“Mr. Montclair? Are you all right?”

“I’m sorry, Officer. Yes, of course. You were saying?”

“When was the last time you saw your wife?”

He traced a gray vein in the white. That damn marble. He could never escape the unhappiness it reminded him of. He hadn’t wanted it, knew it was going to be ruined within a week, stained with wine or etched by the endless amounts of lemon juice Sutton poured into her water. He lost the battle, as he had so many others.

If forced, he’d grudgingly admit it had kept up surprisingly well, with only one real stain. Mulberry red, near the Sub-Zero. Sutton told their friends it was from the skins of blueberries left overnight.

They’d been at it for two hours now. Joel had said nothing, just sat in the corner owlishly watching the proceedings, coughing every once in a while, which Ethan took to mean stop talking, fool. After the first round of questions, Sergeant Moreno asked to see Sutton’s computer, and Ivy showed him where Sutton’s office was while Officer Graham grilled Ethan. She was looking at him sideways already, he could tell. Everything he said was being measured and weighed. Joel had warned him this was how things were going to go. They always looked at the husband. Everything he said sounded weak, insincere. He realized the interview was going badly. Very badly.

“Sir? Mr. Montclair? I know we’ve been over it once before, sir, but let’s run through it again. You never know what you might have forgotten or omitted, even accidentally.”

He glanced at Robinson, who inclined his head in a brief go ahead nod.

“I’m sorry. I saw Sutton Monday night, before she went to bed. Before we went to bed.”

“Did you go to bed together or separately?”

“Separately, but at the same time.”

Graham looked up from her notebook. Apparently he hadn’t mentioned this the first time around. “You don’t share a bedroom?”

“We’ve been having some issues lately.”

“Right. You mentioned that.” The notebook lowered. The cop was young, thin, flat-chested in her patrol uniform. White-blond hair, practically colorless, cut in a pixie, eyebrows the palest shade of blond he’d ever seen. Looking closer, he wondered if it was natural. It looked natural. Striking, as Sutton would say. Her name tag read H. Graham, the silver rectangle perched over the pocket of her uniform, which lay nearly flat against her ribs. Bigger breasts would have made the pocket rise away from her... Jesus, Ethan. Stop already. Just look at her face. Meet her eyes. They’ll think you have something to hide if you keep looking away, or that you’re a creep if you keep staring at her tits.

He shouldn’t have noticed the officer’s breasts. That was wrong of him. Especially because his wife was missing, and H. Graham looked like a towheaded child, fresh out of the Academy.

Moreno came back into the kitchen, silently watching.

“So nothing in the past few weeks to indicate she could be in any sort of danger? You believe she left of her own accord?” Officer Graham asked, but it was more than a question. An indictment.