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.”
Bailey almost lost it on the drive’s last turn. She righted the vehicle, and eased her foot off the accelerator. Slow down, Bailey. Ending up in a ditch wouldn’t help Raine. Or Logan.
Logan couldn’t lose his sister. He had lost too many loved ones already.
She reached Abbott Farm and drove through the gate. Paul stood at the barn’s entrance, talking to August and one of the grooms. She stopped, lowered her window. “Paul!”