Free The First Wife by Erica Spindler

softly.
    Bailey gazed at him, thoughts whirling. What had he been about to tell her? About
     True or his parents? They’d been fighting. He felt to blame, but for what?
    She frowned. What had he been doing there in the study, other than getting inebriated?
     She pictured the desk, the open laptop. He’d been on the computer. The books on the
     floor, he must have knocked them over when he stood up. That was the sound she’d heard.
    How long had he been there? With that thought came another. They’d fought, and yet
     when he returned to the house it hadn’t been to her. He’d gone to his study and gotten
     on the computer. What could have been so important?
    Something for work, she told herself. That had to be ready for today. She rolled carefully
     onto her back. Maybe he had come and checked on her, found her sleeping and decided
     to leave well enough alone. That’s what he would tell her in the morning.
    But what if he didn’t? What if he didn’t tell her anything? Could she live with that?
    Bailey closed her eyes, breathed deeply. Yes. He was her husband. She trusted him.
     With her heart and her life.
    Even as she repeated that promise in her head, an ugly fear gnawed at her. That something
     had changed between them today. And in her. Because of Billy Ray. The things he’d
     said about Logan. And because of those other two women. Something that would make
     believing for them both more difficult than she could have thought possible.

 
    CHAPTER THIRTEEN
    Bailey carefully closed the bedroom door on her way out. It was early and Logan still
     slept. She had awakened to the same questions that had kept her awake until the wee
     hours.
    And sometime during those hours she had decided what she would do. Just take a look.
     Prove to herself her imagination was running away with her. She would feel foolish
     after. Guilty for not having trusted him.
    Then she would let it go.
    She quickly descended the stairs. At the bottom, she took one last glance back up,
     then headed to the study.
    She stopped in the doorway, took it in. The desk, the big chair behind it turned toward
     the door. The books on the floor.
    She crossed to the desk, slid into the chair, tapped the return key. The computer
     came to life.
    Photos . Of the two of them. From Grand Cayman. Their wedding. She studied them, emotion
     choking her. Her smile. The joy shining from his eyes. The way they had lingered over
     their kiss. Dancing on the beach after their “I do.” Their laughter.
    Tears filled her eyes. She hadn’t seen the pictures yet, had been waiting for the
     photographer to e-mail them.
    When had Logan gotten them? She checked the date on the file: Yesterday . Yesterday, when she had been breaking his heart with her doubts. When her suspicions
     had kept her awake and sent him to the bottle for comfort.
    “Do you think I’m a monster, too?”
    “Bailey? What are you doing?”
    She turned. He stood in the doorway, looking hollow-eyed and hungover. Her tears spilled,
     rolled down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry.”
    He crossed to the desk, closed the computer and drew her up. He cupped her face in
     his palms. “Why are you crying?”
    She shook her head. “The photographs.”
    “You found me out.” He brushed the tears from her cheeks. “I wanted to surprise you.”
    “I’m sorry,” she said again, and pressed her face into her shoulder.
    “Hey. Look at me.” She did and he smiled. “What are you sorry about?”
    The abbreviated truth, she thought. The whole truth would hurt him again. “Yesterday,”
     she whispered. “Our fight.”
    “We need to talk.”
    “What about?”
    “True.”
    She nodded and he led her to the kitchen. There, she made coffee and he drank one
     glass of water, then another.
    “How do you feel?”
    “Like hell. Splitting headache.”
    “Did you take something for it?”
    “Upstairs.”
    “Want something to eat?”
    “Not yet. Just coffee.”
    He motioned to the table. “Let’s