“Jane Doe?” Jasmine frowned.
The reverend nodded.
Hosea snapped, “You mean to tell me the e-mail that went to the police was from a Jane Doe?” His eyes were wide as he looked at his father. “I didn’t even look at the name; I was so mad.” He turned to their attorney. “And that detective had the nerve to go after Jasmine with that?”
Those were her thoughts, too, but Jasmine said nothing, just kept walking. Back and forth. Just kept wondering how many other people in the church had received that e-mail and if any of them had noticed the name. Not that the name would matter. There weren’t too many members of City of Lights who liked her, and she would bet that most would even love to see her demise. If that e-mail was circulating, most would believe the worst about her.
“Frankly, Jasmine hasn’t been accused of anything,” Dale said.
“I need to find out who sent that e-mail,” Hosea growled.
Dale shrugged. “First of all, it’s from one of those untraceable accounts. And what does it matter? We need to see this through the detective’s eyes. Whether he received that e-mail or not, he was going to be looking at you two first. Any time a child is missing, the parents are the first suspects.”
“Suspects? That’s crazy,” Jasmine cried. “How could anyone believe that I would hurt my child?” She pressed her hand over the center of her chest, feeling like that was the only way to keep her heart inside.
“Darlin’, anyone who knows you knows that you didn’t have anything to do with this.”
“Tell that to whoever wrote that e-mail.” She looked at the attorney. “How can someone just spread a lie like that?”
“The Internet’s not governed.” He shrugged. “It’s used all the time to spread lies and hate. Look at what happened to Obama before he was elected. People were circulating amazing lies about him, and that stuff is still going on. So I guess if it could happen to the president, it can certainly happen to you.”
Jasmine glanced over at the open office door, peeked out to where she’d positioned Zaya’s stroller right outside. Behind the stroller, she saw Mrs. Whittingham standing guard over her baby. Satisfied that her son was safe, she slumped into the chair in front of Reverend Bush’s desk.
Dale continued, “But here’s the thing—once they look at you and Hosea, once they look at your family, everything will point to Jacqueline’s having a happy home life.”
“It’s ridiculous that they’re looking at Hosea and me at all,” Jasmine whispered. “That man treated me like I was guilty.”
“Standard stuff.”
“He even asked me if I had a temper.”
“A typical interview.”
“Didn’t feel typical to me,” Jasmine snapped.
“Look, I’m just trying to explain it,” Dale said. “The fact is that in sixty percent of these cases, the parents are responsible for the child’s disappearance or murder.”
Jasmine shook her head. “Jacquie is not dead,” she said, her tone absolute.
Three pairs of eyes stared back at her. Three pairs of eyes that were filled with doubt. But she didn’t care what they thought. She was Jacqueline’s mother, and these men didn’t know what she knew.
She explained, “I gave birth to her.” Looking straight at Hosea, she added, “I know. I can feel it here.” She pressed her hand against that place where she’d carried her daughter. How could she explain that a little piece of Jacqueline was still there? She said, “She’s alive.”
Reverend Bush looked away—for a moment. Dale looked down—for a moment.
Only Hosea kept his eyes on her; he walked to where she sat, crouched down, took her hand, then asked Dale, “So what do we do now?”
“We play offense.” The attorney paused. “You’re not going to like this,” he added, moving his glance from Jasmine to Hosea to Reverend Bush, “but it’s the only way to get the police back to where they need to be—focusing on finding Jacquie.” He said, “Take a polygraph. Both of you.”
The Bushes spoke at the same time.
Hosea said, “Okay.”
Jasmine said, “No!” With wide eyes, she looked at her husband. “No! I haven’t done anything. We didn’t do anything. This is crazy! They just need to be out there looking for Jacquie.”
“That’s exactly why we have to do this.” Hosea spoke with a calm that wasn’t evident on his face. “We don’t need to waste any more time.”
