’d been parceling out information to her friends. Phyllis, the comforting knowledge she was the only confessor. Ellen, the honor of intelligence and professional intimacy. Ivy, taken advantage of the most, given the Benadryl bottle to make it look like her husband had killed their child. Holly imagined Sutton to be a disturbed woman, volatile and unpredictable. A woman with problems, who was lashing out at everyone and everything around her. A woman who lost her child, Holly. That alone would drive anyone insane.

Lost? Or was Sutton Montclair responsible for her baby’s death?