The First Wife (39 page)

Billy Ray looked up at Rumsfeld through half-shut eyes. He stood beside the hospital
bed, Carlson hovered just behind him. Over twenty years on the force and he’d never
been shot. Until now.

With his own gun. By a woman he’d thought he could control.

She’d turned out to be smarter than he. They all had.

He closed his eyes. It hurt to breathe. To swallow. To move his head.

It hurt to be alive.

“You feel strong enough to chat a moment?”

He reopened his eyes and nodded, wincing at the slight movement.

Rumsfeld pulled over a chair and sat. “You know why we’re here.”

“Yes,” he managed, voice thick and raw. “Stephanie Rodriquez.”

“Yes. She shot you last night. We need to take your statement.”

The gig was up. Over and done.
He closed his eyes again. “I’m so tired. So … damn … tired.”

“I know, man.”

He heard the squeak of the chair on the linoleum floor as Rumsfeld inched it closer
to the bed.

“A couple minutes. Enough for us to move on, then we’ll leave you be.”

“No.” He shook his head, looked at him. “You won’t.”

The detective frowned slightly. “Rodriquez claims she shot you in self-defense.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, it was self-defense?”

“Yes.”

“She came to us with a wild story, Williams. One about you having killed True Abbott.”

“No.”

“You did not kill True Abbott?”

Carlson, he saw, took notes. “No.”

“Rodriquez had in her possession a wedding band. One she says belonged to the former
Mrs. Abbott. One she says she recovered from your bedroom.”

“Yes.”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s the … truth.”

Rumsfeld cleared his throat. “Is True Abbott dead?”

“Yes.”

“And you know this to be a fact?”

“I do.”

Rumsfeld leaned closer. “And how do you know this to be a fact?”

“Because”—tears leaked from the corners of his eyes—“I buried her near the pond at
Abbott Farm.”

Rumsfeld and Carlson both seemed to freeze. Their faces took on expressions of comic
disbelief. “Bring me paper”—Billy Ray cleared his throat—“I’ll write my … statement.”

Rumsfeld looked over his shoulder at Carlson. “Paper and pen, something for him to
write on. Now.”

Rumsfeld turned back around. “So, you confess to killing True Abbott?”

“No. It was an … accident. She fell. I panicked.…” He bit back a sob. “Shouldn’t have
covered it up.”

“What about Nicole Grace? Did you accidentally strangle her?”

“No. Abbott—”

“What about Trista Hook? Do you know where she’s buried?”

He shook his head. “Abbott.”

“And Amanda LaPier?”

“Abbott. Logan Abbott.”

Carlson returned with the paper, pen and a clipboard. Rumsfeld motioned him to hold
off. “Are you telling me you admit to being responsible for True Abbott’s death, but
none of the other women’s deaths or disappearances?”

“Not … me.” Billy Ray motioned Carlson over. “Abbott. He’s the one.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

Friday, April 25

8:05
A.M.

Bailey awakened early. Beside her, Logan still slept. They had talked on and off all
night. Sleeping, then waking simultaneously, as if they were so connected they were
one being. Funny thing was, they hadn’t whispered of what this morning might bring,
or what their next step should be, but they’d talked of the future. Their future.
Children they would have and love, places they would go. Of holidays and anniversaries,
weddings and the grandchildren they might have someday.

As if they had used those precious hours to live out the rest of their lives together.

Bailey watched him as he slept. So peaceful. Totally relaxed. She hadn’t seen him
this way since the island. So beautiful, she thought. She reached out and trailed
a finger along his cheek.

His eyes snapped open, the expression in them feral. Like an animal awakened in the
wild, instantly alert and ready to attack.

With a squeak of surprise, she snatched her hand back.

His eyes cleared and he smiled sleepily. “Morning, love.”

“I woke you up. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.” He pulled her into his arms. “You’re trembling, sweetheart. Are you cold?”

She forced the shadows away. “Not anymore.”

“What time is it?”

“After eight.”

His lips twitched. “How much after?”

“Just. Why?”

“There’s something I need to do.”

“What? I’ll come with.”

