The First Wife (21 page)

She cracked it open. “There must be some mistake. My husband is on his way to your
office.”

“No mistake, ma’am. May we come in? We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“I thought my husband already told you that I—” She stopped, realizing they knew very
well what they were doing. “I see,” she said, stepping away from the door to allow
them in. “He’s being questioned there, and I’m being questioned here.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the older one replied. “May we sit down?”

“Of course. This way.” She led them to the keeping room, with its windows facing the
gardens. The sun tumbled through, warming her.

The detectives sat directly across from her. She found their gazes uncomfortably intense.
“We understand you had an accident on Wednesday?”

“Yes.” Her hand went instinctively to the bandages. “I was riding. I fell and hit
my head.”

“How? What caused the fall?”

“I don’t remember. In fact, I don’t remember any of it.” She moved her gaze between
the two. “But I think you already know that. Am I right?”

Neither responded. The older of the two glanced down at his notebook, then back up
at her. “You’re suffering from Traumatic Memory Loss, TML.”

“Yes,” she said. “Retrograde. That’s what the neurologist called it.”

“His name?”

“Dr. Bauer.”

“First name?”

She got the feeling the detectives already knew it. They were one up on her—she didn’t
have a clue. She told them so. “I’m sure that information would be easy enough to
come by.”

“Of course.” He looked at his notes. “What, exactly, does ‘retrograde amnesia’ mean?”

“Actually, Detective Rumsfeld, I’m sure Dr. Bauer could explain it much better than
I.”

She saw something sly in the detective’s expression; it caused a shudder to ripple
over her. This man was not her friend. “And I will ask Dr. Bauer, but right now I’d
like to hear it from you.”

“It means the blow to my head affected my memory.”

“Does it?”

She met the detective’s gaze evenly. “Yes. That’s what Dr. Bauer said.”

“But just that small space of time?”

“Apparently. Like I said, when I woke up, I had no recollection of what had happened.
The last clear memory I have was of getting ready to go for a walk. That last Wednesday,
after all the rain.”

“Anywhere in particular?”

“What?”

“The walk, heading anywhere specifically.”

Henry’s, she realized. No one had asked her that until now. A shudder passed over
her.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I—” She stopped, clasped her hands in her lap. “I just realized I’d been
going to check on Henry. And now he’s…”

“Dead.”

She nodded, blinking against tears.

“I wondered if you saw him that day?”

“I don’t remember.”

“There’s no reason you wouldn’t have, is there?”

Would there be? The gaping hole in her memory shouted, “Yes!” but she shook her head.
“I don’t imagine.”

“I wonder if that was the last time you saw him alive? I wonder what you talked about?”

She didn’t have an answer and after a moment he went on. “Actually, Mrs. Abbott, I’m
not a complete stranger to TML,” he said. “As you can imagine, many a criminal has
suffered from ‘amnesia.’”

“I’m not a criminal.”

“I’m not saying you are.”

Subtle stress on the “
you
.” Implying someone else involved was. Someone close to her.

Logan.

Rumsfeld went on. “The way I understand it, traumatic memory loss can be caused by
a physical trauma, but also a psychological one. For example, an experience so disturbing
or upsetting, the subconscious suppresses it.”

A psychological trauma.
Could that be the cause of her amnesia?

“What do you think, Mrs. Abbott?” The detective looked her in the eyes. “What could
have been so very traumatic, you had to block it out?”

Bailey stared at him. Her heart pounded heavily; her mouth had gone bone dry. “Henry,”
she said. “Finding him. His blood was on my clothing.”

“What else?”

“I don’t know.” She twisted her fingers. “That wouldn’t be enough?”

“You tell me. Would it take something you would want to deny with every fiber of your
being, Mrs. Abbott? What could that be?”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying, Detective. I don’t remember anything else.
Just Henry’s blood!”

He leaped on the comment. “So, you do remember something?”

“Yes … no…”

The other detective spoke up. “You look pale, Mrs. Abbott. Could I get you a glass
of water?”

She looked at him, grateful. “Yes, thank you.”

