She hugged Martha close, ignoring the voice of the police chief speaking to the press. Frankie glanced at Nathan and Marco, standing close by. “Tell her, guys.”
“She’s right, Martha,” Marco said. “Let Frankie do it herself.”
“No!” Martha said fiercely. “I want to be involved. Everyone’s taken his side. He’s spreading lies about you, and people believe him. He has to pay for what he’s done.”
Bascombe had taken the offensive and talked about Frankie’s troubled past.
“He’ll pay,” she assured her, nodding at Martha’s belly. “You gave the police the evidence they need. If you do this, sweetheart, you can’t take it back. Once you go out there, the whole world will know what happened to you.”
“I don’t care.” The teen straightened her shoulders. “It wasn’t my fault. I have nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Of course you don’t.” But Martha had no idea what it was like to have people watching her. Pointing fingers. Whispering as she walked by.
The police chief glanced at them. It was the signal for her and Martha to join him onstage. “Last chance, Martha. Are you sure?”
“I am.” She straightened the maternity blouse, looking far too young to be a mother. “Let’s do this.”
As they walked onto the stage, camera flashes exploded in front of them. Martha faltered for a moment, then reached for Frankie’s hand. Linked together, they walked to the podium.
The police chief nodded at them, then raised his hand for silence. When the crowd quieted, he said, “I want to make it clear that neither I nor Ms. Devereux pressured this young lady to come here today. We would have acted on her information regardless. But she wanted the public to hear her story.”
Frankie’s palms were slippery and her face hot from the lights. She glanced toward the side of the stage, and Nathan nodded at her. Marco gave her a thumbs-up and a proud smile. She blinked twice, took a deep breath, squeezed Martha’s hand and stepped to the microphone.
“My name is Francesca Devereux. Douglas Bascombe has been talking about me, and he’s right—I’m the unnamed woman in Lisa Halliday’s article about Bascombe and DCFS.” She swallowed as a bead of sweat trailed down her back. “I wanted to speak publicly because it’s important to keep predators away from our children. We need to look more carefully at the people who have power over the most vulnerable members of society.”
The room was quiet now, but Martha still clung to her hand. “I met Doug Bascombe more than ten years ago, when I was an inmate at the juvenile detention center.”
She told her story calmly, leaving out the graphic details, but not shying away from the fact that she’d been assaulted. She glanced at her brothers several times, and they smiled at her each time. Encouraged her.
“There’s no evidence of what Doug Bascombe did to me,” she finished. “He’s right—it’s his word against mine. And the statute of limitations expired long ago. But this brave young woman insisted on sharing her story with you.”
Martha gripped Frankie’s hand more tightly. She looked around the room, then nodded and stepped to the mic.
“My name is Martha Warren,” she said in a small voice. “I’m sixteen years old, and I live in Deerfield. Eight months ago, I was arrested for underage drinking at a party.” Martha’s voice grew stronger and she stood straighter. “Because my parents wanted to teach me a lesson, I spent five days in juvie. While I was there, Douglas Bascombe approached me. He told me he could get me out of jail if I’d have sex with him.” She stepped from behind the podium. “He raped me, and I’m pregnant with his baby.”
The audience gasped, and the flashes went off again. Frankie wrapped her arm around Martha’s shoulders. She wanted to step in front of the girl. Protect her from the storm that was breaking over her.
But Martha was stronger than Frankie had been at that age. The girl lifted her chin, stepped back to the microphone and said, “He’s still molesting girls. I saw him less than two months ago talking to a girl at one of the teen homeless shelters. Frankie is telling the truth about Bascombe.” She rubbed her hand over her belly. “This is the proof.”
The reporters shouted questions until their voices blended into a huge wave of sound. Frankie tightened her arm around Martha’s shoulders, and when the police chief nodded, she led the teen off the stage.
Nathan enveloped both of them in a hug, holding them close for a long moment. Then the police chief spoke again.
“At this moment, Douglas Bascombe is under arrest for criminal sexual assault and sexual assault of a minor. I expect to add other charges in the next several days. I want to urge anyone who’s had similar experiences with Mr. Bascombe to talk to us. Finally, I want to thank Martha, and Ms. Devereux, for having the courage to ignore threats and come forward.”
Nathan finally released them. “Let’s go home,” he said quietly.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
JUST LIKE THE OTHER EVENINGS at camp, Cal parked himself in the dormitory lounge and pretended to watch television. Tonight, it might have been a mistake. He’d taken another hit to his knee today and was afraid he wouldn’t be able to make it to his room without limping.
Living in the dorm was supposed to foster team unity, but it was a pain in the ass. It was impossible to hide anything when you lived with eighty other guys. Have a sore knee? Everyone knew about it. Calling your wife or girlfriend? Everyone knew about that, too.
Tonight, apparently, all his teammates had a woman to call. They wandered around after dinner, phones to their ears, smiling and happy. Cal stared at the television. If he hadn’t been such an ass, he’d be calling Frankie. Instead, he was stuck in this room, exhausted and lonely, until everyone else left.
