The First Wife (37 page)

He looked over at her in question; even though her heart hurt for him and she wished
she could keep it from happening, she nodded.

“We’ll be in the study,” he said.

A moment later, he and Raine disappeared into the house.

She turned to Paul. “You don’t have to stay.”

“Do you know what’s going on?”

“I think so.”

She didn’t share and he looked hurt. “They may need me. I’ll hang around.”

“Raine might. Logan has me.”

“Right.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Old habits.”

“Let’s go in, the mosquitoes are starting to bite.”

It was nearly an hour before Logan and Raine emerged from the study. It was obvious
they’d both been crying. Wordlessly, Paul took Raine’s hand to escort her home. She
let him with a murmur of thanks and a glance back.

Bailey held her own hand out. Logan took it and she led him upstairs, to their bed.

Silently, she undressed him, telling him with hands and mouth how much she loved and
needed him. That she understood, that she was here for him.

She drew him down with her, into her. They’d only been apart a day, but it felt like
weeks. Months even. Bailey realized it had been the emotional distance between them,
her suspicion separating them.

She trusted him completely now. She felt it in her body’s response to him. Not just
physical but somehow spiritual as well. Wild, free. She held not one part of herself
back, not one thought or feeling. It hadn’t been like this since before the accident,
before the red shoe and Billy Ray’s outlandish theories.

Afterward, they nestled together under the covers.

“We have to talk,” he said.

“Yes.”

“No more secrets.”

“No. God, no.”

He rested his forehead against hers. “What I said in the car, it’s true. It’s not
over, Bailey.”

“What do you—”

His stomach growled loudly. In response hers did, too. She laughed. “What a pair.”

“Jail grub leaves something to be desired. What’s your excuse?”

Laughing, she jumped out of the bed, taking a pillow with her. As he started after
her, she swung it at him. Surprised, he stumbled backward, then a grabbed a pillow
of his own.

A raucous pillow fight ensued, complete with chasing each other around the room, jumping
on the bed and feathers raining over them as her pillow burst with her last blow.

They tumbled to the bed and made love again, this time slowly and tenderly. An exquisite
expression of their love.

When it was over, he collapsed beside her. “I’m done. Completely spent.”

“No round three?” she teased, playfully nipping his chest.

“Not until you feed me. I’m weak with hunger.”

She laughed. “You? I’m the one who’s supposed to be eating for two.”

His smile turned tender. He splayed his fingers on her belly. “How is she?”

“She?”

“I just have a feeling.”

Bailey smiled. “She’s fine. Growing.”

“I see that.” He looked up at her, eyes misty. “In jail, thinking about you two was
all that kept me sane. You gave me something to hope for.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

Thursday, April 24

9:15
P.M.

They raided the refrigerator and pantry. Ate chunky-style peanut butter from the jar,
cereal from the box and leftover pizza cold. Bailey drank milk, Logan Abita beer.

And they spoke of nothing of consequence. The weather and the farm, of baby names
and of their dreams. Their future together.

The way newlyweds did. The way they should. Bailey held tightly to those moments,
memorizing each word and thought, each glance exchanged and smile shared.

The calm before the storm, she thought. And as if her own thoughts had conjured it,
his mood changed, became serious. Almost brooding.

“We have to talk,” he said.

She wanted to argue. To beg him for a few more minutes of bliss. But it was too late,
he’d already moved on.

“Yes,” she said. “We do.”

They positioned themselves across the kitchen table from one another, interview style.
Face-to-face, she thought. Eye-to-eye.

He began. “I’ve made a mess of everything, I know that. From the beginning, by not
telling you about everything. My family, True, the investigations. I wanted to keep
us, what we had, in a bubble.” He laughed, the sound sharp and unforgiving, directed
at himself. “I was a fool.

“Now, tonight I learn I was even more a fool than I—”

He choked on the words, emotion seeming to overcome him. He looked away, a muscle
jumping in his clenched jaw.

“Don’t,” she said. “It’s not your fault.”

“How can it not be my fault? I was her husband. How could I have not known?”

