“It’s not that I don’t believe you, Mrs. Levison,” the chief said, making it perfectly clear that he didn’t. “But I don’t want to be the one who tells that story to the D.A. without some forensic evidence to back it up. Until we have fingerprints, I recommend you not breathe a word about any of this. Otherwise, you could have a very costly lawsuit on your hands. Some people are willing to do almost anything to protect their reputations.”
“Yeah, the law does a great job of protecting rich criminals,” Jo said. “What are you doing to protect the girls they kill?”
“The young woman in the photo was a prostitute who chose a high-risk lifestyle,” Chief Rocca said. “She abused her body and died of a fentanyl overdose. The medical examiner declared that she alone was responsible for her untimely death, and we’ve found no proof to the contrary.”
“You know what I find most remarkable?” Harriett chimed in. “How the girl wrapped her own body in a trash bag, tied the string in a neat little bow, and then disposed of herself in a patch of scrub. That takes real talent.”
Chief Rocca turned his attention to the tall woman on the other side of the changing room. The gap-toothed smile that Harriett offered him seemed like a challenge. Whether he held his tongue out of contempt or decided it was best not to mess with her, the chief of police said nothing in return.
The results came in the next afternoon. Nessa and Jo were in the middle of their workout routine when Franklin stopped by Furious Fitness with the news. The lab had found no fingerprints on the photo. The partial prints inside the locker didn’t belong to Rosamund Harding. There was zero evidence she’d ever used the locker—aside from the bizarre story of the apple with the word FAITH whittled into its skin. There was also nothing, Franklin informed the three of them, to connect Spencer Harding to the girl in the photo. Even the lilies he’d sent couldn’t be traced. The deliveries had been paid for in cash by an unidentified man the heavily tattooed florist could only describe as “painfully normal.”
“Isn’t it obvious what happened?” Jo demanded. “Rosamund found the photo and suspected her husband of murdering the girl. She hid the photo at the gym for safekeeping, but he knew she was onto him, so he killed her to keep her quiet.”
Franklin was clearly pained to be the bearer of bad news. “While that’s all very possible, there’s not a single scrap of evidence to support it,” he said. “We can bring Harding in for questioning, but unless he’s in the mood to confess, there’s no way we’ll get anything out of him.”
“So that’s it?” Nessa looked crushed. “All these young women die and we have a good idea who killed them, but he gets to go free?”
“The law is reason free from passion,” Franklin said. “Gut feelings don’t get you very far with D.A.s or juries. We have to take our time and collect the evidence we’ll need to get a conviction. Don’t get discouraged. Justice may be slow, but she’s also relentless.”
He made a good point, Nessa thought. Then Jo made her case.
“In the time it takes to gather proof of what we already know is true, another girl could be murdered. Seems to me, the law does a good job of protecting the rights of the powerful and a pretty shitty job of taking care of the people who need its protection the most.”
That was the truth, too, and Nessa knew it. Though most of the police officers she’d met did their jobs with the best of intentions, the system was designed to punish, not protect.
“Our legal system is far from perfect,” Franklin said. “But it’s all we’ve got. We throw it out, and we’ll be left with nothing but chaos.”
Jo felt every molecule vibrating with indignation. She liked Franklin, and she knew what he meant to Nessa, but his line of argument was ridiculous and she wasn’t afraid to say it. “So we have to play by the rules while men like Spencer Harding do whatever they like. You know why he sent flowers to Harriett and me, don’t you?”
“We haven’t confirmed that he sent the flowers.”
That statement floored Jo. “Does obeying the law mean abandoning your common sense? That’s a four-hundred-dollar bouquet. Who the hell do you think bought it? Of course Harding sent the flowers. They were meant as a threat—what else could they mean?”
Franklin sighed. “I can’t read minds, Jo, and I have to be honest with you, I doubt a grand jury would interpret flowers as a threat.”
“Well, I’m telling you, if that motherfucker or any of his hired thugs set one foot inside my gym or my house, I will kill them all and enjoy doing it.”
“Please don’t take the law into your own hands,” Franklin warned her. “You could be the one who winds up in jail.”
“For defending myself?” Jo asked.
“There’s no such thing as preemptive self-defense, Jo.”
“So we know who the bad guy is, but there’s nothing we can do. I guess that makes me, Harriett, Nessa, and every young woman in Mattauk sitting ducks.”
Franklin looked over at Nessa and shuffled uncomfortably. Nessa knew there was truth in Jo’s words, and so did he. “Jo, I swear to you, I’ll do my very best to make sure this case keeps moving forward—and that the three of you remain safe.”
He was so earnest. So dedicated. There was no doubt in Jo’s mind that Franklin meant everything he said. She wished it could be enough. But it wasn’t. Not even close.
Franklin drove Nessa home, but Jo stayed behind. She asked Heather to look after the gym, then she climbed the stairs and claimed a treadmill by the second-floor windows. Running usually burned off her rage, but an hour passed and her hands were still balled up in fists. With every pump of her arms, she punched an invisible face. First it was Spencer Harding’s, then Jackson Dunn’s. Chief Rocca got his, and even Franklin wasn’t spared. How could men get away with killing so many women? Why did the law stand between them and justice? How could anyone run the risk of another girl being killed? And with the energy coursing through her every muscle and vein, why was she still so powerless to do anything about it?
Fifteen miles later, Jo slowed to a walk and her surroundings began to come into focus once again. The woman on the treadmill to her right caught Jo’s eye and gave her a wave. To her left, a petite brunette was running at an impressive pace. Something about the woman’s posture made Jo do a double take. The large silver headphones she wore made it hard to identify her by her profile, but Jo could see enough of her face to be intrigued.
She hung out by the free weights until the treadmill stopped. When the woman stepped off, Jo headed her way. Seen from the front, the woman’s delicate features were unmistakable.
“Claude?” Jo asked.
The woman lifted a finger and pulled off her headphones.
“I don’t know if you remember me. My name is Jo Levison. We met at Jackson Dunn’s Memorial Day party.”
“Of course I remember you!” Claude’s smile grew as she used a towel to dab at the sweat dampening her hairline. “You’re one of Leonard’s whale-watching buddies. Your name is Jo and your friend is Harriett.”