The First Wife (32 page)

“And what,” Rumsfeld asked, “were you doing the night she disappeared?”

“I don’t know.”

Rumsfeld moved on to Amanda LaPier. “Yeah,” Abbott responded, “I gave her a lift one
time. She was hitching. Something I don’t think is a smart thing to do—”

“Why not, Mr. Abbott?”

“Really?”

He looked at his lawyer, who stepped in. “This is bordering on laughable. Can we move
on?”

“Do you have any idea how old she was?”

“None.”

“Nineteen. She was nineteen at the time.” He paused. “What did you talk about?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You asked her if she had a boyfriend. Do you remember that?”

Terry King jumped in. “He just said he didn’t remember what they talked about. Move
on.”

“She went missing two years later. Interesting, isn’t it?”

Abbott sighed. “I don’t follow.”

“Come on, Mr. Abbott, you’re a smart man. You give a girl a ride—”

“And two years later, she goes missing.” King closed his notebook. “This fishing expedition
is over.”

“Not quite. The night Ms. LaPier went missing, any recollection of your whereabouts?”

“That date?”

“February eighth, this year. Say about three
A.M.
”

“At home in bed with my wife.”

“And you’re certain of that?”

“We haven’t spent a night apart since we married, so yes, I’m certain of that.”

“And she’ll corroborate?”

“Of course.”

Billy Ray narrowed his eyes. He’d hesitated, just a fraction of a second, but that
pause, that moment of insecurity, had been there.

He saw the deputy on his right glance his way and realized he’d been talking to himself.

Screw him, Billy Ray thought. What did he know? He hadn’t lived this.

Rumsfeld went on. “I want to pass a couple names by you. Ever heard the name Estelle
Davis?”

“No. Never.”

“Paula Caine?”

“Nope.”

“Margaret Martin?”

“Again, never.”

“And you’d stake your life on that?”

“Would you, Detective?” Abbott rubbed his forehead, suddenly looking exhausted. “I’ll
put it this way: To my knowledge, I’ve never heard of any of those women.”

“Nor have I,” Terry King said. “What do these women have to do with Dixie Jenkins?”

“That’s all for now.” Rumsfeld stood. “If you’d like a few minutes with your client—”

“I would.”

“A deputy will be posted outside. When you’re finished, he’ll escort Mr. Abbott back
to his cell.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Wednesday, April 23

7:25
P.M.

Stephanie turned off Hay Hollow Road and onto the gravel drive that led to Henry’s
cabin. One last, private good-bye. Before she cleaned the place out and packed Henry’s
things up. To sit by herself and remember the fun they’d had. And what an important
person he had been in her life. Before the accident. And after.

She thought of the day he had been trampled. Her dad had forced her to visit him in
the hospital. She remembered being so frightened, she’d been unable to look at him.
Logan’s mother had been there, sitting beside the bed.

She had motioned Stephanie to her side. “Your uncle’s a beautiful person,” she’d said.
“That kind of beauty comes from the inside, not the outside. I still see it. Don’t
you?”

Stephanie remembered taking a peek at him. His mangled face, the bandages and tubes
and something coming over her. An awareness of what Elisabeth Abbott meant. Of the
beauty that was her uncle Henry.

She’d never been afraid of him again. And even after it’d become clear that the worst,
most permanent damage had occurred to his brain, she had seen that beauty.

All the best had been left. Kindness, childlike acceptance. She’d never seen him get
angry or frustrated. He’d always been grateful, even for the small things. Truth was,
he hadn’t differentiated that way. He’d lost that kind of measuring stick, one that
led to dissatisfaction and unhappiness. She wondered if he’d ever had it.

Stephanie flipped on her headlights. The funeral hadn’t offered her the chance for
reflection. No, it had been an opportunity for everyone else to say good-bye and to
share
their
memories of him.

Until Billy Ray had turned what had been beautiful into a circus sideshow.

Just thinking of it caused her blood pressure to rise. She’d been furious with him,
she still was. She was hurt.

He cared so little for her. So little for Henry.

It had always been about Billy Ray’s agenda.

