Free Sins of the Mother by Victoria Christopher Murray

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 thetelevision 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 hertears 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
    T HE BELL RANG, AND J ASMINE 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