From Ballrooms to Breakers: Wilder Case Darkens as Body Found Off Montauk
By Charles DeWitt
NEW YORK — The story that began in Fifth Avenue drawing rooms shifted seaward Tuesday when a woman’s body was recovered off Montauk.While police will not confirm an identity—citing an unrecognizable condition and the need for dental verification—attention has narrowed on fiancé Dorian Thoreau, described by one investigator as “a suspect at this stage.”Representatives for Mr.Thoreau called the characterization “premature.”
THE HAMPTON BEACON— Community News (Wednesday Home Delivery Teaser)
Montauk Recovery Spurs Questions in Wilder Search
Editors’ Note: As authorities work to match dental records to remains recovered off Montauk Point, readers are urged to avoid speculation.Police confirm only that Mr.Dorian Thoreau is being treated as a suspect.A public information officer said next of kin will be notified prior to any identification announcement.
NEW YORK EVENING STANDARD— Late Final
Grim Find at the Point; Wilder Family Asks for Privacy
By Nora Ellis
NEW YORK — Attorneys for the Wilder family asked for privacy Tuesday night after word that a woman’s body had been recovered near Montauk.Officials would not confirm identity, citing unrecognizable condition and pending dental comparison.Sources say Dorian Thoreau, fiancé to Cleo Wilder, remains a suspect in the case.
ChapterThirty-One
Barret
The news spreads through the house like an incoming storm—slow, suffocating, impossible to ignore.It rolls in on the hiss of faxes, the chime of email alerts, the constant buzzing from Eddie’s new PR agency.He bought himself one of those overblown media setups just to “stay ahead of the curve.”
Love the guy to death, but sometimes Eddie’s passion borders on nuclear.He wants control of the narrative, but all it’s doing is making the silence louder.
Me?I had to go to Seattle to interview with the police because at this moment anyone who dated Cleo could be a suspect.Fucking Dorian making shit up ...I want to think that my acting skills worked well enough to make them believe I didn’t give two fucks about Cleo—plus I have a good alibi.
Of course, it’s been a fucking long day—longer than it should’ve been.Even when we’re prepared, nothing about this feels manageable.The house phone won’t shut up.Somewhere down the hall, a fax machine spits out another sheet with a tired groan, like it’s exhausted too.Doors open.Close.Voices slip through the cracks—Roderick’s clipped tone, Rhodes asking too many questions, Eddie snapping back.Every time we inch forward, something yanks us back.
Once I’m back from Seattle, I stay with Cleo.
She hasn’t moved much.Sits on the edge of the bed like she’s bracing for an earthquake, her toes pressing hard into the rug, her palms flattened against her thighs.Like she has to remind herself this is real.That she’s real.That she chose to stay.
Rain trails down the window in threads of silver.Beyond the glass, the ocean is a breath held too long—gray, endless, waiting.I strum absent chords on the guitar, the notes going nowhere, but hoping they’ll keep her present.The sound keeps the walls from closing in.
We breathe together in the quiet.Four counts in.Hold.Six out.Again.Again.Until the tremble in her fingers becomes something she can live inside.
“It’s everywhere,” she whispers.Her voice is too thin, like it might vanish if she speaks any louder.“Every channel.Every call.They’re talking like I’m gone.”
I set the guitar aside and shift closer, letting my knee touch hers.“They can talk,” I murmur.“You’re right here.With me.”
Her eyes lift toward the window, watching the world refuse to pause.“They’ll stitch together a stranger and call her me,” she says.“They’ll slap a name on a girl they never met and feed her to the world like it’s truth.”
“They don’t know you,” I say.“I do.Eddie does.”I move toward the bed and reach out, palm up.“Take this.”
She stares at my hand for a second too long before sliding her fingers into mine.I draw my thumb across the inside of her wrist—slow, rhythmic—and feel her breath sync to the motion.Like her body needs someone else’s pace to remember its own.
Cleo swallows hard.“They found someone.”
“Yeah.”I place her on my lap.
“She had a life.”Her voice falters.“A family.”
I nod once.“She’s not real, baby.They built her using Hollywood props.It’s all fake—every detail crafted to fit the script.We’ve got people on the inside making sure it looks legit.”
She blinks, but it doesn’t reach her expression.Her jaw tenses like she’s trying to chew through the guilt, but it won’t go down.“But someone out there’s going to grieve her,” she says.“Even if she never existed.”
