“Francine Rigo,” Jocelyn said.
Kevin nodded. “She says she fell. I had a tough time getting the husband out of the room. He got upset when I showed up. Said it was a private matter, and they needed to know if their baby was okay.”
Jocelyn sucked in a breath. “The baby.”
Kevin shook his head and looked at the floor. “The baby didn’t make it,” he said. “The doctor ran all kinds of tests. There’s no heartbeat.”
Jocelyn closed her eyes, a lump forming in her throat. She hardly knew Francine. Maybe her husband was a killer or a wife-beater. Or both. But Jocelyn wouldn’t wish a miscarriage on any woman. She had provoked Cash the evening before. She had meant to provoke him. Put the pressure on, make him believe he would soon be arrested for Sydney Adams’ murder. Was it simply a coincidence that a short time later, his wife mysteriously fell and lost her baby? Jocelyn opened her eyes and looked at her former partner. His hazel eyes were dark with sympathy. “Shit, Kev.”
She turned away from him, looking at the wall of closed curtains. She rubbed her temples, thinking about how excited Francine had seemed, how her hands had been perpetually curled around her small baby bump. “Fuck,” Jocelyn said. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
“I know,” Kevin said. “So, look . . . her husband went home to get some things for her. They have to admit her—do a procedure. You want to talk to her?”
Jocelyn tried to think past the little well of guilt filling up the pit of her stomach. “I’m not on the job, Kev. There are all kinds of privacy violations going on right now.”
“Fuck that. You want to put the pressure on this guy? You get to his wife. If you get him off the street, it’ll be the best fucking thing that ever happened to her.”
Jocelyn sighed. Maybe it would be. Maybe it would be good for Francine to be rid of her murdering asshole of a husband while she still had a few child-bearing years left. Not that it was Jocelyn’s place to judge or to meddle. But maybe she could just talk to Francine. The woman had seemed receptive to her when they’d met at the Rigos’ home.
She and Kevin quickly put together a ruse where she would walk past Francine’s partially pulled curtain talking loudly on her phone about just having spoken with a client in the ER. They hardly needed to bother.
Francine was near catatonic when Jocelyn happened by her bed. She didn’t look at Jocelyn or even acknowledge her presence. She lay curled on her side, staring sightlessly in front of her. She wore two hospital gowns, one open facing front and the other open facing back. Jocelyn had done the same thing when she’d been admitted the year before. It was the only way to cover all the important parts, and you couldn’t be chastised for not wearing a gown.
Jocelyn stepped tentatively into the room. She was a decent interrogator, but she’d never been a great actor. She was having a hard enough time bullshitting Olivia about Santa Claus. Approaching Francine, she couldn’t keep her surprise from sounding insincere, but the sympathy in her tone was real. She wouldn’t wish the loss of a child on anyone. The creeping, nagging sense that she was somehow responsible made her feet feel heavy, like blocks of concrete. She reminded herself that the only person responsible for the actions of an abusive spouse was the abusive spouse himself.
“Mrs. Rigo? Is that you? What are you doing here? Are you okay?”
Francine didn’t respond, staring past Jocelyn, seeing something in her own mind that her reality couldn’t compete with. Jocelyn stood there awkwardly fidgeting with her phone. A long, excruciating moment passed. Every sound in the place seemed amplified. Jocelyn glanced at the floor. “I’m sorry. I’m being rude. We barely know one another. I’ll go.”
When she turned her back, Francine said, “I lost the baby.” Her tone was flat, matter-of-fact, betraying the numbness she must have felt.
Again, Jocelyn tried not to feel heartbroken for the woman. She was actively trying to put Francine’s husband in prison, with good reason. She turned back. Francine still would not meet her eyes. “I’m so sorry,” Jocelyn said. “What happened?”
“I fell.”
Jocelyn knelt beside the bed so she could get face to face with Francine. She avoided Jocelyn’s gaze but made no effort to move away or turn over. “Francine, is that really what happened?”
She didn’t answer. Jocelyn studied her face, but there was nothing there, just a pallid, worn-out woman whose mind had shut down in the face of trauma. Jocelyn’s heart ached for her. “Francine,” Jocelyn tried again. “You can tell me the truth. I can help you. Did your husband hurt you? Is that how you lost the baby?”
A single tear escaped Francine’s right eye, sliding down her cheek and onto the pillow beneath her head. In the same monotone, she said, “I told you, Miss Rush. My husband has never hit me.”
With that, she rolled over to her other side, turning her back on Jocelyn.
Chapter 20
November 13, 2014
Jocelyn stood at her dining room table, stirring Betty Crocker cake mix and various other ingredients in a large blue plastic bowl. It looked like chocolate sludge. She could have sworn the last time she made cupcakes, the batter wasn’t so soupy. She scooped some of it with her big, plastic spoon and let it pour back into the bowl. She looked at Anita, who sat at the other end of the table, completely engrossed in her laptop. Beyond her, in the living room, Anita’s eleven-year-old daughter, Pia, sat with Olivia on the couch. They each had an iPad in their hands. Pia appeared to be showing Olivia how to play a game, using her own iPad as a guide. Jocelyn turned her gaze back to Anita.
Anita looked up from her laptop. Jocelyn scooped another spoonful of batter and let it fall back into the bowl. “I don’t think I’m doing this right,” she said.
“Rush, you’re not making it from scratch. Just follow the directions on the box. You can’t possibly screw it up.”
Jocelyn stirred it some more. “You might think that, but I am actually quite skilled at destroying cupcakes by following the recipe on the box. The last time Olivia needed cupcakes for school, they turned out so badly she wouldn’t even let me take them in, and when I tried to go store-bought she was even more upset.”
Jocelyn threw the spoon into the bowl, sloshing the soupy batter. She leaned over the table, placing both palms flat on the table. “Do you know what she said to me?”
Jocelyn didn’t wait for Anita to answer. She lowered her voice so Olivia wouldn’t overhear her. “She said all the other mommies made the bestest cupcakes except for me.”
Anita rolled her eyes. “Rush, you’re over-thinking this.”
Jocelyn took the spoon up again and waved it at Anita, drops of chocolate batter arcing across the table. “Am I?” she said, eyes wide. “Why can’t I make cupcakes that look like Minions or a goddamn Disney Princess? You should see what the other moms came up with. Those other moms—”
“Fuck those other moms,” Anita said abruptly.
They glanced back toward the living room, but their daughters were fully engrossed in whatever was on their iPads. Looking at one another across the table again, Anita said, “There’s more to being a good mother than making perfect cupcakes. We both know that.”
Jocelyn took that in, silent and grateful for a new perspective. She’d stressed more over these stupid cupcakes than she had about opening her own business.