But Colin Wilde had created this rift in Ethan’s world by becoming so overly involved in his life, in his wife, and as much as it infuriated him to admit, if anyone knew what had happened to Sutton, it could be Wilde. He had that uncanny ability to know what they were doing, at all times. He was as much a stalker of Sutton as Sutton had been to the reviewer.

He put the phone to his ear.

“Where is she?”

A laugh, brash and mean. “Now, now, that tone won’t do. Come on, Ethan. You need to ask me nicely. You know you want to.”

Ethan felt the familiar rush of hate and fear. Bile rose in his stomach. Wilde’s goal may have been to terrorize Sutton, but Ethan had not been left out of the charade. It had started with him. The mistakes he’d made were going to haunt him forever, and he’d come to terms with this. He’d been silent for so long, though, that Ethan actually thought they were free of Wilde, of his knowledge and accusations.

He did know that bowing down wasn’t the way to make things come to a head.

“You have one minute to share everything you know, and if you don’t, I’m going to call up the very nice police officer who’s been hanging around and tell her to come arrest you for obstruction.”

“Oh, pu-lease. You won’t. You’ve never had the balls to do anything. That’s why Sutton hated you so much.”

“You don’t know where she is. You’re just playing with me.”

“Fine. Believe that if you want. But I saw her leave your house in the middle of the night, and I saw her get into a car. I have a license plate. Call the cops, and I will deny it all. Give me $50,000 and I’ll tell you the rest. There’s a place, Gentry’s Farm. It’s...”

“I know where it is, you sick fuck.”

“I figured you’d remember. You have half an hour. And leave your phone at home.”

The line went dead. Empty air. Nothing.

Ethan laid his head in his hands, allowed the feeling of complete and utter hopelessness take him over, stealing through his flesh like opium. What had he done? What had he done to their lives?

This was all on him, and he knew it.

When he finished the self-flagellation, he stood, went to the safe in Sutton’s office, pulled out the stack of cash they kept on hand in case of emergencies and, from under the couch cushions, an old World War I–era trench knife, the only weapon he allowed in the house, and an antique to boot. He wished he was a hunter, wished he had a gun. He wouldn’t hesitate to shoot the bastard who was making his life a living hell.