Finally, he said, “I like how you think, Graham. I like that you’re not jumping to conclusions because of what he’s told you, or because Robinson was there. So we’re going to play this a bit unorthodoxly. You’ve had excellent training, and you have a background in this, with your dad’s work with the DA’s office. We all know what your trajectory holds. You’re only a few steps from plainclothes, and every uniform wants their chance to play detective, so this is your go at it. I want you to run the case as it moves forward. I think you made a connection with Montclair, and it might pay off later in this investigation.”

Holly couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Yes, she was going to be a detective, everyone expected it, and she wanted it, bad. It just wasn’t supposed to happen for another year. But if Moreno wanted to bump her up the line, she wasn’t going to quibble.

“Of course, sir. I’m happy to.”

“We’ll give it a few days. See what shakes out. Sound like something you can handle?”

“It is, sir. Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but why me?”

Moreno smiled at her, his eyes crinkling with good humor. “When you’re a full-fledged detective, you’ll figure it out soon enough, Officer Graham. I’ll tell you this, when a suspect makes a connection with an officer, we don’t ignore it. Now, get to work. I want everything you can find on the Montclairs by morning.”

READ ALL ABOUT IT

It happened like a lightning strike, fast and furious and devastating. Somehow, the whole world knew Sutton Montclair was missing.

The reporters started calling and knocking and ringing the doorbell and peering over the backyard fence about twenty minutes after the police and Robinson and Ivy left.

Ivy had reassured Ethan as she walked out the door. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll find her. I’ll talk to the girls, dig around, see if anyone’s talked to her. They might be more willing to open up to me instead of you.” He hadn’t seen her since. Robinson hadn’t called. He’d been so alone, just him and the bottle, and the intrepid media seizing the meaty story in their carnivorous jaws.

The fucking reporters, who were much more interested in the news of Sutton Montclair going missing than the police were, wouldn’t leave him alone. He didn’t want to answer the phone—what if Sutton called?—but he had no choice.

So he drank, and shouted no comment into the phone. Every time it rang, he answered with a breathless, “Sutton?” Every time, it was a stranger. New voices, same requests.

“Mr. Montclair? This is Tiffany Hock from NewsChannel 5. We understand your wife has been reported missing, and we’ve been trying to reach you, we’d really like to speak with you—”

He didn’t even bother saying no comment, just hung up. Moments later, the phone rang again. He eyed it like it might poison him. Lifted the receiver. It was a man this time.