Cash leaned toward Trent, his face brightening, almost hopeful. “Listen,” he said. “That stuff you found in my house, you don’t understand. It’s not what it looks like.”
Trent put his pen behind one ear and regarded Cash steadily. “Really?” he said. “Because it looks like you were in possession of the jewelry that Sydney Adams was wearing on the night she died. That’s what it looks like.”
Cash shook his head and spread his hands in a plaintive gesture. “But that’s not—I didn’t put it there.”
Trent let his gaze linger on the man, let the moment stretch out. “Oh, you didn’t put it there? Where did it come from, Mr. Rigo?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know how a dead girl’s jewelry got into your house?”
Cash shook his head again, the movement more frantic this time. “No, I don’t. I’m telling you, this is all a big mistake.”
Trent gave a curt shake of his head, as if trying to shake off something perplexing. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s talk about Sydney Adams. You were close to Sydney, weren’t you?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“How close? Did you have a physical relationship with her?”
Cash dropped his gaze and squeezed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “We didn’t—it wasn’t like that.”
“Like what?” Trent asked. “Because I have photos of Sydney posing suggestively in your home.”
“Oh my God,” Cash said. “This is a nightmare.”
“Oh, it is,” Trent agreed. “It is a nightmare that the Adams family has been living for fourteen years. Now, before you lie to me again, I want you to think long and hard about what they’re going through.”
Again, Cash looked close to tears. “I did. I have thought about it. I can’t—I don’t—what do you want me to say?”
Trent leaned in closer toward the man, his face serious but sympathetic. “I want you to tell me the truth, Mr. Rigo.”
“I am!”
“No. I don’t think you are.”
Trent reached into the file folder and pulled out a photo. From the angle of the camera, it was difficult to see clearly, but Jocelyn was pretty sure it was one of the flirty photos. Trent tapped his index finger on the photo. “Look at this face, Mr. Rigo.”
Cash did, his face slowly falling to pieces, drooping, every line that age and stress had etched there now more visible. “Sydney,” he said, the note of longing in his voice palpable. He reached out to touch the photo but apparently thought better of it and rested his hand in his lap. He looked down. “I cared for her,” he said. “I know none of you will believe me, but I did.”
“If you really cared about Sydney Adams, then you will give her family peace, Cash. Just tell me what happened between you and Sydney. The truth.”
The moment stretched out, heavy and silent. Cash’s shoulders quaked. Silent tears slid down his cheeks. Then, in a broken voice, he said, “A few weeks before Syd died, we were at my house.”
“Why was Sydney at your house?”
“We had a meet in Cheltenham that afternoon. We were supposed to take pictures for the yearbook. Of course, I forgot my camera. Syd had one but it wasn’t—it wasn’t very good quality. She only had a few pictures left on her roll of film.” He laughed nervously, wiping his tears. “Roll of film. Remember those days?”
Trent gave a brief smile and nod. Cash continued. “So I was going to drive to my house, get my camera, and meet the team at Cheltenham. They were going on the bus. Syd offered to ride with me. She wanted to talk to me about the colleges she’d been accepted to.”
“And did she?”
“Yeah. That’s not a line. She was my student. I had helped her with her applications. Sydney was smart and accomplished. She was going places. I just wanted to help.”
“So what happened when you got to your house?”
“I made her wait in the car,” Cash said, as if he were defending himself. “I did. I made her wait, but I couldn’t find the damn camera. I thought it was in the foyer closet, but I couldn’t find it. Syd got tired of waiting. She came in. She had her camera. She said if I could at least find some film, we could see if her camera would take it. I couldn’t find any film either. Then she was teasing me because I was so disorganized, and then she said I was a bad photographer anyway.”
“Why would she say that?”
Cash sighed. “Because the year before I’d taken photos of the championship meet, and they all came out blurry.”
“So what happened next?”
“I took her camera from her, as a joke, and said I would prove her wrong. That I could take perfect photos. I started to take pictures. Of course, I couldn’t work her camera. She laughed. She said, ‘you’re so lame.’ That’s what she always said to me, but she wasn’t being mean. It was like this joke between us. Anyway, she reached for the camera and the flash went off. So I went to take more pictures and she posed for me. She posed for me.” He repeated, as if to emphasize that he hadn’t done anything wrong.
“Then what happened?” Trent asked quietly.
“Then the film ran out. I thought I broke the camera. She took it from me. She was standing there, by that table in my foyer hall, fiddling with it. She took the film out and put it on the table. She was just standing there and I felt . . .” he trailed off. His eyes glazed over, like he was back in the foyer along with Sydney. “I felt . . .”
Trent waited but when Cash didn’t speak, he coaxed him. “You felt what, Mr. Rigo?”
Cash blinked, whatever visions he’d been indulging in gone. He looked all around the room, wiping his palms repeatedly on his pants. “I wanted her,” he said finally. “Sydney had been flirting with me for a long time. You’ve seen her photos. She was gorgeous. I wanted . . . I wanted to touch her. She didn’t stop me. She didn’t say no.”
Jocelyn felt sick to her stomach. Beside her, Knox made a hmph noise.
“What did you do, Mr. Rigo?” Trent asked.
Cash hung his head. “I—I grabbed her. From behind. I—I grabbed her hips, and I pushed her against the table. She didn’t say no.”
“What happened then?”
“We had—we had sex.”
“You had sexual intercourse with Sydney Adams?”
“Yes.”
“In your home?”
“Yes.”
“What happened after that?”
“What?”
“After you had intercourse with Miss Adams, what did you do?”
Cash said, “I—I apologized to her.”
Jocelyn saw red. Her reaction was instantaneous. Her face burned, and her fists clenched, her heartrate increasing rapidly as if she’d just sprinted once around the building. “If you have to apologize to a woman after you have sex with her, that’s a real problem,” she muttered.
“That piece of shit,” Knox agreed.
“Why did you apologize?” Trent went on, calm and collected.
“I was her teacher,” Cash explained. “She was a student.”
“You thought you did something wrong?”
Cash looked up. “I thought I confused things.”
“What things?”
“Things between Sydney and me.”
“What did Miss Adams say?”
“She said, ‘don’t worry about it.’”
“Oh my God,” Jocelyn groaned.
“She told you not to worry about it?” Trent said, a note of incredulity working its way into his tone. “You had intercourse with a seventeen-year-old student in the home you share with your wife, and this girl told you not to worry about it?”