He scoffed. “Like you never had a student over.”
He felt her eyes burning holes into his face. “What are you talking about?”
He glanced at her. More tears. That was good. “I’m talking about Davey Pantalone. Remember him? He was a student. I came home from practice and found him at my dinner table.”
Francine rolled her eyes and swiped at her ruddy cheeks. “Oh, please. His mother had just died. I felt badly for him. I invited him over for dinner, one time. One time. On the day he buried his mother. That was it. I know that Sydney wasn’t over for dinner, you piece of shit. At least I’m not some kind of fucking pervert. How many times did you fuck her in our home, Cash?”
They stopped at a red light. He squeezed his eyes closed, feeling sick to his stomach. “Francine, please,” he murmured. “Can we not talk about this right now?”
“Oh, you don’t want to do this now?” she spat, her anger rising again like the head of a snake. “Okay, well, when is a good time for us to talk about Sydney Adams, Cash? When? I thought this whole thing with Sydney’s murder was over, but here we are, fourteen years later. No wonder the police won’t let it go. You’re a fucking liar. ”
“I thought it was over too, Fran,” he said. “I thought the whole thing was taken care of fourteen years ago.” He glanced over at her, but she stared straight ahead. Her tears had slowed. He waited for her to say something, but she didn’t.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I really am. I’m afraid—I’m afraid they’re never going to let it go, Francine.” Her silence was like a thousand wasps buzzing angrily between them. “Didn’t you see the glasses they were collecting? Across from the bathrooms in that little area? They were putting our drinking glasses into paper bags.”
She stared out the window. “I saw,” she said. “So what?”
He banged a palm on the steering wheel. “So what? It’s evidence. Fingerprints or whatever. You saw the news the other night, obviously this new evidence they’ve got is pretty serious. They’re not going to stop.”
“Where did they get this evidence?”
“How the fuck should I know? They manufactured it for all I know. You know they’ve wanted to pin this on me from the beginning. They’re the police, Fran. They do whatever they want, and they want to put me away for Syd’s murder.”
“That woman,” Francine said. “The nice one with the scar on her hand. She said she wasn’t with the police.”
Cash rolled his eyes. “Don’t be naïve. She’s helping them.” And I almost told her everything. Anger roiled inside of him. He didn’t know who he was more furious with—the police or himself for being so stupid.
“But I didn’t see the detective—you know, the one I filed that grievance against.”
“He’s probably retired. Jesus Christ. Are you listening to me? Do you understand how serious this is?”
He pulled into their driveway and turned the car off. Francine stared straight ahead, making no move to get out of the car. “Why are you saying these things?” she asked.
He made a noise of exasperation in his throat. “I need your help, Francine. I need you to . . . to fix this, like you did with Elise.”
Still, she refused to look at him. She laughed, the sound acerbic and mirthless. “Even if I could, how would I do that, Cash? I can’t fix everything for you, you stupid shit. You should have learned your lesson back then, but you didn’t. Instead, you betrayed me, you lied to me, you violated the sanctity of our home, of our marriage, and you got yourself in trouble with that whore.”
He knew the things she was saying were important, that she was right. He was a liar, a bad husband, a cheater. He had betrayed her in the worst possible way. But all he really heard was his wife disparaging a dead girl. “Syd was not a whore,” he shouted.
Francine turned her head in time for him to see her roll her eyes. “Please. What kind of a girl fucks her married coach in his home, where he lives with his wife? How long was it going on, Cash? How many times did you fuck that whore?”
A hot flash of rage consumed Cash. He gritted his teeth. “Don’t call her that.”
Francine sneered, but a fresh round of tears filled her eyes. “She almost destroyed our lives fourteen years ago, and she may still destroy us now. I’ll call her whatever I want. She was a whore.”
He white-knuckled the steering wheel. “Francine, I’m warning you.”
She laughed again, sharply, and wiped a tear from her cheek. “Fuck you,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “And your little whore.”
His vision narrowed. His chest felt tight, and his heartbeat thundered in his ears. He reached for her, but she scrambled out of the car and ran for their front door. He went after her, shouting her name. She couldn’t run very well in the boots she wore. He caught up with her quickly. His hand shot out to grab her arm, but before he could clamp down on it, she fell, facedown, sprawled on her stomach.
Cash felt like someone had punched him in the solar plexus. He stood over her, paralyzed. He knew he should help her, but he couldn’t get his limbs to move. She got to her knees and let out a wail that cut to his bones. The spell broken, he reached for her again, but she slapped his hand away. She stumbled to her feet and sprinted for the door, legs wobbly like a drunk person.
He went after her.
Chapter 18
November 12, 2014
It was after midnight by the time they left PTG. Jocelyn, Anita, and Inez drove back to Jocelyn and Anita’s office in one vehicle, with Trent following in his own car. Jocelyn had two of the blow-ups in her arms and was almost to the door when she saw what looked like a heap of clothes in front of the door. Her heartbeat ticked up slightly. They had an outdoor light, but in the dark, it cast strange shadows, making it hard to see the oxygen tank a few feet away from the collapsed figure. Jocelyn tossed the blow-ups and ran for the door. She dropped to her knees and saw that the person was Knox. She should have known. Who else would be lying outside her office doors? He had curled up on his side, knees pulled to his chest. She smelled vomit. As she rolled him over, she saw the source of the smell beneath him. Definitely whiskey again. Lots of it. The scene was becoming familiar.
Behind her, she heard shouting and then feet pounding the asphalt. Anita, Trent, and Inez stood over them. “What the hell is this?” Inez said.
“Is he . . . is he okay?” Trent asked, kneeling beside Jocelyn.
She pressed her fingers to the side of his throat and felt his pulse. “He’s alive.”
“He’s drunk,” Anita announced. She gently nudged Trent out of the way. He and Jocelyn stood up and backed away. “Knox,” Anita said loudly. She leaned down and shook Knox’s shoulder hard. Then she stepped back quickly as if he were a bomb that might go off. “Knox,” she yelled again.
He stirred, slowly at first, rolling completely onto his back and groaning. His nasal cannula hung from his left ear. Anita leaned down again, this time gently prodding his shoulder. She jumped back as his upper body sprung up, fists flailing. He hollered unintelligible words, some of which were most definitely expletives. His wrist clanged off the oxygen tank, which only seemed to infuriate him more. The four of them stood there watching for a long moment. Trent moved toward Knox, but Anita placed a hand on his forearm, stopping him.