The First Wife by Erica Spindler Page A

thermostat, nudged the temperature
     up.
    And what of Logan? How had the loss affected him?
    Tears stung her eyes and she glanced at her watch. Just after six. Logan had said
     the council meeting was at seven, maybe she could catch him before he went in?
    She dug her phone out of her purse and dialed. He answered immediately.
    “Logan, it’s me.”
    She sounded shaky, even to her own ears.
    “Are you okay?” Immediate concern, an edge of panic in his voice.
    She shouldn’t have called until she’d pulled herself together.
    “Bailey?”
    “Yes.” She cleared her throat. “I’m fine. I just … needed to hear your voice.”
    “I miss you, too. How’s Henry?”
    “Stable. They’re keeping him overnight. Stephanie’s with him.”
    “Good. You’re home?”
    “Yes.” She paused. “But it’s cold.”
    “Light a fire in the keeping room. It’s gas. The key’s on the mantel.”
    “I wish you were home.”
    “Are you sure you’re okay? You sound very strange.”
    “I went to see … Raine. She told me about your brother. About Roane.”
    He was silent. She heard the murmur of voices coming from around him. Finally, he
     cleared his throat. Even so, when he spoke, his voice was thick with emotion. “I’m
     sorry, I … hate that you found out that way. I should have—”
    “It’s okay. I get it.” She realized her lips were trembling and she pressed them together
     a moment. “It’s me who’s … I’m so sorry, Logan. I can only imagine how much that hurt.
     How much it still must hurt.”
    Someone said his name, called him into the meeting. “You have to go.”
    “I do, baby. I’m sorry. About this and now. It’s going to be a few more hours.”
    “I’ll wait up.”
    Then he was gone. And she was bereft. Left with nothing to hold on to but Raine’s
     ugly words. The image they cast in her head. The terrible things she had learned earlier.
     The feeling of betrayal.
    She needed Logan. His reassuring arms. The warmth of his body, driving away the cold.
    Their wedding pictures.
    Bailey dropped her purse on the entryway table and headed into the office. She switched
     on the desk lamp, then sank into the chair. The computer was still on, and when she
     lifted the cover the photos of her and Logan filled the screen. Visual confirmation
     of their love. That she hadn’t made a mistake. She scrolled through them, marking
     her favorites, losing time. Raine’s words becoming further away.
    Her stomach growled and she realized the time. That she hadn’t eaten since early in
     the day. That Logan would be home soon. She moused up to close the computer window
     and accidentally clicked on the edge of one behind it.
    The face of Amanda LaPier stared back at her. The young woman who had recently gone
     missing.
    She scrolled down, hand trembling. The photo was connected to the same news story
     she had read in the Wholesome Village Voice.
    Deep breath, Bailey. It doesn’t mean anything. Considering their argument, it even
     made sense.
    Another open window, she saw. Behind this one.
    Even as she told herself to close the laptop and walk away, she tapped it open.
    A Web site. NecroSearch International—an outfit dedicated to helping law enforcement
     locate clandestine graves.
    Clandestine graves.
    She stared at the image, confused, light-headed. The moment felt surreal. Like something
     out of a novel. In the blink of an eye, everything changed. The world stopped. And
     shrank. Zeroed in until it consisted of her, the laptop, a digital image of a woman
     she didn’t know.
    And a Web site she could think of only one reason her husband would be interested
     in.
    She moved the cursor up to recent history. More stories. About LaPier. And Trista
     Hook, the woman who had previously gone missing. And not just one, many. As if he
     had been scouring the media for any news of the investigation.
    Bailey swallowed against the bile that rose in her throat. Last night, this entire
     search. This was what