Rumsfeld went on. “Just a moment ago, you said you didn’t remember anything.”

“I don’t … didn’t, I mean. Yesterday I awakened from a nap.… I thought I’d heard a
gunshot and I looked down and saw … blood.”

He frowned. “There was blood on you?”

“Not right then.” She brought a hand to her throbbing head, the bandages, then dropped
it. “I might have been dreaming it or remembering it, I don’t know. You can ask Logan
about it. Or my sister-in-law. She was here.”

Carlson handed her the water. She brought it to her lips, hand shaking. She took a
few sips, then looked up at the young detective. “Thank you.”

He squatted in front of her. “I’m sorry if we upset you,” he said gently. “I know
you cared about Henry Rodriquez, Mrs. Abbott. I’m sure you would want to help us find
his killer.”

“Of course,” she said. “I loved Henry.”

“You may have seen the shooter. You may have heard something important. A clue that
will help us find who did this.” He handed her his card. “Will you call me as you
remember? Anything, even something you think is unrelated?”

“I will.”

Carlson stood back up; Rumsfeld followed him to his feet.

“Thank you, Mrs. Abbott. That’s all for now.”

Bailey nodded mutely and showed them to the door, still holding the glass of water.
They drove off, the truth of the young detective’s words ringing in her head.

She might have seen or heard something important. Something that would lead them to
Henry’s killer.

To hell with Dr. Bauer’s warning, she decided. She couldn’t just wait around to remember
what happened. She needed those memories now.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Monday, April 21

10:55
A.M.

Bailey hurried up to her bedroom. She had a plan. Dr Bauer had said her memory could
be triggered by a sight, smell or sound. The last thing she remembered was being on
her way to Henry’s. It seemed to her that his cabin might be the best place for her
to start. If the cabin didn’t do the trick, she’d try the woods around it.

Where Henry had been shot. Where she must have found him.

She changed into jeans and a long-sleeved, chambray shirt, donned socks and boots.
Hiking out there might be a better choice for jogging her memory, but she didn’t feel
strong enough.

Bailey headed back downstairs and outside. The way she figured it, she had about an
hour until Logan returned. She was certain he wouldn’t approve of her plan, and didn’t
want to give him the opportunity to talk her out of it.

She fired up the Range Rover and headed out. The closer Bailey came to Henry’s cabin,
the more her feeling of dread grew. Her every instinct urged her to turn back.

But that didn’t make sense. How could she hide from what she already knew?

Apparently, quite efficiently.

No more. She had lived through whatever it was once, she could do it again.

The small house came into view. The Cajun cabin was exactly how she remembered it,
save for the bright yellow crime scene tape stretched across the front.

At the sight of that tape her stomach clenched.

Henry. Gone. Shot in the back.

Her friend. Dead.

A sob rose in her throat; she fought it back. Sweet, sweet Henry. Of all people, he
least deserved that.

Bailey resolutely closed the distance to the cabin. She braked directly in front,
cut the engine. Climbed out. And collected herself, her thoughts.

Three little steps. The garishly bright crime tape. The short walk across the porch
to the front door.

Remember, Bailey. All of it. Rip the Band-Aid off.

She closed her eyes, waited a moment for a memory to come tumbling back. To save her
from having to step into the house. Or worse, visit the place Henry’s blood had spilled
out.

None did.

Releasing a pent-up breath, Bailey made her way to the front door. She let herself
inside. For the first time, she wondered if being here was breaking the law. In the
same instant, she acknowledged that even if she was, it would change nothing. She
had to do this.

The three-room house was unnaturally quiet. The emptiness seemed to shout at her,
like an obscenity. She longed to break that silence. To call out a greeting. It sprang
to her lips and she bit it back. Never again.

Bailey closed the door behind her and moved deeper into the living room. Here were
the framed photographs she had studied before.

She went from one grouping of them to the other. This is how she’d learned Logan had
a brother. Here, looking at these photographs. She remembered her shock. Her feeling
of betrayal.

