Jocelyn craned her neck to look behind Francine, even though she knew Cash wasn’t there. Another step put her over the threshold.
Francine backed up slightly. “Do you have a business card or something?” She still had a smile plastered on her face, although it faltered slightly.
“Of course,” Jocelyn said, smiling back. She handed Francine a business card. “You can keep that.”
“Thank you,” Francine said tightly, studying Jocelyn’s card. “My husband just went to the store. You’re welcome to come in and wait. Which student did you say this was about?”
Jocelyn took another step into the foyer. Francine closed the door. Jocelyn made sure to look into her eyes when she replied, “Sydney Adams.”
Something passed over Francine’s face, like a ripple in still waters. Something haunted, something pained. She smiled a mirthless smile. “Oh,” she said softly. “Sydney. She was a very special girl.”
“Yes, she was,” Jocelyn agreed. “I understand that she and your husband were close.”
The corners of Francine’s mouth stiffened. “They were.” She motioned to her left where Jocelyn could see a sitting room. “Please. Come sit.”
The room was beautifully decorated in muted blue tones. A couch, love seat, and a recliner were centered around a glass-topped coffee table that held a tall vase with an artificial floral arrangement in it and several large, hardback coffee table books. Along one wall was a credenza topped with framed photos of Cash and Francine. Above it hung a sign that read: Welcome to Our Happily Ever After. The other walls were decorated with a series of paintings of exotic flowers done in mesmerizing pastel swirls. It looked like something out of a high-end catalog.
Jocelyn took a seat on the cushy blue couch, which nearly swallowed her. She braced both hands on the edge, trying to steady herself. Across from her, on the other side of the coffee table, Francine perched on the very edge of an equally plush love seat. So that was the trick, Jocelyn thought. She struggled to get her ass onto the very edge of the couch. Finally, she looked at Francine. The woman had placed both hands over her stomach, almost protectively.
Kevin used to say, “Never ask a woman if she’s pregnant unless you see a baby’s head crowning.” But Jocelyn was certain of what she saw. This was her opening. “How far along are you?”
Francine’s face flushed—a happy glow, her face breaking into a huge smile. “Fourteen weeks,” she said. “We’ve been trying a long time.”
“This is your first child?”
The smile wavered. “Yeah. I hope so. I mean I’ve had miscarriages. This is as far as I’ve ever gotten, so we’re very hopeful.” She raised both hands, her index and middle fingers crossed.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Jocelyn said. She placed her hands flat on her knees.
“Do you have children?”
Jocelyn smiled. “A daughter. Olivia. She’s four.”
Francine’s eyes flitted to Jocelyn’s hand, her brow furrowing when she saw Jocelyn’s scar. “What happened to your hand?”
Jocelyn looked down at her left hand.
Quickly, Francine added, “I’m sorry. That was so rude of me. Forget I asked.”
Jocelyn continued to stare at the scar. She’d never used it before to help her with an interview or interrogation. She had a strange relationship with it. The mere sight of it brought back the worst night of her life, yet it represented an end to the secrecy that had destroyed her family and a new chance at a relationship with her sister. But it was there every day, every minute, forever visible, and always provoking questions. Jocelyn stroked the gnarled skin on top of her hand. She turned her palm over and showed Francine the matching scar on the inside. Francine’s hand flew to her mouth.
“A man did this,” Jocelyn said.
“Dear God, I’m sorry.”
Jocelyn met her eyes. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”
Francine’s hand slid down to her chest. She leaned forward to get a better look at the scar, a look of guarded fascination on her face.
“You can come closer,” Jocelyn told her. “It’s okay. I know people . . . well, they can’t help but look at it.”
Francine moved around the coffee table and perched beside Jocelyn. “Does it hurt?”
“No. Not anymore.” She didn’t tell the woman about the phantom pain. At least that’s what she thought it was when pain pierced the wound out of nowhere like the nail was being driven in all over again. The doctor said it was likely nerve pain. She was grateful it didn’t happen often.
Francine continued staring. Then she reached for Jocelyn’s hand but stopped herself. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m a school nurse. I never get to see anything . . .” She didn’t finish the sentence, and Jocelyn wondered what she was going to say. Gruesome? Interesting? Instead, Francine said, “May I?”
It was an odd request, but Jocelyn was about to ask the woman some tough questions. She was going to need Francine’s cooperation if at all possible. “Sure,” Jocelyn said, offering up her palm.
Hesitantly, Francine traced the circumference of the scar with her index finger. Her touch was light and gentle, like a butterfly’s wings.
“Francine,” Jocelyn said as the woman pulled back. “Before your husband gets home, there’s something I need to ask you.”
The woman’s eyes flitted to Jocelyn’s face. “Is that from a . . .”
“A nail, yes,” Jocelyn said, curling her hand into a fist and pulling it closer to her body. “Francine,” she tried again. “I talked to Lonnie Burgess the other day. Do you remember him? He was Sydney Adams’ boyfriend.”
Francine’s attention finally left Jocelyn’s scar. “Yes, I remember him,” she said. “He was a sweet boy. Very smart.”
“Lonnie was also asked to speak at the scholarship fundraiser. I talked with him at length about Sydney and, well, it came up that in his senior year, you asked him to get you a gun because you were afraid of your husband.”
Francine drew back, away from Jocelyn as she spoke. Her expression closed off. Her hands circled her belly once more.
“I hate to bring this up,” Jocelyn said. “But it is important to Sydney’s case for us to know if you had a gun in this house at the time Sydney was murdered.”
“Well, if you spoke with Lonnie, then he would have told you that he did not get me a gun.”
“He said that, yes.”
“It was a very stupid thing that I did—asking a teenage boy to get me a gun. I was—I was very distraught at the time. I wasn’t thinking straight.”
“Did your husband hit you, Francine?”
Francine smiled, and Jocelyn was struck by how forced and fake it seemed. “There was a time, before Sydney Adams was murdered, that I felt afraid of my husband. I had just had a miscarriage. I wanted to try again. He didn’t. I may have . . . pushed a little too hard. We argued a lot. Things were very tense. But my husband has never hit me.”
Jocelyn tried her best to keep the skepticism out of her voice. She’d dealt with thousands of domestic violence cases during her tenure with the Philadelphia Police Department. Many women lied about being abused, even as they stood before her with battered faces and bodies. But Jocelyn knew that they lied because their lives often depended on convincing others that their husbands were not abusing them.
“Francine,” Jocelyn said. “This is just between us. You don’t have to cover for him with me. I’m not going to arrest him or make any kind of trouble for you. I know what men are capable of.” She raised her scarred hand in the air for emphasis.
Francine’s smile loosened somewhat. Either she had a ton of practice lying, or she was telling the truth—that her husband frightened her, but he had never actually hit her. “Cash is not like that,” Francine said. “He has never hit me, and he never would. I never needed that gun, and I realized that after I calmed down. It was a very emotional time. I had just lost a child.”