Bailey finished her soup and carried the bowl to the sink. She hadn’t mentioned the box or its contents to the lawyer. Not yet. She wanted to make certain of something first.
She pictured the cabin, the crime tape stretched across its front. The police would have searched the place. If they had, they would have found the box.
With Logan’s initials burned into it. Damning him.
Bailey wiped her palms on her thighs. Worthless items Henry had found in his travels. Treasures to him. That he’d offered to her.
She closed her eyes. Please, God, let it be so.
“I can’t believe you’re so calm.”
Raine. Standing in the doorway. After the second call, Raine had opened a bottle of wine and retreated with it and a glass up to her old bedroom.
From what Bailey could see, there was still wine in the bottle. A good sign.
“Me either,” she said.
Raine walked into the kitchen “I heard the phone ring.”
“Terry King. Again.”
“And?”
“Not good. They grilled him about True and the other women.”
“What other women?”
“The ones who went missing.”
“What the hell for?”
Bailey looked at her. “What do you think?”
“I swear to God, I’m gonna—” She bit back what she was about to say. “This is Billy Ray’s doing.”
“I agree. I think we should do something.”
“What?”
“I need to go out to Henry’s.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“You’re looking for something.”
It wasn’t a question, but she answered anyway. “Yes.”
Raine swept her gaze suspiciously over her. “What?”
“I’ll tell you if I find it.”
“That makes no sense.” She narrowed her eyes. “This has to do with what you remembered earlier. When you said you talked to Henry the day he died.”
“It does.”
“And whatever it is could help my brother.”
“Or hurt him.” She paused. “Or mean nothing at all.”
She thought a moment, then nodded. “Totally ambiguous and clearly messed up, just the way I like it. But you’re driving.”
Bailey agreed but drove slowly, carefully navigating the unfamiliar roads. She’d never driven to the cabin at night, and the winding gravel drive could be particularly tricky.
Raine grew more and more quiet as they neared the cabin. Once inside, she fell apart. She wandered from room to room, touching things, and ended up in Henry’s armchair, knees to chest and staring blankly ahead.
Bailey didn’t have time to console or coddle her. She, too, went from room to room, but meticulously searching. Under the bed and through the closets. Not a perfunctory glance, but thoroughly checking every corner or crawl space.
Forty-five minutes later, Bailey gave up. She walked out to the porch and sank onto one of the rockers. The box wasn’t here. She had checked everywhere, even the toolshed out back. She dropped her head into her hands. The law had it, whether Billy Ray or the sheriff’s office didn’t matter. They had it and would use it against Logan.
He was innocent. After all the back-and-forth and agonizing doubt, she knew—to the very core of her being—that her husband was as much a victim in this as anyone.
All it had taken was his being arrested for her to realize this. It didn’t get more ironic than that.
Raine came out and sat beside her. “I take it you didn’t find what you were looking for.”
Bailey dropped her hands and looked at the other woman. “No, I didn’t.”
“What does that mean?”
“I think the sheriff’s office has it. And are going to use it against Logan.”
“What do we do now?”
“I don’t know.” Her cell phone went off. “August,” she muttered, and silenced the phone.
“You’re not going to take it?”
“I’m sure he’s calling to check on me and find out what I’ve heard and frankly, I don’t have the energy right now.”
Raine sighed. “There was a time I thought he would save me.”
“From what?”
“Myself. My life.”
Her phone pinged the arrival of a voice mail. “You’ve got to fix you first, Raine,” she said gently. “Nobody can do that for you.”
“Spoken like somebody who has their act together. Sickening.”
Bailey thought of the intellectual and emotional acrobatics she’d been performing the past week. “Not so much. It’s just a lot easier to tell other people how to get their acts together than to do it yourself.”
“You gonna listen to that message?”
“Do I have to?”
She’d only been half kidding. Raine knew it and pressed her. “What if he heard something? In this little burg, August knows pretty much everybody and their everything. You never know.”
Bailey sighed and accessed the message. For a moment, she thought he hadn’t left one, then she heard his voice.
“Need … talk … you. Something import … Sorry, so…” His words drifted off into a silence broken by slow, labored breathing. “Henr … I saw—”
The message ended.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know, August sounded— You listen.”
Raine did, expression growing alarmed. “He’s totally out of it,” she said.
“Drunk?”
“Maybe, but … maybe something else. He’s a recovering addict and has been to some pretty dark places. Which is why we got along so well. Kindred spirits.”
The blood began to thrum in her head. “Dial him back.”
Raine did; Bailey could faintly hear the signal. “He’s not answering!”
“Maybe we should call 9-1-1?”
“No! It’s probably nothing and this is such a small town—”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“Of course.”
Bailey stood. “Call Paul. Make certain August’s not at the farm, then tell him what’s going on and that we’re on our way to check on him. Then try August again.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Wednesday, April 23
11:25 P.M.
August rented the guesthouse of a neighboring horse farm. Raine directed Bailey to the property’s delivery entrance, which curled around a pond and led to the tiny glass and cypress structure.
Even with the wall of windows, he would have complete privacy, Bailey thought as she braked behind his SUV. And a beautiful view of the pond and rolling pastures.
She and Raine leaped out and ran for the door. It was open and they burst inside.
“August!” they called simultaneously. “It’s Bailey!”