Jocelyn shifted and folded her arms across her chest. “You know,” she said. “You don’t always have to be fine.”
Francine looked momentarily confused, her smile quavering. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
Jocelyn’s voice was gentle but firm. “Come on, Francine. You’re a smart woman. Tell me what happened Tuesday night.”
“The night of the benefit?”
“The night you lost your baby. What really happened?”
Francine’s voice was barely audible. “I fell.”
Jocelyn’s tone took on a slight edge, like a teacher talking to a student claiming a lame excuse. The dog ate my homework. “Francine.”
This time, Francine sounded more convincing. She touched her forehead. “I did. I fell outside of the house. We were arguing in the car—”
“About what?”
Francine gave another weak smile, a wry twist to her mouth. “Please, Miss Rush. I think we both know what my husband and I were fighting about.”
“Your husband had an affair with Sydney Adams.”
For a split second, Francine’s face fell, but she gathered her composure quickly. “There was something between them, yes. I knew when I saw the photo of her at the benefit. It was taken at my home. Sydney never came to our house. At least, I didn’t think she had ever been there. But clearly she was, and my husband lied about it, so I drew the obvious conclusion.”
“He never admitted it to you?”
Francine shook her head. “He never came out and said the words.”
“But you had a fight over Sydney?”
“Well, yeah. My husband had an affair with a seventeen-year-old student and kept it from me for fourteen years. Of course we had a fight.”
“Did he push you? Is that why you fell?”
Another shake of her head. “No. I tripped. I got back up and went inside. He came in after me. I told him to leave me alone. I went to bed and a couple hours later, I woke up with horrible cramps. I started bleeding.”
“Did he leave you alone?”
“Of course,” Francine said. “Miss Rush, you seem hell-bent on making me into a victim of domestic violence. I’m not. My husband has a lot of flaws, but he does not beat me.”
“Do you know what Cytotec is?” Jocelyn asked.
Francine’s eyelids fluttered. “I don’t know. I mean it sounds like a medication. I’m a nurse, not a pharmacist. Is that what it is?”
Jocelyn nodded. “You’re right. It’s a medication. It’s used to end a pregnancy.”
Francine’s mouth opened as if in shock, but she quickly clamped it shut. Jocelyn stood and took the chair next to her. She turned it so that she faced the woman.
“Why are you telling me this?” Francine asked. Her hands went to her belly, as if her baby was still there.
Jocelyn felt a pang. “There are other ways that a man can hurt his wife. There are many forms of domestic abuse.”
“What are you saying?”
Jocelyn took a page from Francine’s book. “I think we both know that your husband’s so-called flaws are much worse than him being a cheater. I think there are a lot of things about your husband that you prefer not to discuss. That’s your prerogative, your business, but I’ve got to tell you, Francine, I’m worried about you. I think you’re in danger.”
Francine put a hand to her chest. “From my husband?”
Jocelyn held her gaze for a long moment. “You tell me, Francine.”
She didn’t respond right away, looking everywhere but at Jocelyn. Finally, she shook her head. “No, Cash would never hurt me. I mean not like that. He’s a shitty husband sometimes, weak, but he isn’t violent.”
“When I first spoke with you in your home, you told me there was a time you felt afraid of him, enough that you asked a student to help you get a gun.”
Francine’s eyes widened, her expression earnest. “I told you, that was a mistake. I wasn’t thinking straight. I was distraught. Cash would never really hurt me—”
Jocelyn held up a palm to silence her. “Okay, I get it. Cash is your husband. Your loyalty lies with him. I understand that. I won’t try to convince you of what I believe. But let me tell you a story.
“Three years ago, I was working as a detective with the Philadelphia Police Department. My partner and I got a call for a disturbance house.”
Francine looked puzzled.
“That’s cop talk for a domestic violence call. Neighbors had heard screaming, glass breaking, that sort of thing, coming from inside. One of them called it in. Marked units responded first. Inside the house, there was a man and a woman. They’d obviously been fighting. Both had scrapes and bruises on them. House was trashed. Responding officers thought, ‘husband and wife,’ right? Wrong. They called us because the woman was a nineteen-year-old who’d been missing from her house for a week. The guy was holding her against her will, keeping her in his basement unless his wife went out, then he’d bring her upstairs. When my partner and I got there, we found a body in his basement. Had to turn the case over to homicide. The guy’s wife came home while we were processing the scene. Do you know what she said when she came home from work to find the police crawling all over her house?”
Francine stared at her, rapt, waiting for her to go on.
“She said she didn’t know. She said she had no idea.”
Jocelyn paused for effect. She leaned in closer and repeated, “She didn’t know. She claimed she had no idea that her husband had been bringing college-age women into their home, assaulting them and, in at least one case that we know of, killing them. She had no idea that her husband was a rapist and a murderer.”
Francine said, “Maybe she didn’t.”
Jocelyn sat back. “Maybe. Maybe he was that good at keeping his activities secret. We don’t know what their relationship was like behind closed doors. But I can tell you that this woman was crucified in the press. No one believed she was that clueless. How do you live with someone for twenty years and never have any inkling that your husband is a murderer? How could she not know? That’s what people said. She’s either a fucking idiot or worse, a liar. Maybe she did know but said nothing. Or maybe—and this is what I believe—that she didn’t know, not really, but subconsciously she knew something was wrong. I think over the years she saw things, had some suspicions, but she pushed them aside, again and again, because it was easier to look the other way and ignore the nagging suspicions that her husband was a criminal of the worst kind than to have to speak up and do something about it.
“In hindsight, she could probably look back and think of a hundred examples where he set off alarm bells, and she chose to ignore them. But when he finally got caught, it was too late. Her life was ruined, and she came off looking complicit. No one believed her. Everyone thought she was just as bad as her raping, murdering husband for not putting it together and doing something about it.”
Francine brought her hands to her lap. They trembled and she folded them, lacing her fingers together tightly. “Why are you telling me this?”
Jocelyn leaned in again, talking low as if conveying a secret. “Because I know you can put the pieces together, Francine. I want you to put them together. Maybe I am wrong about the domestic violence, but I know for a fact that your husband is a suspect in Sydney Adams’ murder. It’s only a matter of time before the police show up on your doorstep and take him away. They’re closing in, Francine, and when they come, I’d hate to see you on the eleven o’clock news as the most hated woman in the city. The fucking idiot who had no idea her husband was a killer. Or worse—the liar who knew, or at least saw signs, but turned the other way. The way I see it, Francine, you have two choices. You can be that woman, or you can be the hero in this whole thing. You can be the wife who puts it all together and helps catch a killer.”