“No, you stay. I need to talk to Raine again, then I’m going to pass something by
Paul.”

“You’re shutting me out again, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely not.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “I can’t do this without you. Right
now, we only have each other.”

“You’re going to tell Raine and Paul everything.”

“That’s the plan.”

Something about the way he answered left it open for a change of plans. Why? She started
to ask him; he stopped her with a deep, lingering kiss. A moment later, he was up
and stretching. She followed him out of bed, toward the bathroom. Tony opened an eye,
as if wondering why his humans were acting so strangely, then shut it again and burrowed
back into his feather-dusted bed.

She slipped into her robe and brushed her teeth while Logan dressed. Neither spoke.
They exited the bedroom and descended the stairs in silence, as well.

“I’ll make you a cup of coffee,” she said as they reached the landing.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll get some at Raine’s.” He kissed her. “I won’t be gone
long.”

He started for the front door; she caught his arm, stopping him. “Remember, no secrets.”

“No secrets.” He searched her gaze. “This is something only I can do. I promise.”

He crossed his heart, then kissed her again. She watched him go, the strangest sensation
rolling over her. Of finality. Of good-bye.

Tears stung her eyes and Bailey blinked against them. Damn hormones, she thought,
heading into the kitchen.

She made herself a decaf latte, carried it to the table and sat. But before she sipped,
Tony started to bark.

Bailey set down her mug and went to check on him. As she reached the front hall, the
doorbell rang. She peered out the side window; her stomach sank. Detectives Rumsfeld
and Carlson had come calling.

She wished she could pretend she wasn’t home, but they had seen her. “Tony! Quiet.”

She swung open the door. Her greeting died on her lips as Tony charged down the stairs.

The detective’s hand went to his gun. “Restrain your animal, Mrs. Abbott!”

“Tony, no!” She grabbed his collar; he nearly yanked her off her feet.

The fur of his ruff stood up and he growled, deep in his throat. “I’m so sorry. I’ve
never seen him act like—”

Rumsfeld cut her off. “For the dog’s safety and your own, you need to confine him.
I don’t want to be forced to take him down.”

“Of course,” she said, as shocked by the deputy’s threat as she was by Tony’s behavior.
“Excuse me.” She dragged him to the study, then locked him inside. He immediately
started clawing at the door.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into him,” she said, returning to the detectives. “How
can I help you?”

“Is your husband home?”

Her mouth went dry. “No, he just left for his sister’s. I expect him back shortly.”

“May we come in?”

She hesitated. “Why? If you’re looking for Logan—”

“We need to ask you a few questions.”

No reassuring smile this morning, he was all business. “I suppose. Come on in.”

They stepped inside. Tony, who had quieted, started pawing at the door again.

“Would you like coffee?”

“No, thank you. You might like to sit.”

For a moment, she couldn’t breathe, let alone speak. She nodded and led them to the
kitchen. Her latte sat cooling on the table; she took the chair by it and automatically
curled her hands around the mug.

Clinging to it like a lifeline.

Waiting.

Rumsfeld sat in the chair directly across from hers; his partner stood behind him.
“It’s come to our attention that Henry Rodriquez was in possession of a box of women’s
items, a box he presented to you the day of his death.”

“Yes,” she managed.

“Do you know what that box contained?”

“I think so.”

“And what is that, Mrs. Abbott?”

She couldn’t form the words. This was it, what she and Logan had feared. It’s why
she’d been overcome with sadness as he’d walked away. Why they had lived their lives
and their children’s lives last night.

Their last night together.

Her fairy tale was ending.

“He didn’t do it,” she whispered.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“My husband, he didn’t do anything wrong. He’s innocent.”

“What was in the box, Mrs. Abbott?”

She shook her head.

He ticked the items off for her. “An initial necklace that belonged to Nicole Grace.
A hair ornament that belonged to Trista Hook. Amanda LaPier’s class ring. And a bracelet,
lipstick and key fob we haven’t placed yet. Is that an accurate description of the
box’s contents?”

When she didn’t reply, he asked again. “Is that what was in the box, Mrs. Abbott?”

“Yes.”

“The box with your husband’s initials burned into the wood?”

