The First Wife by Erica Spindler
To my family: the one I was born into and
the one I’ve acquired.
Love you.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Horses. Horse country. Showing, riding, training. Barns, tack, horsespeak. All completely foreign to me. Thanks to the many who opened their farms and stables, sharing not only their knowledge, but their love of these magnificent animals and the unique lifestyle of the horseman/woman. My eyes and heart have been opened.
Francie Stirling, owner, trainer and barn manager, Stirling Farm: Thanks for your time, sharing your stories and my introduction to dressage. Your beautiful farm and training facility inspired much of The First Wife’s fictional Abbott Farm.
Richard Freeman, owner and stable manager, Oak Hill Ranch. Thanks to you and Sara for allowing me access to your world class breeding facility and champion warmbloods. It was an experience I’ll never forget.
Regina Milliken, assistant stable manager/trainer, Oak Hill Ranch. You were amazing—and amazingly patient. Thank you for all the time, your stories and allowing me a glimpse into the life of a true horsewoman.
Brooke Posey, young horsewoman extraordinaire, for letting me experience a show day through your eyes. Thanks also to Marie Rudd, for setting it up, and Kathleen Posey, owner, Serenity Farm, for allowing me to spend the day in the barn soaking up the pre-show energy.
Sunny Francois, Louisiana Horse Rescue Association, for an insider’s introduction to Louisiana horse country. Thanks to Jean Lotz, AAUW, for the introduction.
Lynda Byrne, for having me out to your place and arranging my “hands-on” research experience. To riding instructor Catherine Insley, Over the Moon Farm, and her gentle retired polo pony Tesoro.
On to the criminal mind …
Huge thanks to behavioral neurologist—and writer—Thomas Krefft, M.D., Northlake Neurological Institute, for information on traumatic memory loss.
Bill Moran, ex-cop and hunting enthusiast, for information on shotguns, rifles, and hunting accidents.
Folsom, Louisiana, police department for the look around and answered questions. I dropped in uninvited, interrupted your lunch and you didn’t shoot me—appreciate it, guys!
Captain George Bonnett, St. Tammany Parish Sheriff’s Office, for the tour and the many insights.
Personal appreciation:
For Sirens Nicole Grace, Trista Hook and Amanda LaPier for allowing me to “kill” them. And to all my Sirens for the love.
Editor Jennifer Weis and the amazing SMP crew; Agent Scott Miller, Trident Media Group; Assistant (and friend) Peg Campos; and my writing gal-pals, J. T. Ellison and Alex Kava.
And finally, gratitude to my family for loving me—even when I’m on deadline—and my gracious God, for the gifts.
PROLOGUE
Friday, April 18, 2014
3:31 A.M.
Bailey Abbott’s eyes cracked open. Light, so bright it stung. Pain. Her head and neck. Throbbing. She told herself to cry out, but no sound came.
Where was she?
A soft hum and ping, coming from somewhere nearby. Bailey shifted her gaze. She lay in a bed. Stainless steel rails. Clear plastic tubing that led up to a sack of liquid. The hum she’d detected from a monitor near the bed.
Hospital. The realization whispered across her thoughts as her eyes closed once more.
7:26 A.M.
The sound of voices drew Bailey back. Men’s voices. She tried to open her eyes, but her lids refused to raise.
“Why hasn’t she come to, Dr. Bauer?”
Urgency in the voice.
“I understand how upsetting this must be for you, but you have to be patient. Mrs. Abbott suffered a traumatic brain injury, right now she’s doing exactly what she should be doing. Healing.”
Brain injury? Who were they talking about? Not her. Surely.
She longed to tell them, to get their attention, but her body refused to respond to her thoughts.
“Give me something, Dr. Bauer. Please. I’ll settle for an educated guess. Anything to hold on to.”
“What I see looks very good. Judging by your wife’s level of consciousness, the way she’s responding to stimuli, her TBI is mild. It could have been so much worse.”
Mrs. Abbott … Your wife …
Logan …
The voices dimmed. Bailey tried to grab on to something solid, but the dark rose up and dragged her back.
10:20 A.M.
Bailey became aware of voices. Jarring. Angry.
“What do you expect from me, Billy Ray? She was riding and got knocked off. That’s all I know.”
“Rodriguez is dead.”
“That has nothing to do with her. The sheriff’s detectives said—”
“She had a lot of blood on her, Abbott.”
“You’re telling me? I was the one who found her.”
“That’s right, you were.”
“Which means what?”
Barely controlled fury. It frightened her.
“Like I said, it was a lot of blood.”
“She busted her head open. It bled.”
“Maybe it wasn’t all hers?”
“What are you going to suggest next? That she shot Rodriguez? Or, wait for it, that Bailey’s accident is mysteriously connected to—”
“True’s disappearance.”
“For God’s sake! Give it a rest.”
“So, let me take a look around your property.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“What are you trying to hide?”
“Get a warrant, you crazy son of a bitch.”
“What’s going on in here!”
A woman’s voice. Hushed but furious.
“You’ll have to leave, Officer. Family only.”
Officer … something she … tell him …
“Fine. But know this: Abbott, as soon as she’s awake, she’s mine.”
“That’s a thing with you, isn’t it, Billy Ray? Wanting what’s mine?”
Important … now, before it was too …
But then the silent place swallowed her once more.
10:36 P.M.
A deep, rhythmic rumbling. It wormed its way through the fog, wrapping around her and drawing her out of her soft cocoon. Bailey’s lids lifted. The dimly lit room came into focus. Sterile and unwelcoming.