Chet Sorkowski plopped down on the couch next to him, phone stuck to his ear. From the silly grin on his face, he had to be talking to one of his kids.
“I want to be home with you, too, Chrissy. But I bet your brother will play horsey with you.”
Cal tried not to listen, but Chet had a loud voice.
The big redhead laughed. “Yeah, he’s not as strong as me. But I’ll be home soon. Then I’ll play horsey all you want.” He made a snorting noise that was the lamest horse sound Cal had ever heard, but apparently his kid liked it. He could hear her giggling.
“I love you, too, honeybun,” Chet said. “Can you put your mom on the phone?”
After a moment, Chet said something in a low murmur that sounded like “I miss you, baby.” He glanced at Cal and stood up, heading down the hall to his room.
Cal flexed his knee. The ice bag he’d had on it had dulled the pain, but it still felt as if someone had stuck a knife in the joint.
Envy and sadness swept over Cal. Would he ever be able to get on his hands and knees and play horsey with his kids?
If he had kids. Football was his life, right? No room for a wife or family.
No other football players have relationships?
A lot of the guys seemed to manage it.
Restless, he rearranged the ice bag and settled in to wait. A lot of his teammates iced in the evening, so he didn’t stick out. But limping to his room? They would notice that. So he’d watch television until he was the last one here.
When the ten-o’clock news came on, he was still staring at the television, missing Frankie, cursing his knee. Two other guys were here, too, rookies he’d met a couple times. He was barely paying attention when he saw Frankie on the screen in front of him. Cal sat up, sending the ice bag to the floor with a thud.
“In a late-afternoon press conference, two women claimed to have been assaulted by Douglas Bascombe, the head of the Division of Child and Family Services.” The camera panned over Frankie and Martha, standing at the podium. The teen gripped Frankie’s hand as her gaze darted around the room. Flashes w
ent off and people shouted.
The camera zoomed in on Frankie. She wore a red blouse and a black suit jacket—completely un-Frankielike. But she didn’t look nervous or uncomfortable. She was composed. Confident. Calm under pressure.
That was his Frankie.
Not anymore, she isn’t.
She stepped forward and began to speak, but the volume was too low for him to hear. When he finally got the remote, she’d stepped away and Martha was trembling at the microphone.
He didn’t have to hear, though, to know the reaction when she stepped away from the podium to reveal her belly.
Was Bascombe the bastard who’d gotten her pregnant?
As anger coiled inside Cal, a sober-looking blonde woman appeared on the screen. “Charges were filed against Douglas Bascombe late this afternoon.”
They showed the press conference again, and Martha and Frankie standing side by side. His teammates snickered and elbowed each other.
“Whatever else he is, the dude has good taste,” one of them said.
“That dark-haired one is a little skinny, but she looks hot,” the other replied.
Cal surged off the couch, ignoring the pain in his knee, and grabbed the second kid by his shirt. “What kind of an asshole are you?” He shook him until his long blond hair flew around his face. “Those two women were assaulted. God!” He threw the kid to the floor, where he stared up at Cal, dazed.
Cal looked at the other rookie, who shrank away from him. “You want to say anything else, hotshot?”
“Uh, no. No. We didn’t mean anything.”
Cal looked from one to the other, then turned away. I gave up Frankie so I could spend my time with guys like you? What kind of stupid shit am I?
He switched off the television, lost in thought. It had taken a lot of courage for Frankie to stand in front of the cameras and talk about what had happened to her.
She was so strong. So brave. He was proud of her determination to stop a predator.
He should have been with her. He should have gone with her to the police, held her hand while she told them what Bascombe had done.
He should have been at the press conference.
Cal was supposed to be tough. Strong. Fearless.
He was none of those things. Frankie, a woman half his size, had him beat in all categories.
And he’d given her up for football. Given up everything they had together so he could be the hero on Sunday.
He grabbed the bag of ice from the floor and limped to his room. Frankie was taking chances, putting herself out there, doing the right thing.
He had his head up his ass.
He also had a lot of thinking to do.
THE EVENING AFTER the press conference, Frankie was curled up on the couch, reading a thriller, when her buzzer sounded. She ignored it. The press had been relentless. She’d turned her phone off, as well.
But it buzzed again. Longer this time. So she unfolded herself from the couch and peered out the window.
Her heart stuttered. Cal.
What was he doing here? Pain, anger and grief roiled inside her as she put her hand on the buzzer. Hesitated. Eventually, she pushed it.
By the time he reached the top of the stairs, she was shaking. She opened the door before he could knock. “Cal.”
“Hello, Frankie.”
She let herself study him. His face was tanned. Probably from being outside at training camp. He looked thinner, too. “What are you doing here?”
“Will you let me in?”
She shrugged and stepped back. When he came inside, the memories hit her squarely in the chest, stealing her breath.
She settled into a chair and drew her knees up, clasping her arms around them. He paced the room, looking at the pictures, the books, the view from the window.
