The oatmeal felt like a lump of rock in his stomach.

Shake it off, his mind said.

You’re a horrible person, his wife’s shade replied.

The phone rang. The morning’s round of media speculation was gearing up. He could see them moving around outside, hear the shouting and calls.

A text appeared on his phone. Robinson.

I see you’re still inundated. Let me know if you need anything. You may want to think about making a statement. It might make them back off.

A chance to set things right. A chance to create some space. He wrote back almost greedily.

I’ll do anything. Tell me what to say, I’ll say it.

I’ll be there in three minutes. Back door.

* * *

Of course it backfired. Of course it did. Ethan was terrible on camera, for all the wrong reasons.

Robinson was a family guy. He wanted Ethan to play the family angle. Which meant mentioning Dashiell. He wanted Ethan to talk about the marriage, how happy they were, how far they’d come since their son’s death.

Ethan balked. Refused. All he wanted was to plead for Sutton’s safe return. They argued for ten minutes, and then Ethan quite effectively ended the discourse by marching to the front door. He swung it open and waited for the frenzy to begin.

* * *

Holly saw the news alert pop up on her phone. She opened the news app, watched the presser with astonishment. Ethan Montclair looked like he’d been on a three-day bender. His hair was sticking up; he was unshaven. His eyes held a glint, and the lights from the multiple cameras facing him caught it full-on. The result was a visage that was slightly demonic and definitely unkempt. The very expensive front door hung half-closed behind him. Joel Robinson was standing in the shadows, frowning.

She turned up the volume.

“Thank you for your attention to the disappearance of my wife, Sutton Montclair. We are unsure at this time of her whereabouts, and are very anxious to have her home. Sutton, honey, if you’re watching this, please call me. I’m worried sick for you. And you lot—” he pointed to the journalists gathered, hanging on to his every word “—instead of lounging around here, harassing me, why don’t you use your resources to look for my wife? Please, do the right thing. Help me bring her home. That is all.”

And the door shut.

There was a moment of collective silence, then Holly watched the whole scene devolve. She could hear the cacophony of voices through the microphone.

The reporter turned to the camera with a wide smile plastered on. “There you have it, classic Ethan Montclair, telling off the press. This is definitely going to feed the flames.”

* * *

Inside the house on Third Avenue, Ethan clutched his head in his hands. He was ashamed of himself. All he had to do was keep himself together for five minutes, and instead, as had been known to happen when he was put in front of a camera and microphone, he’d turned into a full-on raging dickhead. It was one of the major reasons his publishers rarely sent him on publicity jaunts; Ethan was a snob. He had a tendency toward priggishness that caused people to think him an asshole. And he did not like to be challenged.