“This is a waste of time,” Jasmine said, her voice louder now, her hands flailing in the air. “We are locked up in this church talking about polygraphs, and no one is out there looking for our daughter,” she cried.
“That’s not true, Jasmine,” Dale interjected. “You better believe the police are still searching; they haven’t stopped. It’s just that they’re going to ask you to take a polygraph anyway, so we might as well do it now.”
Dale snapped his briefcase shut as if the subject was closed. “Let me go down to the station, talk to the folks in charge, and I’ll get back to you.”
He shook Reverend Bush’s hand before he turned to Hosea and Jasmine. He said, “This is really for the best.”
She wasn’t even sure where the tears were coming from; she had to be on empty by now. But before Dale was out the door, tears were making tracks down her cheeks.
Gently, Hosea pulled her into his arms, and Jasmine cried and asked over and over, “Why? Why?”
Reverend Bush stood and left his son and daughter-in-law alone.
Sixteen
THE MINUTES TICKED ON. The hours rolled by.
Then Sunday came.
Jasmine was relieved when Hosea didn’t jump out of bed at six declaring that it was time to go to church. Not that she expected that. After that hateful e-mail, her hope was that he—and she—would never go back there again.
But on this Sunday morning, Hosea lay on his back, just like she did, staring at the ceiling. She knew his thoughts were the same as hers: Where was their daughter?
Jasmine wanted to stay home, not only today but every day. Stay with Hosea by her side. With Zaya asleep between them. With the police camped out in the living room, waiting for that call about Jacqueline. Waiting for her hope and faith to be proven true.
Then Sunday went.
And though the phone had rung constantly throughout the day and night—calls from Malik and Deborah and other members of City of Lights who wanted to be the first to tell Hosea about the e-mail that they’d received. There was no call from the man Jasmine saw in her dark dreams. No call from the one who had taken Jacqueline away.
Still Jasmine had hope, until Monday morning. When Detective Foxx announced that the police were packing up their surveillance equipment.
“Usually the ransom call comes in within twenty-four hours, forty-eight hours, tops,” he explained as he, Jasmine, and Hosea sat in the living room.
“So what does that mean?” Jasmine asked.
“Just means that we need to regroup, and truthfully, I want to get out there and hit the streets myself.” And then, as an afterthought, he added, “This is a good thing.”
You’re lying! Jasmine thought. This couldn’t possibly be a good thing, especially not with the expression that was etched on his face. If Jacqueline’s disappearance was no longer considered a kidnapping for ransom, then the motive was far more heinous.
“We’re going to leave this behind,” the detective said, holding up the black box that was attached to the telephone. “It’s a recording device that’s hooked up to a main board at the station. If you get a call, press this button”—he showed them—“and we’ll be able to get a trace going from down there.”
Jasmine and Hosea nodded.
Detective Foxx said, “Do you want me to show Mrs. Sloss?”
“That’s a good idea,” Hosea said.
But Jasmine said, “No, that’s okay. I’m going to be here.”
“But suppose you go out?” Detective Foxx asked. “It’s best that everyone in the house know how to
use this.”
“I won’t be going anywhere.” Jasmine folded her arms. “Not until Jacquie comes home.”
“Jasmine,” Hosea began, but she didn’t wait for him to say another word. She just turned, left the room, and imagined the men whispering behind her back.
She didn’t care what any of them said; she was going to stay with her plan. With her hope waning, all she had left was her faith—and her desire to protect her son the way she hadn’t protected her daughter. She would stay home and pray . . . and keep Zaya from harm.
For the rest of the day, Hosea tried to make their lives as normal as any other Monday. Except for the fact that he was home and not in his office at the church. Except for the fact that one quarter of their family was not with them.
Hosea stood shoulder to shoulder with Mrs. Sloss at the stove, cooking a hearty breakfast of pancakes, sausages, and scrambled eggs. Although Jasmine joined them at the table, she ate nothing, just picked up bits of eggs and pancakes that never made their way to Zaya’s mouth as he fed himself. And she stared at the empty chair across the table.
