“And a lawyer.”

Bill started moaning into the phone.

“Listen to me. Sutton left a very ominous note. I am worried sick. I’m worried she may have hurt herself. She asked for time, but now...something’s not right. She left everything behind, and...it feels wrong. She’s been gone too long. I had to involve the authorities. I needed help. So get off my back.”

“Bullshit. She’s just trying to hurt you. She could be holed up with some lover, laughing up her sleeve while the police make a case against you. We gotta get out in front of this. Right now.”

Ethan rolled his eyes. “Bill, you read too many novels. There is nothing to get out in front of. I’ve done nothing wrong, and neither has Sutton. It’s been a bad time for us both. She’s had a lot to deal with, and I’m praying all she’s done is take off for a few days, like her note said.”

“There’s your quote. I’ll call the Times, say that exactly.”

“No story. Seriously. You have to quash it. I can’t face the scrutiny.”

“It’s too late. And it sells books, buddy.”

“You didn’t just say that to me. Go away, Bill. Make sure the story isn’t run. Don’t come down. I’ll call if I have news.”

He hung up. The phone rang immediately. He debated for a moment, then turned off the ringer again. Drank some more tea. Foraged in the refrigerator, found some prosciutto-and-mozzarella wraps. He needed fuel. The idea of eating was repugnant, especially with the constant visions of Sutton lying dead and broken in a ditch that inundated him, but he’d do her no good drunk and empty.

Ethan ate. He looked out the window. The media were still lined up, camera lights on, beautiful young reporters fluffing their hair and straightening their ties. The local evening news was about to start.

He debated for a few moments: Turn it on? See what Sutton had wrought?

Then: Dashiell.

The thought of his dead son, of the things the reporters would be saying, made him want to crawl right out of his skin. Bolts of panic shuddered through his body. He was stuck in the house; he knew the moment he tried to step foot outdoors, the media would pounce on him. Stuck, trapped in this moment in time, unable to walk away, unable to function. He simply didn’t know what to do.

He watched the scrum of reporters on his front step. He decided to stay away from the TV, decided against any internet reading. He was afraid what he might see there. Himself cast as the villain. Sutton, his beautiful Sutton, dragged across the coals again. The baby, resurrected and killed, all over again.

He couldn’t take this. He couldn’t stand it anymore.

So he poured a drink. And then another. He walked around the house for some exercise, looked at pictures of Dashiell, and for one long, odd moment, stood in Sutton’s closet and smelled her scent and masturbated.