The First Wife

“She says he wasn’t, but I’ve got some suspicious domestic violence police reports….”

“Suspicious how?”

“The cops were called, but not by her.”

“Who called them?”

“The hospital.”

“Jane Hamilton was accident-prone?” I guessed. I’d seen it before. More than once.

“Apparently. Or her husband was and she just happened to be in the way each time.”

“Did the police investigate?”

“Yeah. They were concerned, but there was never enough evidence to file charges.”

“Why are you so sure he killed Lee Anne?”

“He was the last person known to be with her. His fingerprints were found in her car. Footprints found at the edge of the cliff match his shoe size. There was bruising on her back that wasn’t explained by the fall. And the way she landed, the distance out from the edge of the cliff points to her having been pushed hard rather than falling. He had motive….”

“Who’s paying for his defense?” I asked, though I’d have bet that I already knew the answer.

“Wife number three.”

I’d have won my bet.

CHAPTER ONE

“JANE, TALK TO ME.”

Jane’s heart pounded as Brad’s gaze met hers. Pressure, rising like a tidal wave from within, strangled her throat and throbbed behind her eyes.

She had enough to handle without Brad Manchester adding to the mix.

Sitting on a log in the wilderness in Illinois, part of a two-hundred-acre plot of land Brad had purchased with plans to someday build a cabin on it, Jane just wanted a couple of hours away from all the stress. The basket and water bottles, remains of their picnic lunch, still lay on the blanket spread a few feet away. Brad sat with them.

They’d left their homes in Allenville, a suburb of Chicago, only hours ago. Right now it felt like days.

The rough bark dug into the backs of her thighs through her jeans. A twig poked just behind her right ear. Strands of chocolate-brown hair hung loose from the clip holding her twisted bun. She’d sweated off most of her makeup—she never left home without it on—an hour into the day-long hike.

Her employees would look askance if they could see her now. As the editor of a new national women’s magazine, with only initial backing and the threat that if they failed they’d be left in the dust, Jane prided herself on being always professional and well put together.

She didn’t usually let her hair down.

Except when she was with Brad. He was her buddy. Safe.

Usually.

“You’ve been distracted all day,” Brad said now.

Jane nodded, not quite meeting his eyes.

“We’ve been friends what, two years?”

“About that.” Long enough to see the countless women who flitted in and out of his life almost as frequently as he changed his underwear. And to share in many, many court triumphs with him as he represented abused women seeking freedom.

“I’ve seen you happy, worried, angry and exhausted, but I’ve never seen you look so…lost.”

She felt lost. And utterly alone.

“Obviously something serious has happened. What I can’t figure out is why you aren’t talking to me about it.”

At her silence, his expression intensified.

“I thought we could tell each other anything.”

Not quite. But almost.

“Have I done something to…”

“No! Oh, God, no, Brad. You… I… You’re my best friend.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, then, why don’t you tell Uncle Brad what’s got you so distracted that you completely missed my last three attempts at conversation?” His words, while cloaked in levity, increased the tension tightening her chest.

Funny how one phone call could undo years’ worth of moving on.

“I’m sorry,” she said, trying to recall anything he’d been talking about during the lunch stop.

“Don’t be sorry. Just tell me what’s wrong.” He sat forward, feet on the ground, his arms resting on his knees.

“Did your doctor say something? Are you sick?”

He knew she’d been for her yearly physical a few weeks before.

“No.” She shook her head. “I’m in perfect health.” Physically, at least. And she was determined to be so mentally and emotionally, too. She’d fought too hard to let someone else win now.

“You got another threat, then,” he guessed. It was a testament to how rattled she was by the call she’d received that morning that she hadn’t thought once about the threats. She’d received a couple of pieces of anonymous mail at work, one each for the past two weeks.

Do what’s right or else.

Until this morning, the threats had occupied her thoughts almost constantly. She’d read the words countless times, trying to figure out what they meant. What they referred to.

And hated that she came up blank.