Cash had stopped coughing. He helped Francine into the passenger’s side of their Ford Focus, pushing her a little too forcefully for Jocelyn’s taste. She heard Francine’s voice, “Ow, honey, watch my—”
He slammed the door and hurried around the back of the car. He froze when he saw Jocelyn, his right hand in his jacket pocket. His eyes were wide and frantic.
“You okay?” Jocelyn asked, approaching him slowly.
Quickly, he looked toward the passenger’s side of the car, then back at Jocelyn. He shook his head and threaded his fingers through his hair, rubbing the top of his head until his hair stood straight up. When he spoke, his voice was high-pitched. “How could you?” He motioned toward PTG, his voice cracking on the word you. He cleared his throat. “My wife.”
As if the words had conjured her, Francine opened her door and stepped out of the car. She smoothed her dress over her belly and adjusted the strap of her purse, which rested on her right shoulder. “Cash,” she said. “I don’t know what’s going on right now, but I—”
He cut her off, his tone suddenly hard and firm. Commanding. “Get back in the car, Francine.”
She bristled, but said nothing, staring at him. He didn’t even look at her. From the side of his mouth, he growled, “Get back in the car, Francine. Now.”
His words were like a knife’s edge and right then, Jocelyn wanted to punch him in the face. Francine’s brow furrowed. She looked from him to Jocelyn. Jocelyn smiled and acknowledged her as though Cash had not spoken. “You okay, Mrs. Rigo?”
Francine raised her chin. “Fine,” she said. “I just have to go to the bathroom.”
She took a step toward Cash and halted as if waiting for him to stop her. When he said nothing and made no move toward her, she stepped around him and walked back to the restaurant, her boot heels clacking on the pavement.
Cash waited until the door closed behind her before stepping toward Jocelyn. Her heart rate ticked up a beat. She made a conscious effort not to back away from him. She’d killed more formidable foes than him, she reminded herself. Plus Inez, Anita, and Trent were right inside.
“How could you do that?” he asked.
Jocelyn kept her face blank. She stood perfectly still. Calm. “I’m sorry?”
He paced before her, gesturing wildly toward the restaurant. “The photo,” he spat. “My wife is here with me. My wife!”
“Mr. Rigo, I’m not sure I understand what’s going on here.”
He threw his arms in the air, still pacing rapidly. He glanced behind her as if to make sure Francine wasn’t approaching. “My wife,” he said. “She doesn’t know. Sydney and I—we—” He broke off.
“Your wife doesn’t know what, Mr. Rigo?”
He froze and looked down at the ground as if considering something. When he looked back up at her, he seemed calmer somehow.
“You’re not with the police, right? I mean I know the police are here. Don’t try lying. I saw that man back there by the bathrooms. He’s a detective, I bet. Here from the police. But you, you’re not with the police, right?”
“I’m a private investigator,” Jocelyn answered.
He drew closer, his voice quieter. “If I tell you something, you can’t—you can’t, like, do anything about it, right?”
“I’m not a priest, Mr. Rigo.”
Maybe she should have said nothing or lied and risked being accused of entrapping him later. If he was going to confess to a murder after getting away with it for fourteen years, in the parking lot of a dentist, he was going to do it no matter what she said or didn’t say. But he didn’t ask her for any further explanation. He motioned back toward the entrance of PTG. “My wife,” he began, his eyes darting all around. “She doesn’t know.”
Jocelyn stared hard at him. “Doesn’t know what, Mr. Rigo?”
He glanced at his feet again. “Sydney and I, we had—she came to my house and we—”
They heard Francine’s boots before they saw her. Jocelyn turned to look at her and was stunned by the change in her demeanor. Two bright circles of pink colored her cheeks. She narrowed her eyes at her husband, her mouth set in an angry line. She no longer had trouble walking in her high-heeled boots. She strode toward them, both hands curled around her belly.
“Are you okay?” Jocelyn asked, but Francine didn’t even acknowledge her. She walked up to her husband, pointed at the driver’s side of their car and said, “Get in the fucking car, Cash.”
“Francine,” he began.
“Now,” she shrieked, clomping past him and getting into the car on the passenger’s side.
Like a child who’d been acting up at a party and now had to leave, Cash scurried to the driver’s side and got in. He didn’t give Jocelyn another glance. As they backed out of the parking lot and onto Ridge Avenue, Jocelyn swore she heard shouting coming from the inside of the car.
Chapter 17
November 11, 2014
“You lying bastard,” Francine roared, her voice so high that it hurt his ears. Cash hated it when she got like this. It was very rare. His wife was sweet. That’s what everyone loved about her. They fought like any other couple, and in private, she could occasionally get angry enough to raise her voice at him, but for the most part, she was the kind of person everyone loved. He hated it when she got mean angry, when she was fully enraged. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. It had really only happened one other time in their relationship—right before they got married. He wished she would cry. Even her ugly cry would be better than this.
“Francine,” he said and stopped. The truth was that he had no idea what to say to her. Not about this. Not about Sydney. He’d been hiding this from her for fourteen years. He hadn’t been prepared to discuss Sydney back then, and he was no more prepared with the passage of time.
“You humiliated me,” Francine said. “You took me there in front of all those people and talked about that—that whore like she was some kind of saint.”
“Francine,” he said, his tone a caution.
She ignored him. “You said nothing ever happened between you two. But that photo, everyone saw that photo, Cash. Everyone!”
“They don’t know what it—” he broke off. He had almost said what it means.
Francine’s voice went up an octave. “You said she was never in our house. That’s what you said.”
He was at a loss. “I—”
“Shut up,” she screamed suddenly, her voice piercing and shrill. She covered her ears. “I can’t believe anything you say. You lie. That’s all you do. You’re a lying pedophile!”
“She was seventeen!” Cash snapped.
Francine took her hands away from her ears and glared at him. “She was a teenage girl, Cash. Do you understand? Seventeen. You were an adult, her teacher. Why don’t you see how wrong it was? Do you have any idea how close you came to destroying our lives? Again? You would have been on the six o’clock news. We would have lost everything, and even if you got away with it, our lives would have been destroyed. You’d never work again. I would be one of those dumb wives everyone would hate because they’d wonder, How could she not know? I thought you learned your lesson with Elise.” She stroked her belly as she spoke. Without warning, tears spilled down her cheeks. An odd sense of relief flooded through him. The crying was familiar territory. It was safe. “She was a teenage girl, Cash. A student. In our home!”