She released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She’d heard it said
that the line between love and hate was razor thin. This morning it had become a chasm.
She would never love Billy Ray again.

Henry’s cabin came into view. With a sinking heart, she saw that her desire for privacy
had been wishful thinking. Billy Ray, back to her as he set something in the cruiser’s
trunk. Hearing the crunch of her tires on the gravel, he slammed the trunk and turned
to face her.

The silly, self-satisfied smile on his face was the last straw. The fury she had swallowed
all day came roaring back. White-hot. Using her uncle’s funeral as a way to stick
it to Logan. As a way to embarrass him and his family as much, and as deeply, as he
could.

For not loving her. For breaking her heart.

It was all she could do not to hit the gas and pin him between her vehicle and his.
Instead, she drew to a careful stop and cut the engine. He crossed to the car and
opened the door for her. As if nothing had happened.

“Hey Steph. What’re you doing—”

“You son of a bitch!” She lunged at him, knocking him backward. She followed, flailing
at him. One fist caught the side of his neck. Another his chest, then shoulder. “How
dare you!”

“Whoa! Steph … What the—”

He caught her hands, so she kicked him instead. “How could you pull that stunt? Uncle
Henry was the sweetest man.… He couldn’t hurt a flea and you show up to his funeral
and do
that
?”

“Just listen! Let me—”

“No! I’ll never listen to you again! I’ll never—”

He dragged her against him, pinning her to his chest, holding her so tightly she couldn’t
fight. Still, she tried until both the energy and will had drained out of her.

She broke down and he loosened his hold while she cried and clung to him. “How could
you? How could you … do … that?”

“It wasn’t my decision, Steph. It was theirs, the sheriff’s detectives.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“It’s true. I’m just assisting them.”

“And you couldn’t talk them out of arresting him at Henry’s funeral? He wasn’t going
anywhere!”

“Abbott’s got friends at the sheriff’s office. Someone who has fed him information
before. They were afraid someone would tip him and he’d flee.”

“Flee?” Stephanie stepped away from him, her legs wobbly. “And go where? This is his
home.”

Billy Ray shook his head. “People with means can make a new home anywhere.”

In that moment, she realized that Billy Ray—who had lived here in Wholesome all his
life—didn’t know the real meaning of home.

Thank God he hadn’t loved her. Thank God she’d let him go.

As if sensing a change in her, he frowned. “Logan’s a bad guy, Stephanie. Worse than
a bad guy. A killer. A serial killer.”

She laughed. It slipped unbidden past her lips. “Seriously, Billy Ray? A serial killer?
Logan Abbott?”

“This isn’t only about True. Who do you think took Trista Hook, Amanda LaPier and
now Dixie Jenkins? Who do you think killed Nicole Grace, all those years ago? Who
knows, maybe he killed his mother, too.”

“My God, you’re serious.”

“Damn right, I am.”

“His dad was convicted of pushing her overboard.”

“And who testified against him? That family, Steph, think about it. So much death.
Too much to be a coincidence.”

Logan’s father and mother. His brother and wife. Now, Uncle Henry.
“So, you’ve got him now.”

“Yes.”

“How? What do you have on him?”

“Enough.” He hesitated. “A witness saw Dixie getting into his truck the night she
disappeared.”

Stephanie hadn’t expected that. Something so … damning. “Oh, my God. Poor Bailey.”

“No.” He shook his head. “Bailey’s lucky. She could’ve ended up like True. Or the
others.”

Stephanie couldn’t wrap her mind around it. Logan, whom she had known all her life.
Who had never been anything but kind to her.

What did she believe?

Not that. Maybe later, but not now.

“We’ll have a search warrant for the property in the morning. All ninety acres.”

“And your dreams will finally have come true.”

“Don’t be that way.”

“And what way is that? Honest?”

“The bodies are here, Steph. You’ll see.”

She passed a hand over her face, suddenly exhausted. “What are you doing out here,
Billy Ray?”

“Pardon?”

“Why are you here? At Henry’s place?”

He slipped his hands into his pockets. “To take down the crime scene tape.”

“I thought the sheriff’s office put it up?”

“I offered to take it down. Scene was cleared. Days ago.”

