Chapter 7 The host

Raymond stepped back from the door and opened it wider in the gesture of a man who had been expecting you and was glad you came.

"Ethan," he said. His voice was low and warm and carried the particular texture of manufactured grief, the kind that has been rehearsed enough times that it no longer sounds rehearsed. Come in. Please.

Ethan stepped inside.

The house was warm in the way that well-heated houses in October are warm, the kind of warmth that hits you in the face when you come in from the cold and that under normal circumstances would feel welcoming. The hallway was wide, with dark hardwood floors and a console table against one wall holding a lamp and a small arrangement of dried flowers that had probably been placed there by someone Raymond had paid to make the house look like a person lived in it comfortably. There were no personal photographs in the hallway. Ethan noted this and filed it without expression.

Raymond put a hand on his shoulder briefly as he closed the door behind them. The hand was firm and deliberate, not the tentative touch of genuine condolence but the practiced grip of a man who understood physical contact as a tool.

"I am so glad you came," Raymond said. I have been beside myself since I heard. I tried calling last night but I could not get through.

I know. I saw the calls. I was not in a place to talk.

"Of course. Of course you weren't." Raymond shook his head slowly, the picture of a man absorbing an ongoing sorrow. Come through to the sitting room. I have dinner ready whenever you want it. There is no rush.

The sitting room was at the back of the house, large and quietly furnished, with two leather armchairs facing a fireplace that had a real fire going in it. A low table between the chairs held a bottle of bourbon, a second glass already poured, and a small plate of something Ethan did not look at. The room smelled of woodsmoke and the faint trace of whatever Raymond used to clean the leather. Everything in the room was exactly where it was meant to be. That was the thing about Raymond's house that Ethan had always noticed without ever articulating. It did not look lived in. It looked staged.

He sat in the chair that was not Raymond's and accepted the bourbon he had not asked for and held it without drinking.

Raymond settled into his chair and crossed one leg over the other and looked at Ethan with the sustained, attentive sorrow of a man at a wake. He was good at this. Ethan had always known Raymond was good at this, at calibrating himself to whatever a room required. He had assumed it was the lawyer in him, the professional habit of reading an audience. He was revising that assumption.

"Tell me what happened," Raymond said. If you can. Only if you can.

"I went to the library," Ethan said. He kept his voice even and a little flat, which was not difficult because that was where his voice wanted to be anyway. I came home and the front door was open. I found Sarah in the living room. Lily in the kitchen. He paused. Noah was upstairs.

Raymond closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to his mouth and held them there for a moment. It was a very good performance. The fingers, the closed eyes, the held breath. If Ethan had not been watching for the seams he would not have seen them.

"My God," Raymond said quietly, opening his eyes. Ethan. I am so sorry. I am so deeply sorry.

Thank you.

Have the police said anything? Do they have any leads?

It's early. They are still gathering information. He let a beat pass. They will want to speak with everyone connected to the family.

Something moved in Raymond's expression, fast and small, and was gone. Of course. Whatever they need. I will make myself completely available.

"I told them you were my father's closest friend. That you had known us for years."

"Absolutely. Anything I can do to help." Raymond picked up his bourbon and turned it slightly in his hand. This is an unimaginable thing, Ethan. Truly unimaginable. Sarah was a wonderful woman. And Lily. He shook his head again. That beautiful little girl.

Ethan watched him say Lily's name and felt something cold move through him that he kept entirely off his face.

"And Noah," Ethan said.

Raymond looked at him.

You didn't mention Noah.

A pause of perhaps one second. Of course. Noah too. That poor boy. He set his glass down. Your father loved that boy. If Marcus knew.

There it was. The first mention of Marcus, dropped into the conversation like a stone into still water, casual enough to seem incidental and weighted enough to mean something. Ethan had been waiting for it.

Have you been in contact with my father? Ethan asked.

"Not for some time," Raymond said. You know how Marcus is. He disappears into himself. I have tried reaching him over the years but. He spread his hands in a gesture of resigned affection. Some people have to come back in their own time.

When did you last speak to him?

Raymond appeared to think about it. Perhaps eighteen months ago. Maybe a little longer. He called out of nowhere, the way he does, and we spoke briefly and then he was gone again. He looked at Ethan with careful sympathy. Why do you ask?

I have been thinking about him since yesterday. Whether someone should tell him.

"Yes," Raymond said slowly. Yes, someone should. I can try reaching out if you would like. I may have an old number.

"That would be helpful," Ethan said.

He had no intention of letting Raymond reach his father first. He did not yet know where his father was or whether Marcus was even alive and findable, but the idea of Raymond being the one to make that contact before Ethan did sat in his stomach like something he had swallowed wrong.

They moved to the dining room for dinner at eight. Raymond had made something with chicken that Ethan ate without tasting, responding to conversation in the right places, asking questions that sounded like the questions of a grieving man seeking comfort and that were in fact the questions of a man constructing a map. How long had Raymond known about the house on Calloway Drive? Whether he had visited recently. What his schedule had looked like this past week. Raymond answered everything smoothly and in the unhurried way of a man with nothing to hide, which was either the truth or the most dangerous thing in the world.

After dinner Raymond poured more bourbon and they sat by the fire again and Raymond told a story about Marcus from years ago, something warm and meandering about a fishing trip, and Ethan listened and watched the fire and turned one question over and over in his mind like a stone he was trying to find the sharp edge of.

The first call had come at four twelve.

The bodies had been found at three fifteen, give or take, when Ethan had called 911. The police had arrived and the street had filled with lights and the neighbors had come out and the news had begun its slow spread through the network of people who knew the Caldwell family.

Four twelve was less than an hour after Ethan had walked through his front door.

In a city this size, on a Tuesday afternoon, with no social media announcement and no press presence yet, how had Raymond Holt heard quickly enough to be calling at four twelve.

Ethan looked at the fire.

Raymond was still talking.

Ethan smiled at the right moment and said nothing and kept the question exactly where it was.