“Because she didn’t want you to.”

He didn’t accept that; she read it in his eyes.

“True and I, the fight we had before I went to Jackson, I accused her of having an
affair, Bailey. She’d been distant. Secretive and moody. She denied it, but I knew
she was hiding something from me. But instead of coaxing her, I stormed out. Left
her alone and heartbroken.”

Bailey held her hand out. He took it. “That’s why it was so easy to convince myself
that she’d run off with someone else. I don’t believe that anymore. I think she’s
dead. I think the bastard who took Amanda and Trista, whoever he is, killed her.”

“I do, too.”

His eyes turned glassy, and he looked quickly away. After a moment, he cleared his
throat, met her gaze once more. “I let her down, Bailey. Someone hurt her, but instead
of moving heaven and earth to find out who, I chose to vilify her. How do I … forgive
myself for that?”

The words came out tight. She leaned forward, her own eyes teary. “We find out who,”
she said. “We make it as right as we can.”

He seemed to digest that, then went on. “I didn’t just start believing that tonight.
It began the night you and I argued. I was angry and hurt. I couldn’t sleep. I kept
thinking about True, about Billy Ray telling you that those women were buried here
on the farm. The thought was repugnant. It infuriated me. But I wondered, what if
he was right? Could he be right?”

He paused, met her eyes. “That’s why I went online. Looking for something, anything
that would free us from all this suspicion.”

“I saw it, the search, on your computer.”

“I knew you had because you changed. We changed.”

She swallowed hard. “I should have asked you about it. I should have trusted you,
but—”

“I wasn’t trustworthy.”

“No—”

“Yes. I imagined how it must look to you. Saw it through your eyes. And how messed
up it all was. That it could ruin what we had. But I was so afraid of losing you.
And then you and Tony found that shoe. I tried to play it cool, but it totally freaked
me out.”

Her mouth went dry; her heart began to pound. “Did you recognize … was it True’s?”

“I knew it wasn’t hers. I’d never seen them before and she wasn’t a red-shoe kind
of person.”

“So why’d you take it out of the garbage?”

He looked almost comically surprised. “You went into the trash for it?”

“I couldn’t stop thinking about the damn thing.”

“I don’t blame you. I didn’t just look guilty, I acted guilty, too.”

“No more doubts,” she said. “That’s behind us.”

“We’re a pair, aren’t we?”

They smiled simultaneously, and in the instant Bailey could almost believe they were
any other couple in love, that there wasn’t the specter of murder hanging over them.

Almost, but not quite.

She screwed up her courage. “There’s something I have to tell you. Upstairs you said
it wasn’t over, but you didn’t know what they could have. I do.”

She met his questioning gaze evenly. “I’ve remembered the day of the accident. Everything
but finding Henry dead.” He nodded and she went on. “I went to check on Henry, the
way Stephanie had asked me to. He had something for me. Something he found.”

She went on to describe the box and the items inside.

“Okay. So Henry was always treasure hunting. He picked up stuff he found and he put
it all in a box. What’s the big deal?”

“Not stuff he’d collected here and there, Logan. He found the box with all of the
items in it. It was someone’s special collection.”

“I get that. But what does that have to do with the missing women—”

She saw the moment he got it, connected all the pieces. “You think the items belonged
to them?”

“I know they did.”

“You have … proof?”

“Circumstantial. The class ring was from Covington High, class of 2010, the year Amanda
LaPier graduated.

“There’s one more thing about the box, Logan. Your initials are on it. Burned onto
the bottom.”

Something horrible and sad crossed his features. He stood and went to the sink. For
long moments he stood there, hands braced on the counter, head bowed. “I made that
box when I was ten,” he said finally, voice thick. He cleared his throat. “Dad helped
me. It’s one of the good memories I have of him.… I remember being so proud of it.
And now—”

Violated, she thought. The memory. All of it.

“I’m sorry.”

“I hadn’t thought about it in years. I figured it’d been tossed out long ago.”

“When was the last time you saw it?”

He thought a moment. “In the barn or garage … sometime after Dad died.”