“And you’ve done that?”

“Yes.”

“Then I want you to go.”

“Steph—”

“I came out here to be alone with my memories of Uncle Henry. I won’t allow you to
take that away from me.”

He had already taken so much.

His face puckered with regret. “Sure. Sorry, I—I hope we can be friends.”

“Friends? You’re not serious?” She laughed at his earnest expression, the sound hard.
“No, we can’t be friends. Not ever.”

“At least now … I hope you see. That you understand.”

“Understand what, Billy Ray? That you never loved me? I got that a long time ago.”

“I did love you. Just not—”

“The way you loved True.”

“Enough,” he finished. “But it was still real.”

He reached out a hand; she jerked away and he dropped it. “Please leave.”

He complied, walking to his vehicle, opening the door. “I just want you to understand
why I couldn’t let this go. I knew I was right, Steph.”

He drove off and she headed into the cabin. It took all her energy to keep moving.
To not give in to exhaustion and grief. Henry wouldn’t have. He didn’t when Elisabeth
Abbott drowned or when Roane hung himself. And she wouldn’t now.

Stephanie switched on the table lamp. A circle of warm light fell over the living
room and she crossed to Henry’s favorite chair, a battered recliner, and sank into
it.

It smelled of him. She burrowed deeper into it and pulled his afghan over her. It,
too, smelled of him.

The cabin had been Henry’s for life, now it reverted back to the Abbott family. Some
folks might’ve been pissed about that; she got it. This was Abbott family land, a
piece offered to her uncle out of goodwill mixed with guilt.

She didn’t want it anyway.

She moved her gaze over the room. Things never changed here. Just became more worn.
The same old afghan and throw pillows, the same photographs, all arranged in exactly
the same way. His simple mind had seemed to find comfort in the familiar.

Stephanie’s gaze landed on some photographs on the mantel and she frowned. One was
missing. As long as she could remember, it had sat in the very same spot. True, standing
on Henry’s front porch, smiling at the camera.

She stood and crossed to the mantel. Her imagination wasn’t playing tricks on her;
the photograph was gone. Recently, judging by the frame’s silhouette left in the dust.

Billy Ray
. That’s why he’d been here. The lying son of a bitch, he’d had no right.

What else had he taken? She spun away from the mantel and made her way through the
three-room cabin. Another photograph had been lifted, but more troubling, the closet
door stood open. She crossed to it, took a quick inventory, then shut the door. She
turned. Her gaze landed on the dresser. Several of the drawers hadn’t been pushed
all the way in. She strode over, pulled one after another out. They had been rummaged
through.

What had he been looking for?

She closed the drawers and returned to the living room. Maybe she was losing it. Imagining
it all? Any one of the Abbotts could have been through, maybe even the sheriff’s office
had conducted a search.

But the missing photos of True had Billy Ray written all over them.

She brought the heels of her hands to her eyes. When she drove up, he’d been slamming
the trunk. He’d put something in it. A couple of framed photos? Crime scene tape?
Or something more?

She dropped her hands, any thought of reliving fond memories long gone. Frustrated,
she turned off the lamp and headed out into the evening, careful to lock the door
behind her. She didn’t know if Billy Ray had been up to something, telling the truth
or lying, and she didn’t care. His craziness was no longer part of her life.

But as she drove away, she couldn’t help but wonder what Billy Ray—or someone else—had
been searching for.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Wednesday, April 23

9:50
P.M.

Bailey sat at the kitchen table. She’d fixed herself a bowl of chicken soup. The last
thing she felt like doing was eating, but she had to. For the baby’s health. And her
own.

She brought a spoonful of soup to her mouth, then another and another. Forcing herself.
She’d spoken to the lawyer three times. The first, he’d simply been reporting in.
He’d arrived at the parish jail and had spoken with Logan, who he said was doing as
well as could be expected. The second had been troubling. They had a witness who claimed
that, early Saturday morning, during the time Logan had left the hospital, he had
seen Dixie Jenkins climb into a black Ford F-150 truck.

It’d made her sick to her stomach, that they could even think he would leave her side
to go do … that.