There was no one on the road, so she put the car in park and got out, sticking her head under the driver’s seat, where the screen glowed. By the time she fished it out and righted herself in the driver’s seat again, the ringing had died. There were six missed calls from Knox in the last hour, but no voicemails. She was about to hit the tiny green telephone icon next to his number to call him back when the phone rang again.
She swiped answer and pressed the phone to her ear. “Knox,” she said. “You okay?” No answer came. She heard breathing, rustling, then footsteps. “Knox,” she said. “You butt-dialed me again.”
She was about to hang up when she heard something else. A female voice. “Did you find it okay?”
The voice was familiar, but Jocelyn couldn’t place it. The light in front of her had cycled back to red again. A vehicle pulled up on her left, the young woman in it singing along to the music blasting from her speakers.
“Yes,” Knox answered. “Thank you.”
“Sit,” the woman told him.
Jocelyn heard the sound of a chair scraping over tiles, Knox’s signature wheezing and then the clink of dishes.
“So,” the woman said. “Did you just come to tell me that my husband confessed? Are you here to gloat?”
Chapter 38
November 17, 2014
Francine didn’t sound angry or bitter. She didn’t sound at all like a woman whose husband had just confessed to killing a seventeen-year-old girl.
There was a strange gurgling sound. It took Jocelyn a moment to figure out that it was coffee brewing. The traffic light turned green. Singing Girl surged forward, her taillights disappearing down Henry Avenue in seconds. Jocelyn bore left and followed.
Knox’s voice. “Not to gloat.”
“Well,” Francine said. “Seeing as you’re here so late, would you like some coffee?”
“I hate to trouble you.”
“Oh, it’s no trouble,” Francine said. “I’ll even let you use the fancy mugs.”
Jocelyn came to the next light, which was red. Singing Girl was long gone. Headlights glowed in Jocelyn’s rearview mirror. Two cars pulled up behind her. On the phone, she heard Knox laugh. “I don’t think your husband would approve of your letting me drink from the good china.”
Jocelyn heard the sound of liquid pouring, what sounded like something being pushed across the table, the fridge opening and closing and finally, the sound of a spoon clinking against the inside of a mug. “Thank you,” Knox said.
Behind Jocelyn, one of the vehicles beeped. She glanced up to see the green light and hit the gas, again using one hand to steer while the other kept the phone pressed against her ear. She heard the sound of another chair scraping tile. A sigh. Then Francine said, “Well, neither of us needs to be concerned with what my husband thinks anymore.”
Jocelyn had a sinking feeling in her stomach. Knox hadn’t been with them that day. He only knew about the mugs because Jocelyn and Trent had told him. Jocelyn hadn’t told Francine that she and Trent had been sick, much less that they suspected Cash of poisoning them using the mugs. But Francine didn’t seem to find Knox’s comment puzzling at all. She continued, “So, Mr. Knox, why are you here?”
Jocelyn sped up, but she still seemed to be hitting every red light.
“I’m here to ask you why your husband would confess to a crime he didn’t commit—especially one that’s going to put him in prison for life.”
Jocelyn gasped. She inched forward into the intersection, searching for vehicles coming from her right and left. When she saw none, she went through the red light.
“You people,” Francine said, her tone derisive. “You’ve worked for fourteen years to pin this on my husband, and now that you have, you’re not happy. Really, I don’t know what more I can do for you. You’re destined to die unsatisfied.”
Jocelyn’s throat constricted. Knox was calm as ever. “Me?” he said. “No. I won’t die unsatisfied. Not now. I know the truth.”
“Oh? What truth is that?”
Jocelyn heard a sound like Knox shifting in his chair. “Tell me, Mrs. Rigo, doesn’t it bother you, even a little bit, that no one will ever know how truly brilliant you are? All these years you’ve been pulling the strings, orchestrating all of this. How did you get your husband to take the fall for Sydney Adams’ murder?”
Jocelyn pulled up to another red light. This time, there were three cars in front of her. Her fingers drummed against the steering wheel. “Come on.”
“What makes you think Cash didn’t kill Sydney?” Francine asked.
A creak, Knox shifting again. “My friend Raz, he went at Cash for a good, long while. The evidence against him is pretty solid, even without a confession. Almost too solid. But Cash wouldn’t confess. Even in the face of a smoking gun, he wouldn’t confess. It wasn’t until Raz reminded him of something his lovely wife said that he confessed. ‘Do the right thing.’”
The light changed. The cars inched forward. Jocelyn gave a light beep, but it only made them go slower. She struck the steering wheel with her palm. “Come the fuck on,” she growled.
“So I told my husband to do the right thing. You don’t think he should?”
Knox gave a wheezy laugh. “Depends on what you think the right thing is, I guess. Opinions might differ. Your husband, he’s not a good actor. Not as good as you. When he saw the crime scene photos, I knew. He wasn’t there that night.”
Jocelyn beeped her horn until all the cars in front of her got out of the way. She sped around them, not even acknowledging the middle fingers and the expletives being shouted her way.
“You,” Knox went on. “You’re an exceptional actor, aren’t you? I’ll bet you’ve been giving Oscar-worthy performances your entire life, haven’t you? So tell me, how did you do it? How did you pull it all off?”
Silence. Knox waited. There was the sound of swallowing.
The coffee.
Jocelyn hit another red light, crept through the intersection and, when she determined that it was clear, went through it. She had already missed the turn off Henry Avenue that would lead her to her house. She was headed for the Rigos.’ Francine didn’t respond, so Knox took another tack. “Let’s talk about Becky Wu then.”
“Oh please,” Francine scoffed.
Jocelyn turned off Henry Avenue onto Roxborough Avenue, snaking along the edge of the Walnut Lane Golf Course. She’d have to cross the Wissahickon Creek to get to the Rigos’ neighborhood. As she raced across the bridge on Walnut Lane, her heart was in her throat. She pressed the phone ever harder against her ear. Its screen was hot against her skin.
“How’d you do it?” Knox asked.
More silence. Then, “Do you really think I’m stupid enough to tell you all my secrets, old man?”
“I don’t think you’re stupid at all. But I do think it’s killing you inside to have to keep all those secrets. I know you would never take a risk like that. So I’m going to drink this coffee—all of it—and then you’re going to tell me everything.”
“Knox, no!” Jocelyn cried even though she knew he wouldn’t hear her. She was relieved that she had put the phone on mute a few lights back so she could listen and not worry about Francine hearing any of her outbursts. Jocelyn wanted to call 911, but if she hung up, she’d lose her connection to Knox. Instead, she blew another red light, making her way onto West Cliveden Street and deeper into Mt. Airy.