Bailey pushed those thoughts away, focusing instead on the reason for her being here.

Henry had been part of this family since the beginning. He had known everything about
them. All their secrets.

He had known where all the bodies were buried.

She stopped on that, momentarily off-balanced. No, it was August who had said that
to her. In an attempt to upset her. Henry had been kind. Wise in an uncomplicated
way, an open book. No secrets or subterfuge.

Nothing in the front room triggered a memory, nor in the kitchen. Bailey made her
way to the bedroom. The door stood partway open. She started through, then stopped,
shocked.

Stephanie lay in Henry’s bed, curled into a fetal position under the blanket. Nothing
but the top of her head poked out from the covers and she shook, as if with silent
tears or shuddering.

On the floor beside the bed lay a cluster of loose photographs and what looked like
letters.

Bailey stood frozen, uncertain what to do. They were friends, the decent thing would
be to offer comfort. Or would it? Stephanie wouldn’t have come out here if she had
wanted the company of others.

She couldn’t leave her this way.

Bailey took a step closer, her friend’s name on her lips when she stopped again, a
smell filling her head. She wrinkled her nose. What was it? She’d smelled it recently,
someplace else—

Turpentine. Raine’s studio.

The person in Henry’s bed wasn’t Stephanie, it was Raine.

She must have made a sound, because Raine sat up, face blotchy from crying. “What
are you doing here?”

Bailey took a step backward. “Excuse me. I didn’t—”

“Why are you doing this to me?”

Bailey shook her head. “I came here hoping to jog my memory. I had no idea you’d be
here. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Her sister-in-law stared at her, eyes glassy and bloodshot. “You did this.”

She shook her head. “You’re upset.”

“Everything was fine before you got here.”

Clearly it hadn’t been. Nothing had been “fine” in this family for a very long time.
But Bailey didn’t correct her. “I’m leaving now, Raine. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“She loved him,” Raine said. “That’s why he killed her.”

Bailey’s blood went cold. She stopped, turned back. “What did you say?”

“I don’t want you here.”

Bailey shook her head. “You said he killed her. Because she loved him. Who are you
talking about?”

“No one. Nothing.” She curled back into a ball of misery. “I lose everyone I love.”

It occurred to Bailey that Raine might be manipulating her, at least partly. Tossing
out provocative statements, then refusing to expand on them. But she had no doubt
her emotional distress was real.

“You still have Logan. Your friends. Paul and—”

“We’re poison, that’s what we are. This family … murder … adultery … no wonder Roane—”
She looked up at Bailey, dark eyes anguished. “He knew. He must have!”

Bailey squatted beside the bed. She didn’t know how to calm the other woman, if she
should even try or just call for Paul or Logan. “What are you taking about? Raine,
please, let me help you.”

Raine’s tears turned to sobs. “There’s no help for me. Don’t you see?”

“I don’t.” Bailey’s voice shook. “It’s never as bad as it seems. I promise you—”

Raine sat up again, face twisting into a mask of hatred and rage. Startled, Bailey
fell backward, landing on her bum.

“We’re poison,” Raine all but spit. “Run. Get out! I don’t want you here!”

Bailey struggled to her feet, slipping on the spray of photographs, sending them skidding.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Let me—”

“Don’t touch those!”

Bailey jerked her hand back. “Raine, please … let me help you.”

She stared at her, fury fading. Once more replaced by despair. “Leave … me … alone.”
She lay back down, drawing the covers to her chin, curling into a tight ball. “Please …
go.”

Bailey hesitated, uncertain what to do. What if she left her and she did something
desperate? The way her brother had.

But Raine didn’t want her here. She needed Logan. Or Paul. Raine would respond to
them.

Bailey turned and ran for the car.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Monday, April 21

12:50
P.M.

She started the SUV and tore down the gravel drive. She gripped the steering wheel
so tightly her fingers went numb. Her stitched-up head throbbed. The image of Raine’s
anguish—and fury—played over and over in her mind.

Along with her words.
“We’re poison … This family … murder, adultery … She loved him. That’s why he killed
her.”