“Yes, ma’am. Filly. I’ve hit a dead end searching for Sutton. I can’t seem to find anything that explains her actions. And there’s no sign of her at all. So tell me. Is there anything we need to know about Ethan Montclair, and their marriage? Anything at all?”

A genteel sip, a clink of china. “Sutton is my best friend. We were pregnant together, did you know? Dashiell and mon petit Henri were only a few weeks apart.” She said the name with an impeccable French accent: moan pa-teet Ohn-ree.

“Is your husband French?”

“Oh, no. I’m a Francophile. I’ve always been fascinated with France—the country, the language, the food, the wine. Sutton and I have been talking about going. Though I suppose that’s never going to happen now.” A small sob escaped her lips. “What has he done to her?”

“He, who?”

“Ethan, of course.”

“Why do you think he did something to her?”

“It’s the only logical explanation. Sutton isn’t the type to run away. She’s strong. One of the strongest women I’ve ever known. Smart. Cunning, even. Loyal and intense. If there was ever a person who wouldn’t run in the face of adversity, it’s Sutton.”

“From what I’ve heard about her, she was broken. The death of her son, the problems with her publisher, the reviewer—”

“It’s not true. I mean, yes, she was devastated when Dashiell died. Anyone would be. But she’d come out of it. The thing with her publisher, the reporter, the reviewer? It’s been completely blown out of proportion.”

“I’ve read the reports, the articles—”

“It was a stunt. I’m convinced.”

“What?”

“She was writing a book. A new book. About how modern society is collapsing. In her spare time, that is. She was stuck in a contract she couldn’t get out of, writing a book she hated and didn’t want to do. Her publishing house had been bought, her longtime editor was canned, and they gave her some kid barely out of school who had no clout. Her old editor got in touch, told Sutton privately she’d take her on at the new house if she could get out of the contract.

“And Sutton was game. She told me she’d rather go up in flames than write the book they’d contracted for. She wanted to switch gears. Wanted to write something much more serious, postmodern. Like her husband does. The reviewer is a jerk, and the blogger, well, everyone knows not to believe anything that appears there. It’s a parody of sorts.”

“A parody.”

“Yes. If you ask me, it seems things just...got out of hand.”

Lips then pursed, she sat back and let Holly put together the pieces.