Then, when Zaya pounded his fists on the table and chanted, “Yaki, Yaki, Yaki,” Jasmine pushed back her chair.
She told Hosea, “I need to lie down.”
He nodded, his eyes sad; he knew their son’s call for his sister had slain her heart.
As she handed Zaya’s fork to Hosea, her son said, “Bye-bye, Mama.”
Inside their room, Jasmine crawled into bed and surrendered to her exhaustion. She submitted to the nightmares that met her on the other side every time she closed her eyes. But even with that darkness, sleep was better than consciousness.
Her rest was not deep. She could feel the passing of time, the warmth of the daylight heating the room, then cooling as the sun made its journey from east to west. Then there were the sounds: Zaya laughing with Hosea; whispers in the living room between Hosea and Malik, then Hosea and Mrs. Whittingham, then Hosea and Deborah; the voices from the television as Hosea and Mrs. Sloss flipped the channels from cartoons to the news, looking for the story of Jacqueline, which had all but disappeared from the news.
And then there was the telephone that kept on ringing. But the call was never from the one they wanted to hear from.
So Jasmine just kept on sleeping.
Time passed, and she finally awakened with a heavy head and heavier heart. Her eyes focused on the clock on the nightstand: 6:17.
Why wasn’t Hosea awake?
Usually he was up before six, bustling through their room, preparing for work.
Behind her, she heard Hosea’s soft snores, and when she rolled over, she almost smiled when she saw the way he held Zaya under his arm. But then the sight of her son reminded her of their daughter, and she became aware again of the heartache that swarmed around her.
She pushed herself up, then tiptoed into the bathroom. The mirror told her story—deep, dark crescents framed her swollen eyes, and she saw lines on her face that she’d never seen before, as if time felt the need to mark its passing on her.
Turning to the shower, she hoped to wash away some of the agony. But the water did nothing to take away the images. She leaned against the marble tile and pressed her hands against her head. For just one minute, she wanted to breathe, wanted to escape, wanted to be free.
But all she could do was imagine her daughter . . . with someone.
“Hold on, Jacquie,” she whimpered, keeping her cries as low as she could. Her tears mixed with the shower’s rain. “Hold on, baby,” she said, praying that, somehow, Jacqueline could hear her inside her heart. “Hold on. Mama’s coming.”
After long minutes, Jasmine turned off the shower and her tears at the same time. She had cried for almost three days, and that had done nothing to bring Jacqueline home. There would be no more tears. She had to remember who she was—Jasmine Cox Larson Bush—and somehow, she would find a way to bring her daughter home.
Jasmine grabbed the towel with a new resolve. Her fight would begin now—she would start with the polygraph exam.
Seventeen
THE BELL RANG, AND JASMINE wondered for a moment how anyone could reach their door without first being announced by the concierge. But then she remembered—they were expecting New York’s finest. The police didn’t announce themselves to anyone.
“Mrs. Sloss,” Jasmine called out from her bedroom, “can you get that, please? It’s either Detective Cohen or our attorney.” Then she opened the bathroom door. “Hosea.” Right away, the shower turned off. “They’re here,” she said.
“They’re early,” he said from behind the glass. “But I’ll be right out.”
As she waited, she paced in their bedroom. It was still unbelievable that she actually had to take this test. What an insult! But it was an insult that she could endure since Dale assured them that it would help.
She heard Mrs. Sloss’s gentle knock on the door.
“Just tell them that we’ll be right out,” Jasmine said. There was no way she was going to face those men without Hosea.
“It’s not the police, Ms. Jasmine,” Mrs. Sloss said so quietly, Jasmine had to strain to hear.
With a frown, she asked, “Who is it?”
Mrs. Sloss bit her lip, hesitated before she answered, “You should come and see.”