“Why are you here?” she asked, tired of his stalling.
Finally he faced her. There were dark smudges below his eyes and new lines bracketing his mouth. His eyes, which used to twinkle, were deep pools of misery. “To apologize for walking out on you.”
He sat on the couch directly across from her and leaned forward. “I can never make up for that. I saw your press conference yesterday. Read the papers today. I should have been with you.”
“I managed on my own.”
“Of course you did. You don’t need anyone.”
She’d needed him. And he’d left her. “What’s your point?”
“I’m sorry, Frankie. Sorry I ran. Sorry I didn’t have the courage to accept what you were offering. Sorry I hurt you.”
His words were blows, and they landed squarely. She sucked in a painful breath. “Do you expect me to kick your ass, then say it’s okay? Say, ‘Let’s go back to the way we were’? Not going to happen, Cal.”
His mouth tightened. “Because you don’t care anymore?”
“Because I care too much.” She jumped up and stared out the window, remembering the sight of Cal walking out the door. “I’ve never let anyone get as close as I let you. Do you have any idea how hard it was to tell you what Bascombe had done? To tell you I loved you?” Her eyes burned, and she clenched her teeth. She refused to cry in front of him. “I’m not sure I can take that risk again.”
He stood, but he didn’t try to touch her. “I know,” he said quietly. “I know what I did to you. I wouldn’t blame you if you never wanted to see me again, but I hope you’ll give me a chance.” He shoved trembling hands into his pockets. “The first day I was at FreeZone, you told me everyone deserves a second chance.”
She shouldn’t have buzzed him in, let him argue his case. She should have ignored him.
But she was tired of righteous anger. Tired of being alone. Tired of longing for him, every minute of every day. “Give you a chance for what?”
He moved so he was facing her. “To prove that I love you, Frankie. Because I do. I think I fell in love with you the day I met you. You stood up to those two gangbangers, then you stood up to me. You were so fierce. So protective of the kids. I wanted that caring, that love, for myself. I was just too scared to take it when you offered.”
“Words, Cal. Words.” He was saying everything she’d wanted to hear, but it wasn’t nearly enough. She forced herself to ignore the vulnerability in his face, the yearning in her heart, and took a breath. “You walked out on me. Walked out the door after I relived the most painful episode of my life for you. How can I trust you again?”
“I don’t know. But you think the best of everyone. You always see the potential, not the reality. My reality was screwed up. But maybe you can look beyond it and see a little potential.” He flexed his hands, kept his gaze on her. “I’ve learned a lot about myself this week. Most of it not very flattering. But I did figure out one thing I’m absolutely positive about.”
“What’s that?” she asked, a tiny sliver of hope cutting through her distrust.
“I learned that I love you, Frankie. That I’m yours. Forever. I want to marry you. Have kids with you. Spend the rest of my life with you.”
The lump in her throat grew and grew. She swallowed hard, trying to dislodge it. “Is that supposed to make me fall at your feet, Cal? Make me say that everything is forgotten and let’s live happily ever after?”
“Of course not. I know you better than that.” He watched her steadily, and the regret in his eyes made her chest burn. “I know those are just words. I know I have to prove myself. I just want a chance to do that.”
“When, Cal? After the football season is over? When you have time for me again?”
“Starting today.” He shoved his hands into his pockets again and jiggled his foot. “I quit the team. I’ll help coach the rookies at camp, but then I’m through.”
“What?” She took a step toward
him. Stopped. “Football is your life. You told me over and over it was all that mattered to you.”
“I thought it was. Since I was a kid, I’ve been programmed to be a football player. A star. My coaches, my father, all pounded it into me—you have to focus on football. No distractions. No other interests.
“You were a huge distraction. When I was with you, I couldn’t focus on anything but you. Couldn’t think about anything but you. Didn’t want anything but you.”
“So you left me.”
“I was scared, Frankie. Without football, I didn’t know who I was. What I could do.”
“So what changed?” She crossed her arms over her chest to keep from touching him.
“I’m one of the stars on the team. The rookies came to me for advice. The coaches asked for my opinions. I was Somebody.”
He reached for her, then let his hand drop. “But it was nothing without you. Empty. Lonely. I realized I don’t need the cheers from the crowd, the rush of making a good play, to be happy.
“I need you, Frankie. I want to be your somebody. I don’t want a one-dimensional life. I want all we can have together. I don’t want to be the star. I want to be the man you saw, not the guy the fans see.”
She glanced at his knee, covered by his jeans. “Did you quit because you hurt yourself again?”
“Ouch.” He rubbed his knee and looked away. “That’s a fair question, I guess, but my knee has nothing to do with it. I would have made the team. I would have played.” He took a step toward her. “But you shamed me. I saw your press conference with Martha. I was so damn proud of you. You had so much courage. So did she.
“More than I had. I couldn’t bear to face the truth—that my life was shallow. Not what I really wanted. You showed me what a coward I was.”
A Safe Place Page 24