Tears spilled down her cheeks. “Yes.”

“And you kept this information from us to protect your husband?”

She met the detective’s eyes. “Because he didn’t do anything.”

“Yes or no, Mrs. Abbott?”

“Yes.”

“Interfering with an investigation is a crime, did you know that?”

“I guess so.”

“Concealing evidence is also a crime, Mrs. Abbott. Are you aware of that?”

“I wasn’t! I didn’t! I only just remembered.”

“When?”

“Yesterday … no, the day before. Wednesday sometime. And not everything yet. Not finding
Henry, or even being on Tea Biscuit. It’s been coming back in segments.”

“What’s going on here?”

“Logan!” She jumped up and ran to him. “They know about the box! They think it’s yours,
that you murdered those women—”

“It’s okay, baby. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Mr. Abbott, you’ll need to come with us.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“Not yet.”

“May I call my lawyer?”

“Of course.”

“No!” she cried. “He didn’t do anything! Please, you have to listen to me!”

“It’s okay,” he said again, freeing himself from her arms. He kissed her. “I’ll be
home soon.”

Bailey followed them to the door and out of the house, then watched helplessly as
they helped Logan into the cruiser, slamming the door behind him.

She jerked at the sound. It was followed by a second, as the two detectives slammed
theirs in unison. The sounds reverberated through her. Like shots.

Bailey’s legs went weak and she grabbed the door frame for support. Henry on his front
porch, smiling his strange smile. The box in his hands. Her, hurrying to her vehicle.
Reaching it, looking over her shoulder.

“I’ll be back, Henry. With Tea Biscuit.”

She climbed in and waved, doing her best to not act like she was freaking out.

Because she was. Big time. Like can’t-think-beyond-absolute-terror freaking out.

Get it together, Bailey. You can do this.

She reached the asphalt road in record time, and turned toward Abbott Farm. Her thoughts
raced. Her heart pounded. She gripped the steering wheel so tightly, her knuckles
turned white.

Was she doing the right thing? She couldn’t go to Billy Ray or the sheriff yet. Then
when? The box, Logan’s initials on it, the items inside.

Damning evidence. Incriminating him.

No. She flexed her fingers on the wheel. There had to be a simple, logical explanation
for the items in that box.

And maybe she would find it at the hay barn.

A white Mercedes SUV whizzed past, going in the opposite direction. Raine, she realized,
glancing in her rearview. Was she on her way to visit Henry? Or heading somewhere
else?

If Henry’s, would he show her the box? The items inside? What would she think?

Bailey reached Abbott Farm, passed the barn. It looked deserted. The morning chores
had all been completed and the ones associated with sundown were several hours away.
She didn’t see August’s SUV, which was odd because he typically had training sessions
during this time.

Bailey arrived at the house and ran in. She stripped out of her navy trousers and
white blouse and into blue jeans and a T-shirt. After pulling her hair into a ponytail,
she ran back out to the car.

Within a couple of minutes, she was in the barn. As she hoped, it was deserted. Even
Paul’s blue pickup was gone. She was grateful. She didn’t want to have to explain
any of this.

She’d never tacked up Tea Biscuit on her own, but she knew she could do it. She set
to work. Bit. Bridle. Blanket. Saddle pad, then saddle. Cinch it tight. Adjust the
stirrups. Double-check everything.

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, aware of time passing.
The mare snorted softly, as if mimicking her.

“Good girl,” she said, leading her out to the mounting platform. “We can do this,
right? We’ll do it together.”

She mounted the mare and guided her toward the trail. Tea Biscuit seemed skittish,
and Bailey wondered if she was picking up on her rider’s nerves or if she simply wasn’t
in the mood.

You’re in control, Bailey reminded herself. She couldn’t give the mare an opportunity
to think otherwise.

You can do this Bailey. You can.

She took it slow, even though her every instinct screamed to dig her heels in and
urge Tea Biscuit to a gallop. She had never ridden the path between the barn and Henry’s
and the few extra minutes wouldn’t make a difference. Especially since she was pregnant.
Henry wasn’t going anywhere, neither was the hay barn.