Sins of the Mother

by Victoria Christopher Murray

  She saw no one, saw nothing through her tears.

  “My baby, my baby!”

  “I know,” Hosea said softly. “I know.”

  “Jacquie,” she cried as he held her.

  Soon he was calling their daughter’s name with her. And as Jasmine cried, matching tears rolled down his cheeks. She raised her arms and held him, too.

  And they cried.

  Together.

  On the floor.

  For hours.

  Together.

  Twelve

  TOMORROW HAD COME.

  And Jacqueline was not home.

  Jasmine rushed down the hallway of the NBC studios, Hosea’s steps far behind hers. She stopped in front of the GUESTS sign and swung the door open. Her pounding heart slowed the moment she saw Reverend Bush and Mrs. Sloss standing guard over Zaya as he slept in his stroller.

  Releasing a deep sigh, she pulled her son into her arms.

  Reverend Bush said, “I told you, sweetheart, nothing’s going to happen to him. I promise.”

  She had no idea how—after everything that had happened—anyone could make any kind of promise. But she said nothing as she rocked Zaya in her arms. He squirmed and whined, as if he didn’t want to be disturbed, but Jasmine didn’t care that she’d awakened him. She needed to feel his heartbeat against her own.

  “Ssshhhh,” she purred as she walked back and forth across the room. “It’s all right,” she said, more to herself than to her son.

  It had been torture to leave him for the minutes she and Hosea had been on camera, just as torturous as when they had stopped at ABC and CBS earlier.

  She’d been so hopeful when Reverend Bush had called while darkness still owned the sky, and had told Hosea that he’d arranged for interviews on all three networks.

  “The weekend shows don’t have the audience that the weekday shows have,” Hosea had repeated his father’s words to her, “but I’m sure they’ll replay it tomorrow, and on Monday, if Jacquie isn’t home before then.”

  But a battle began when Jasmine jumped from the bed and began to dress Zaya to go with them.

  “We can leave him here,” Hosea had said. “We’ll only be gone a couple of hours.”

  “Are you crazy?” she had asked her husband in a screaming fit. “I am not leaving my child!”

  “He’s not going to be alone, Jasmine. Mrs. Sloss, the detectives, they’ll all be here to protect him.”

  “No!”

  “If you want, I’ll even have Pops come over, but Zaya will be safer here than anywhere.”

  Even as he’d given her reason on top of reason, Jasmine had ignored her husband and bundled up their sleeping son. She didn’t care if Colin Powell was standing guard—her son would be safe only with her.

  The second fight began when they arrived at the ABC studios. She and Hosea had settled into the Green Room with Reverend Bush and Mrs. Sloss when the producer came for them. Holding Zaya in her arms, Jasmine had stood to follow the headphone-wearing woman.

  “Ah,” the producer began, “you can leave your son in the Green Room. It’s best if it’s just you and your husband on camera, in case your son wakes up.”

  “He’ll be fine,” Jasmine said.

  The producer’s insistence made Jasmine give in, but only after she had Reverend Bush’s assurance that his grandson would never leave his sight. She repeated her fight at CBS and then NBC; but at each network, she’d had to acquiesce. It was all over now, however. She could go home where she could safely watch over Zaya and pray for Jacqueline.

  Exhaustion finally made her sit down. Hosea crouched in front of her, his face etched with the same exhaustion that she felt. She was certain that her eyes were as bloodshot as his, but she wasn’t sure if the weary redness they shared came from the hours they’d spent crying, or from the restless hours that followed when they’d lain awake in bed, as Zaya slept between them.

  “Are you okay?” he whispered.

  She nodded. “I’m fine, just tired.” She looked down at their son. “Ready to take my baby home.”

  He said, “We have to make another stop first.” Her frown made him add, “We have to stop by the police station.”

  She searched his eyes, wanting to know if there was more to his words. “Is it about—”

  “No!” He shook his head. “I mean, yes. They want to talk to us some more about Jacquie. But there’s nothing new, not yet.” He looked down at his cell phone. “I got a message from Detective Cohen; he saw us on the morning shows and has a few questions.”

