Chapter 31
thirty-one
“He who sits by the fire and thinks he is safe is the most in danger.” - Plautus
Jocelyn’s mind circled as she drove back toward town, her grip so tight on the steering wheel it hurt.
She should’ve asked Daniel where Lydia was. Should’ve asked him where his wife had been that night. But she hadn’t been able to think clearly.
We drove by a lot.
Natasha’s words echoed in Jocelyn’s head.
One day it was there; the next day, it was gone.
Lydia’s brother was the fire chief—just a lowly member of the crew back then, but he knew fire. Would Lydia have picked up enough to start that fire? Or had she asked him to cover for her?
Motive, means.
We drove by a lot.
Opportunity.
Sally’s story was that Lydia had said something to Frank, and that had put Jocelyn’s eye on him. Knowing what she now did about the bar back then, it wasn’t exactly Lydia’s scene. So why was she there?
An alibi?
She needed to talk to Cole. Resolving things from their fight that morning could wait. Once she got another look at her notes, they could talk it through. He wasn’t so tied to the whole thing, someone with a clear head. Too much was swirling in her mind to do it herself.
She pulled to the curb in front of the Nail, hoping Cole would be in there, would open the door for her despite everything. She pounded on it just in case he was upstairs and wouldn’t hear her, but it wasn’t necessary. It swung open after only a few seconds.
“Cole, I—” She stopped dead. “Frank?”
“Hey, Jossie.” He pulled the door wider, looking briefly behind her.
Her heart stuttered. “Where’s Cole?”
“Upstairs. I asked if I could talk to you about some things. Said I could wait here for you.”
Her stomach flipped, but she figured it was the heaviness in his demeanor about what he wanted to talk about. Their last conversation hadn’t exactly been warm and fuzzy. Cole wouldn’t have let Frank in if he didn’t think he was worth listening to.
Jocelyn stepped inside. A scent she couldn’t place hung in the air, tugging at her attention, but the hollow quiet pressed harder—an emptiness that echoed in the cage of her ribs.
Her heart still pulsed with the urgency she’d felt on her way here, but whatever Frank had to say might help her clear things up.
After all, he was the one Lydia had singled out that night.
“What did you want to talk about?” she asked, peeking back toward the stairs.
He was breathing hard when she turned back, his hands hanging limply at his sides. He looked thin and hollow.
She pulled in a breath. “Frank?”
“Jossie, I’m so sorry.”
Pressure was a fist against her sternum. “Why are you sorry, Frank?”
Frank stared at her, looking so resigned that she knew she would hear something she wasn’t going to like.
She moved toward the stairs, but Frank moved with her. “Cole?” she called up, not letting her gaze leave Frank’s.
“Jossie—“
“Don’t.” She held a hand up to stop him, her throat threatening to close.
This man couldn’t be a murderer. She didn’t want him to be the one responsible. Maybe it was something else, but surely he didn’t do anything to harm her mama. If he had done something, Cole never would’ve let him inside. She just knew it.
“I loved your mama so much,” Frank said, the strangling sound of a sob threatening to break through.
The words scored her. It sounded too much like a confession of something more. No, please, no.
“But she didn’t love me. Not as much.” Frank swallowed. “It was always Daniel for her.” A bitter edge crept into his voice, and the shock of it snapped up her spine.
He looked at her then. “He was there that day. Did you know?”
“Yes.”
He rubbed a hand over his mouth. “When I found out, all I saw was red.”
Her pulse throbbed. “Did you confront her?” she asked, everything she thought she knew teetering over an edge. She’d been asking the questions, but she wasn’t sure she was ready now. Not when she was alone.
Where the hell was Cole?
Frank looked away from her again, but he was between her and the front door. “I went to the house that night. She was crying.” This through his teeth: “Daniel broke her heart again.”
Could she make it to the back door? The stairs? Why hadn’t Cole heard her call?
“She slept with him.” Frank turned to face her again. “She told me she was sorry, that I deserved better.”
Jocelyn hadn’t wanted it to be true, but here was her confirmation of what her mama had done. It sparked just a snapshot of pity for the man before her.
Frank shook his head. “I was angry.” His expression turned imploring. “I didn’t mean…”
Those words pelted her, and her heart twisted. “You didn’t mean what, Frank? What did you do?”
His nostrils flared.
“Did you start the fire?” Her fingers became claws. She wanted to grab the front of his shirt and shake him.
“No!” He hurled the word then shrank. “No, I didn’t start the fire. But…” He licked his lips, his eyes flashing away, hands curling and uncurling.
“But what? Dammit, Frank. I need to know.” Her voice wobbled. She couldn’t tell if she was about to cry or scream at him. So much emotion burned through her body she might’ve even slapped him.
“We fought.” He swallowed. “I hit her. I’m not proud of it. But I was so angry, so hurt.”
Her mouth dropped open. It was impossible to reconcile what he was saying with the gentle, soft-spoken man she’d known as a child.
He kept moving forward with the story, though, his words hollow. “She fell. Oh, God. And she hit the dresser.”
Jocelyn’s heart hammered against her ribs, but she didn’t dare speak, didn’t want to disrupt the truth as it poured out—even if it twisted up inside her.
“I didn’t know what to do when she didn’t get up. But she was alive. I swear, she was breathing.”
Jocelyn covered her mouth with a hand, vision blurring with the tears she hadn’t noticed building.
“I knew it looked bad, so I ran.”
She backed up a step.
“I’m so sorry, Jossie.” His hands started to reach for her.
“Don’t!” Her finger sliced at the air in front of his face. “Don’t you call me that!”
“I’m so, so sorry.” He dropped to his knees, the sound against the wood floor painful to her ears. “I hurt her, I know. But I didn’t start that fire.”
Rage, unholy and nearly blinding, scorched through her. “But she’s dead because of you! And you never said a damn thing! Twenty years, Frank!”
He fell to his hands, literally groveling at her feet. “Please forgive me. I never could. I never could forgive myself.”
Her hands balled into fists, her arms trembling with the violence of her fury. But he was pitiful before her, sobbing into the floor. She wasn’t sure she could ever forgive him, but she decided he didn’t deserve to hear it even if she could. Forgiveness would be for her, herself and her mama only.
“Please,” he sobbed when she didn’t answer. “What can I do?”
She wanted to tell him to rot in the hell he’d created for himself. She wanted to break something. She wanted… too much. There was too much pain.
But this whole thing was supposed to be about answers… and justice.
She forced the words out. “You need to confess. You have to own up to what you did.”
“Isn’t that what he’s been doing?”
The voice behind her sent a trickle of fear down her neck and silenced Frank’s sobs. She stood frozen for a moment, watching Frank lift his gaze to the man standing at her back.
She turned then, her eyes snagging on Eric Ward’s gun first.