She hung up half-flushed, happy for the praise, hoping she’d made a good impression, and grateful she might get a chance to work with someone who would assure she didn’t leave any stones unturned.

She grabbed her notebook and dialed the first number on her list, Ivy Brookes. Ivy answered on the first ring.

“Officer Graham? Did you find her?”

“We haven’t yet, ma’am. I know we’re scheduled to talk later in the morning, but could I come by now? I have a few questions I’d like to clear up.”

“Sure, it will be good to talk. You know how it is with a bunch of women, you’ll never get what you need. But can you give me an hour? The markets are about to open and I need to make a few calls before things get heated up.”

“Sounds good. I’ll see you soon.”

She hung up and called the next. Phyllis Woodson. Ethan had called her Filly. Phyllis was more than happy to accommodate.

“Oh, yes, please. Come over right away.”

Holly got the sense Phyllis needed to unburden herself. She promised to be there in thirty minutes. Maybe this would all break open and things would resolve themselves today.

Two of the four was a good start. It was nearly seven now. She’d reassess after the chats.

She shot the coffee, put her gun on her hip and a fresh notebook in her pocket, and headed to the car.

LIFE AS WE KNOW IT HAS ENDED

Drunk on words, on accomplishment, on the very idea of communicating the thoughts that had been logjammed in his head lo these many months, Ethan stumbled to the kitchen, made tea, and flipped on the television. A mistake. Sutton’s face stared out at him from the screen. The crawler below said Have You Seen This Woman?

He turned up the volume. He counted back, trying to ascertain what day it was. Thursday? No, it was only Wednesday.

“Local writer Sutton Montclair is missing, and the Franklin police aren’t speculating as to the reason for her disappearance, but people inside the investigation say the husband, Ethan Montclair, is a serious suspect—”

He flipped it off. He didn’t need to see what people were saying, he could practically feel it coming from all sides. Everyone thought he’d done something to his wife.

Even he had to admit it all looked very bad.

He ignored the euphoria rattling inside him as he prepared a quick breakfast. He was famished; cereal wouldn’t do. Frozen oatmeal, with some added nuts and seeds and raisins, orange juice, tea. He scarfed it all down, purposely ignoring the fact that his appetite had returned along with his words.

The words.

They were good. He knew this. He was his own worst critic—most writers are—but these words were transcendental. Intense and lyrical and stunning. Bill would be thrilled. The publisher would be thrilled. Sutton...

And that quickly, the pleasure fled. Sutton wouldn’t be thrilled, because there was no way for him to let Sutton know.