  Laying Zaya back in his stroller, she said, “I’ve told him . . . you’ve told him everything.”

  “I know, but if it will help in any way, we can’t answer enough questions.”

  She nodded. Of course she would go to the station. Anything. Whatever. Everything she could do.

  As she slipped into her coat, she said, “Zaya is coming with us.”

  Hosea had no arguments left. He just nodded and glanced at his father before he reached for the stroller and followed Jasmine out the door.

  Thirteen

  THEY WERE BACK—IN THE same room, in the same chairs, where they had sat less than twenty-four hours ago. Like before, Detective Cohen was on one side of the rectangular table, across from Jasmine and Hosea—only this time, Zaya’s stroller was right at Jasmine’s side.

  “Thank you for coming back down.” Detective Cohen leaned forward, his arms resting flat on the table. “I know this is a lot—”

  “Anything to find Jacqueline,” Hosea interrupted, and reached for Jasmine’s hand.

  “I really don’t know why we’re here,” Jasmine said. “If you don’t have any news on Jacquie, and we’ve already told you—”

  “I understand, Mrs. Bush,” the detective interrupted. “This may seem redundant, but we’re following up on every lead. And sometimes it helps to go over some of these leads with the people involved.”

  Hosea leaned forward. “Do you have—”

  Before Hosea could finish, the door behind them opened. They all turned to face another of the detectives Jasmine recognized from yesterday.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” he said to all of them. Then, to Hosea, he asked, “Can I get you out here for a moment? We have some . . . paperwork . . .” He stopped, as if that was enough.

  Hosea frowned, and Detective Cohen nodded. “Go ahead. I can go over these things with your wife.”

  Before he could even ask, Jasmine waved him away. “I’m fine.”

  He kissed her cheek before he stood and left the room.

  With a sigh, Jasmine leaned back in the chair.

  The detective said, “I know this is difficult, Mrs. Bush.”

  Nodding, she looked down at her son, sleeping, as if their world was normal. Serenity was all over his face. Her heart ached as she stared at her son and saw her daughter. Not that her children looked too much alike—the brother and sister had each taken on the features of their respective fathers, and therefore they didn’t look much like siblings at all. But the way they slept—that was the same. Eyes closed, mouths open, lips upturned just a bit. As if they saw angels in their dreams.

  Even now, Jasmine imagined Jacqueline sleeping, and she prayed that at this very moment her daughter was just like her son. Resting. Filled with peace.

  The detective drew her back into his world. “Is there anything you can think of, Mrs. Bush? Anything else that you want to tell me?”

  “I don’t know what you want from me.” The words felt heavy as they left her mouth.

  The detective glanced down at the piece of paper he held. “Mrs. Bush, do you mind if I read you something?”

  Without taking her eyes from her son, she said, “Go ’head.”

  A beat passed, then, “This is an e-mail that came into the station this morning.”

  Still, she didn’t look up.

  “The woman who sent this said that she attends your church.”

  Jasmine pulled the blanket that covered Zaya up to his
chin.

  “She starts off by saying that she knows what happened to Jacqueline.”

  Jasmine jerked, her attention now on Detective Cohen. “Someone knows where—”

  He held his hand up, stopping her. “She says . . . well, let me read this.”

  Jasmine leaned onto the table, trying to get closer to the detective, wanting to hear every word.

  He focused on the paper he held, then slowly raised his eyes. Looked straight at her. “‘Jacqueline was murdered.’”

  Her tears—the shock—were instant. Her hand flew to her mouth, covering her cries.

  Jasmine panted, but the detective kept going. “‘Her mother killed her—’”

  “What?” She squinted. His words—her thoughts—were confusing.

  As if Jasmine hadn’t spoken a word, the detective continued, “‘Because Pastor Bush is not the girl’s father.’”

  “What?” she asked again, this time a bit louder. “What is this?”