“The hay barn, maybe?”

He seemed to freeze. “Why would you think it’d be—”

“That’s where Henry said he found it.”

“The hay barn,” he repeated. “I haven’t set foot in there since Roane. Nobody has.”

“Someone has,” she corrected. “Besides Henry.”

They fell silent. Seconds ticked past, becoming minutes. “What are you thinking?”
she asked.

He looked over at her. “How lucky I am, that after all of this, you’re still here.”

She stood and crossed to him. “I love you.” She slipped her arms around him from behind
and rested her cheek against his back.

“Why?” The word came out broken.

“You’re worth loving, Logan. I believe in you.”

He turned in her arms and rested his forehead against hers. “Now we have to work on
everyone else.”

“Rumsfeld’s the only one I’m worried about. Let the rest of them think what they want.”

He smiled and held her at arm’s length. “Why do you suspect the police have the box?”

She explained about looking for it and about Stephanie catching Billy Ray at Henry’s,
putting something in his trunk.

“That son of a bitch. If the police have it, I’m screwed.”

“Then why’d they let you go?”

“Not enough to charge? Or they figure I’m not going anywhere, so they let me go, maybe
lead them to evidence. I don’t know.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “It doesn’t
really make sense. Unless there’s more we don’t know.”

“I have another theory. Billy Ray had the box, but expecting a search warrant for
the farm, he planted it here. To frame you.”

For a long moment, Logan was silent. “Billy Ray really might have been right. Otherwise,
why is the killer’s collection here?” As if thinking out loud, he began to pace. “It’s
someone who knows the area well. Knows our family history, about Roane and that we
abandoned that barn. The layout of the farm. But that could be almost anyone who’s
lived in the area for a while.”

“At least since 2005.”

He stopped, looked at her. “Because of Nicole.”

“Yes.” He started to pace once more. “He lures them here … how? Drugs? Sex? I don’t
know … something. Or does he restrain them? Lure them into his car, then—”

He suddenly stopped, obviously exhausted. Expression: beaten. “I don’t know where
to start. When the law’s against you, where do you turn?”

“To me,” she said softly. “We’ll do this together.” She held out her hand. “Tomorrow.
You need rest, Logan.”

“There’s no time. Rumsfeld, Billy Ray, they—”

“I need rest. For me. And for our baby.” She reached out again. “I’m not going without
you.”

When he hesitated, she added, “We’ll be able to think clearly. We’ll know what to
do, Logan.”

He took her hand. She led him upstairs to bed. Within moments of his head hitting
the pillow, his breathing became deep, even and rhythmic.

Tonight it was she who wouldn’t sleep. She who would stand guard, worrying about keeping
him safe, protecting him from those who would destroy them.

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

Thursday, April 24

10:45
P.M.

Billy Ray sat at his kitchen table, three fingers of Kentucky whiskey untouched in
front of him, gaze straight ahead. Abbott was gone. Released, charges dropped. No
warrant was coming. No search of the property.

Everything, all his hard work, shot to hell.

By some substance-addled, bleach-blond bimbo.

Abbott had won again. The bully always won. On the playground. In the war room.

Behind closed doors.

“Hello, Billy Ray.”

He shifted his gaze. Stephanie stood in the kitchen doorway. He blinked, wondering
if he was hallucinating, though he knew he wasn’t. “How did you get in here?”

“You left the door open.”

He frowned. Had he? He didn’t even recall arriving home.

“I heard about Logan being released.”

“Come to gloat?”

“Is that what you think?”

“You hate me,” he said. “You’ve made that clear.”

“You’re wrong about that. You hurt me. But I don’t hate you.”

“If not to gloat, then why are you here, Steph?”

“I have a question. I want to know where you got this.” She crossed to the table,
held out her hand. Lying in her palm was a simple gold wedding band.

His mouth went dry, his head light. “Where did you get that?”

“You know where.”

Tucked into his bureau drawer, wrapped in one of his dad’s old handkerchiefs.

He stared at it. Heat washed over him, then clammy cold. “I could arrest you for breaking
and entering.”