It was instant, the way her heart began to pound. The look in Mrs. Sloss’s eyes let Jasmine know—this had something to do with Jacqueline. She rushed past her housekeeper and dashed into the living room.
Then she stopped.
“What are you doing here?” she asked through clenched teeth, controlling herself so that she wouldn’t scream.
“Jasmine,” Mae Frances said, holding the back of the couch to steady herself. “I . . . I had to talk to you.”
Jasmine folded her arms. “There’s nothing I want to hear,” she began, her voice rising with each word, “and nothing I want to say.” She paused. “Well, actually, there is.”
Mae Frances’s eyes brightened with a bit of hope.
Jasmine stepped forward. “I told you before,” she began calmly, “but you obviously didn’t understand. So let me break this down for you. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay away from my family.”
Mae Frances shook her head. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Your family is my family. And I’ve been praying that you wouldn’t still be this angry.”
“Angry? Is that what you think I am?” She pointed her finger in Mae Frances’s face. “Angry would be if you forgot to give me an important message. Or if you lost my keys. But this . . . this is not anger,” Jasmine said, yelling now. “This is rage. This is hatred.”
“But I never meant for this to happen.”
Jasmine stomped to the door and pulled it open so hard that it slammed against the wall.
“Listen to me,” Mae Frances pleaded. “Please, Jasmine.”
Jasmine said nothing more. Just stared at Mae Frances with a look that told her to get out now.
But Mae Frances didn’t move. “You have to know how much I love you. How much I love Jacquie.”
Her daughter’s name passing through Mae Frances’s lips made Jasmine snap. She marched across the room until she was within an inch of the woman’s face.
“Get out of my house,” she screamed, spittle flying from her mouth. “Get out now if you value your life. Get out now, or I won’t be responsible for what happens to you.”
“Mrs. Bush?”
Jasmine turned and stared into the faces of Detective Cohen, Dale Brody, and another man she’d never seen. But it was Detective Cohen who had called her name, who stood in front of the others, looking at her most intently.
He stepped forward. His glance moved between Mae Frances and Jasmine. “Is everything all right in here?”
It took a moment for her to stop shaking. Then Jasmine said, “This woman was just leaving.” If the man who’d asked her if she had a temper wasn’t standing right there, Jasmine would have pushed Mae Frances
to the door, then, with the tip of her boot, kicked her out. But she kept her hands and her feet to herself, and just watched as Mae Frances staggered away. The woman had barely stepped over the threshold before Jasmine slammed the door behind her.
When she turned around, Jasmine tried to face the men with some kind of smile. The three stared back, still shocked by her explosion.
As if nothing happened, Jasmine said, “I’m going to see if my husband is ready. Please have a seat.” She walked away without looking back, and so she never saw the glance that passed between the men.
• • •
“Are you sure you’re going to be able to do this?” Dale questioned as he huddled in the kitchen with Jasmine and Hosea.
Jasmine nodded. “I told you, I’m fine.”
Hosea whispered, “What just happened . . . with Jasmine and Mae Frances. It won’t affect the test, will it?”
Dale shook his head. “No, they ask baseline questions to get a steady read, but I always prefer if my clients are calm.”
“I said I’m fine!” It came out louder than she wanted, but she didn’t care. This was all too much: Mae Frances, a polygraph, a detective who looked at her now as if she really were guilty. Detective Cohen couldn’t seem to keep his eyes away from her, staring as if he were about to take the handcuffs out and cart her away.
But she didn’t care what the detective thought; this polygraph would prove that he was a fool and that she was innocent. Then, finally, they’d get back to the real business.
“Okay then, if you’re ready, just remember,” Dale spoke softly, a sign to Jasmine to do the same. “Be yourself. Answer all of the questions honestly.”
Behind them, in the dining room, the examiner, a member of the police department staff, was setting up the equipment. Detective Cohen was there at the request of Dale. “I want complete transparency—we need them to see how cooperative you are.”
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