  His eyes didn’t leave the paper; he kept reading, “‘And now that they have their own child, Jasmine didn’t want to live with the memory of what she had done.’”

  The legs of the chair squeaked as Jasmine jerked back, jumped up, and reached across the table, ready to snatch those lies away from the detective. But with just a little shift, he was able to keep the paper beyond her grasp.

  “Give that to me!” she yelled. “How could you read that? How could you make me sit here and have to listen to those lies when my daughter—”

  “Lies?” His eyebrows rose, though his voice stayed even. “Are you sure they’re lies, Mrs. Bush?”

  Now she wanted to reach across the table and grab him. Choke him until he stopped asking those stupid questions and spewing those lies.

  But she stood frozen in her space, with trembling lips. “You . . . you couldn’t possibly believe that I had anything to do—” It was hard for her to breathe. “No!” She shook her head.

  “No what?”

  “That letter—it’s a lie. I would never hurt my daughter,” she cried.

  He leaned forward, his voice softer now. “Maybe you didn’t want to. Maybe it was an accident.”

  Her head whipped from side to side. “No,” she yelled, her cries now mixing with those of Zaya, who had been startled awake.

  “I could understand it, Mrs. Bush.” He stayed soft and gentle, as if he was her friend.

  “No.” She fell back and down onto the chair.

  “It’s happened before,” he said. “An accident, the mother panics. Then she gets her friends involved, and they make it look like someone took her child.”

  She was crying as hard as her son.

  “You know, if you have a temper, and you lost control—”

  “I would never hurt my daughter,” she whimpered. “I would never—”

  The door behind her swung open. “Jasmine!”

  She jumped up and into Hosea’s arms.

  “What’s going on?” As he held his wife, his eyes searched the detective for answers.

  Detective Cohen leaned back in his chair as if nothing had happened. “We were just talking.”

  Jasmine sobbed into Hosea’s chest. “He said . . . the e-mail . . . that I . . . killed . . .” She couldn’t say any more.

  The officer leaned forward and offered Hosea the paper. “I was just sharing with your wife an e-mail we’d received.”

  As Jasmine’s cries mixed with his son’s, Hosea scanned the note.

  He stiffened as he read the words, and then he hurled the e-mail back at the detective. For seconds, it floated like a paper airplane, and the three watched until it landed at Cohen’s feet.

  Hosea’s eyes didn’t leave the detective’s. “Jasmine, get your coat,” he whispered.

  She was still gasping for breath as she tossed her coat over her arm. Behind her, Hosea quieted their son before he turned the stroller toward the door.

  The detective said, “Mr. Bush, I would like to talk to you. I have some—”

  Hosea was shaking his head before the officer could finish. “That’s not gonna happen,” he said. With a stare that was meant to intimidate, he growled, “The next time you want to talk to us, do it through our attorney.”

  Jasmine held the door open, and the Bushes marched out of the room.

  Fourteen

  HOSEA’S HANDS STILL SHOOK AS he strapped Zaya into the car seat. His son had calmed, but not his wife. And neither had he.

  Slipping into the driver’s side, he pointed the key toward the ignition, but then stopped. He had to take a deep breath, find a way to cool down before he took his family anywhere.

  His family.

  That thought made him glimpse into the rearview mirror. He half expected to smile, the way he always did when he glanced at his daughter. But the sight of her empty car seat behind him tugged hard at the strings that were barely holding his heart in one piece.

  Quickly, he diverted his eyes. Swallowed hard. Tried to keep himself together.

  “I can’t believe what that man did,” Jasmine gasped. “Who would do that, Hosea? Who would send that e-mail?”

  He dropped the keys in his lap and took her hand. “I don’t know.” He spoke softly, trying to keep his own emotions hidden. “I don’t know what that was about. I don’t even know if there was really an e-mail,” he said, remembering that it had been a Yahoo account, so there would be no way to trace it.

  “What do you mean?” she asked. “Do you think they just made that up? Printed up something to trick me?”

