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.

Robinson was on the phone, scrambling to clean up the mess, giving a more cogent statement to someone. Finally, he hung up. “Well. That was flamboyant. Certainly going to get them off your back.”

“Stow it, Joel. I’m tired.”

“If you’d just listen...”

“I said stow it.”

A sigh. “Listen, buddy. I’m on your side. But you have to work the media. Massage them. They are your ally here. You turn them against you and the court of public opinion becomes a disaster in the making.”

“I have to do no such thing. They are as happy to let me drown as they would be to throw me a rope, because the drowning will make the ratings go higher.”

Robinson’s pants were a shade too big. He kept hitching them up over his hips.

“Remember that text, when you claimed you’d say anything I wanted?”

“I’m a rebel.”

“No, Ethan, you’re rapidly making yourself look like a suspect in your wife’s disappearance. Get it together. Either you start doing things my way, or I’m out.”

“Fine, then. Brilliant. Leave. I can handle this alone.”

A flash of hurt, then Robinson nodded. “As you wish, friend. Good luck.”

The back door closed quietly, and Ethan was alone again.

Shit.

Francophiles in Franklin

FRANCOPHILES IN FRANKLIN

Phyllis Woodson: tall, lanky, long-faced, slightly bucked teeth. Horsey. When she told Holly to call her Filly, she couldn’t help but think the nickname fit. There was a baby attached to her like a barnacle in an oversize sling, another, slightly older, playing on a multicolored rubber pad. The husband was going to be working late—he was always working late—and dinner was already bubbling gently in the Crock-Pot. The house itself would have been modest in another neighborhood, but in downtown Franklin, it was a million-dollar cottage, done up in creams and sea green, impeccably decorated. Holly resisted the urge to make sure there was no mud on her boots when she came through the door.

They were at the kitchen table, a glass wheel somehow devoid of sticky handprints, sipping organic chamomile tea from Royal Doulton china.

Her father’s voice in her head: Remember, Holly, appearance is everything.

“Mrs. Woodson—”

“Oh, Filly, please.”