He was exhausted. First his wife was missing, then dead, then missing again. Someone, a stranger still, had been murdered, wearing Sutton’s precious rings. The idea that Sutton would go to such lengths to escape him broke him in places he hadn’t previously known existed. To kill another soul, to murder someone to make them look like her, that took a mind so devious, so black and twisted, that he could hardly believe his wife was capable of such a thing. And now Robinson had said they were reopening Dashiell’s case. Why? Why would they do that?

Unless there was new evidence. Unless Sutton had killed Dashiell.

He sank to his knees in the foyer, finally allowing the reality of his situation to seep in.

How was he supposed to recover from this? His beloved wife, turned grim reaper? And was this the first time?

It was terrible of him, but he’d always wondered if she’d done it. Accidentally, of course. Not on purpose. She’d been drunk, she’d been last in the nursery. But the autopsy had been so clear, everyone so adamant. It was a tragic event, but you’re not to blame. You’re blameless.

They were never blameless. Not him, and not Sutton.

And now, with the police looking closer at Dashiell’s death, what horrible truths were they going to find?

A knock on the door. His entire body tensed. Friend, or foe?

He clambered to his feet, went to the window, glanced out. The media hadn’t gotten themselves set up on his doorstep yet; they were still all at the jail, interrogating the chief.

He opened the door. Ivy stood on the porch. She had a bottle of wine in one hand and a yellow bowl covered in plastic wrap in the other, something like a smile on her face.

“Food and drink. I figured you could use it.”

“Thank you. Come on in.”

She set the bowl on the counter. “Pasta salad. Fresh. And a nice Nebbiolo. You like the Langhe, don’t you?”

“How do you remember these things, Ivy? Do you secretly write them all down in a notebook when we’re not looking?”

“That’s exactly what I do.” She laughed, getting out two glasses for the wine. She set them on the table. “I’m so glad they let you go. I’m so glad she’s still out there somewhere. It gives me hope that this horrible week might end well. And since you’re free and clear, I thought we should celebrate.”

Ethan watched her move around the house, so practiced, so casual, as if it were her own. Something niggled at him. He didn’t feel like celebrating, and what an odd choice of words. How could he celebrate? A woman was dead. Sutton was still missing.