“That’s different. We have a sacred space for conflict, we have rules—”

“Oh, for God’s sake. I didn’t hurt her. If anything, I’m more worried she went off and hurt herself.”

Three uneasy stares. He shouldn’t have said that. It just came out.

Ellen was the first to speak. “Are you saying she was suicidal?”

Ethan pinched the bridge of his nose. “No. She isn’t. I’m saying I’ve thought about every possibility this morning. She left me. That’s what I know for sure. But Rachel is right. Sutton has had a very hard time since the baby... No, I don’t think she’d do that.” He was rambling. Shut up, Ethan. “I think she wants some drama, is all.”

Wrong thing to say, take two.

Filly clutched the crying baby closer. “You are a coldhearted bastard, Ethan Montclair. How could you say such a thing? Your wife is missing!”

“That’s it. I want you all to leave.” When they didn’t move, he shouted, “Now!” at them, which had the effect of throwing a rock into a flock of pigeons.

“This isn’t over, Ethan. Now that we know... Either you call the police, or we will.” Ellen threw in the last bit over her shoulder, and five seconds later the door slammed behind them. The finality of it shocked him.

Bloody hell. Women.

He paced the house for a few minutes, gathering himself, planning. He had to do something here, had to make a decision. Had she left him, as the note and $50,000 missing from their accounts indicated? Was she up for a bit of drama to punish him for his lack of attention lately? Or was it possible that she had hurt herself, and the money was for something else? Misdirection?

A moment of actual sanity hit him. Sutton’s friends thought he’d hurt her. The police would, too. It was time to talk to the lawyer.

BURN ALL THE LAWYERS

Joel Robinson’s office was three blocks away. Ethan decided to walk. If the lawyer wasn’t there, he’d leave a note. He simply had to move, to get out of the house. Get away from Sutton’s shade, lingering about like a malevolent ghost.

Robinson was short, round, red-nosed, a cheerful Santa Claus with white hair and a long beard. He worked out of the third story of a lovely Victorian on Fifth Avenue that had been converted to individual offices a decade hence. He had no secretary, opting to manage all of his clients in a state of utter secrecy. While they’d been social acquaintances for several years, Ethan never thought he’d grace the man’s professional door. Yet here he was.

Thankfully, said door was unlocked, and Robinson himself was inside. What luck.

Ethan rapped his knuckles on the door frame.

“Joel? Am I interrupting?”

“Ethan. Hello. Just prepping for a case, court later this week. What’s up? You ready to schedule that drink?”

“I was hoping I could buy you lunch. I need to run something by you.”

Robinson cocked his head to the side. “Sorry, no can do today. Client coming in shortly. Why don’t we shoot for tomorrow?”