  He shrugged. “It’s been done before. But if that’s the way the police want to play it, I guess we’re gonna have to do this on our own.”

  “How? We can’t find Jacquie by ourselves. The police have to help us.”

  Again, he swallowed, pushing back the helplessness he felt rising within. He couldn’t lose it now—he was the head of the family, the protector.

  His family.

  This time, he kept his eyes away from the backseat as he unhooked his cell phone from its holster. He held the device to his ear, and not even two seconds passed before the phone was answered.

  “Any news, son?” Reverend Bush asked without even saying hello.

  Even though his father couldn’t see him, Hosea shook his head. “Nah, but we’ve run into some trouble.” With as few words as he could, he told his father about the confrontation. When he mentioned the e-mail, Jasmine sobbed, and he reached for her hand.

  Reverend Bush said, “I received that e-mail, too.”

  What! Hosea screamed inside. But he only said, “Really?” thinking about his theory that the e-mail had been fake. If it had been sent to his father, then it was real.

  “Yeah,” Reverend Bush said. “I’ve gotten quite a few calls. It seems that whoever started it asked people to forward it. And apparently the folks who attend City of Lights don’t think before they press Send because it’s going all around the church.” The reverend sighed. “I can’t believe Jasmine has to deal with this on top of—”

  “I know,” Hosea said, peeking at his wife once again. He didn’t know what Jasmine would do once she found out that the e-mail was real—and circulating around the church and probably beyond. “Look, Pops,” he began, his voice lower now, “I don’t know what that was all about, but . . .” He stopped right there.

  It was all the years that they’d been bonded as father and son that made Reverend Bush respond without Hosea needing to finish his thought. He said, “We need to get right on this. Where are you and Jasmine now?”

  “We’re heading home.”

  “No, come here first,” his father said. “Dale’s with me now; we were going over some ways to galvanize the community, but we need to talk about this.”

  Hosea closed his eyes. He was relieved and glad that he didn’t have to say it. Glad that his father had brought up their lawyer, Dale, himself.

  “We’re on our way.” He clicked off the phone, and when Jasmine’s eyebrows bunched into a frown, he answe
red her unasked question. “Pops wants us to drop by the church.” He put the key into the ignition but paused before starting the engine. “Dale Brody’s with him now, and Pops thinks it may be a good idea for us to talk to him.”

  They stared at each other, and without a word Hosea knew Jasmine’s question: Did they really need a lawyer?

  Then she asked, “No one is going to believe that e-mail, right?”

  “Of course not,” he said, but he couldn’t look in her eyes when he told that lie. He breathed easier when Jasmine leaned back and closed her eyes. As he turned the key, then twisted the steering wheel and eased into traffic, he shook his head. This was not the way all of this should be going down. They—the entire city—were supposed to be united behind finding Jacqueline. But instead, they were dealing with stupidity.

  This is ridiculous! That anyone would even believe Jasmine would harm Jacqueline—it was the most absurd accusation that could be made.

  But Hosea had seen situations like this before—had watched innocent people accused and tried without any evidence.

  As he drove, he prayed. And he thanked God that Dale Brody, one of the premier attorneys in the city, was not only their friend but their legal protector as well.

  Because he had a feeling that he and Jasmine were going to need every bit of legal protection they could get.

  Fifteen

  JASMINE WALKED BECAUSE SHE COULDN’T sit. She paced the width of the church office—back and forth, in front of the oversize mahogany desk where Reverend Bush sat. Hosea leaned against the desk’s edge, his arms crossed as he listened to the attorney.

  “This is not unusual,” Dale Brody said again, as if repeating those words would make them feel better about what they were going through.

  Forming a triangle with the tips of his fingers, Dale explained, “The detective’s questions are normal.”

  “That doesn’t make a lot of sense, Dale,” Reverend Bush said. “How could they have taken that e-mail seriously?” He shook his head. “Come on. As soon as they saw that the sender was named Jane Doe, and that it came from one of those free accounts, they should have thrown it away.”