Deserves to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

“Oh, I heard you, sweetheart,” Jeanette said as she leaned over the table and took a final puff of her cigarette before putting it out in a series of nervous taps until the filter tip was mashed in the ashtray. Then she turned to grab her daughter by the shoulders. “I know you’re sore. It’s obvious, but . . . but your husband’s a good man, maybe a little rough around the edges in private, but you just have to try to please him.”

“How can you say that?” Anne-Marie nearly screamed. “These aren’t the Dark Ages, for God’s sake! Mother, listen to yourself. Do you really think I should stay with a man who does this to me?” She held her T-shirt higher, where bite marks were visible on her breasts over the top of her bra.

“Honey.” Her mother picked up the towel again, and, looking as if she really had no idea what to do, tried to dab at the contusion on Anne-Marie’s cheek again.

Anne-Marie dropped the hem of her T-shirt and grabbed her mother’s wrist, stopping her. “He’s an animal,” she hissed. So angry she was nearly spitting, she shoved her face close to her mother’s so that their noses nearly touched. She saw the tiny imperfections in the older woman’s face, the pores that were a little larger on her nostrils and the telltale web of red lines running across her nose to her cheeks. Minuscule threads lurking beneath the surface, they were evidence of far too many gin and tonics by the pool that were stubbornly resisting an ever-thickening layer of makeup.

Anne-Marie said, “I will not be used as a human punching bag.”

Jeanette backed up. “You married the man.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Listen to me, Anne-Marie. There is no divorce in our family. You might see that as archaic, but that’s the way it is. Your father is an elder in the church, a respected businessman. And your grandfather’s a preacher. Do you hear me? My father preached from the Good Book. Your brothers have problems with their wives and kids and they’re working it out. You haven’t been easy, my dear. Not at all. Not with the craziness you spew. But,” she said and then repeated, “but . . . we are proud, genteel people, expected to set an example for the community.”

“You would sacrifice me? For the sake of... what? Some ridiculous and antiquated notion of what a marriage is? Your precious reputation?”

Slap!

Her mother’s palm struck fast and hard, leaving a red mark over Anne-Marie’s already bruised cheek. “Sacrifice is a part of life, a path to heaven. And marriage is sacred. Don’t you ever forget it. And as for divorce? In this family, it’s out of the question.” She yanked her arm back.

Anne-Marie let it go. “You can’t tell me what to do. I’m a grown woman.”

“Then act like one.” Disgusted, Jeanette added tautly, “Do your duty, Anne-Marie.”

“Are you kidding?”

“You’re a wife. His wife. Your choice. And, let’s face it, you haven’t been a very good one, have you?”

Anne-Marie didn’t answer.

“I didn’t think so.” With a frown, Jeanette said, “Look into a mirror. Think about what you’ve done. You’re not the victim here.”

“He hit me.”

“Then deal with it. But, please, don’t come running to me!” She started for the inside of the house.

“I’m divorcing the son of a bitch.”

Her mother hesitated at the French doors leading to the kitchen. With one hand on the doorknob, she glanced over her shoulder. “Then you’re divorcing all of us, Anne-Marie. You won’t be welcome here again.”

Anne-Marie’s stomach tightened and she’d fought the urge to run to her mother and beg her forgiveness, but she stood firm.

“I trust you can show yourself out,” were the last words her mother said to her.

Chapter 21

Jessica shoved thoughts of her family aside as she drove through the night. They would not be any help. Never had been. Even her grandmother on her mother’s side, Marcella, who had adored her only granddaughter, wouldn’t come to her aid.

Not any longer.

That, of course, was her own fault. The effect of stealing from someone who loved and trusted her.

Would the police be able to protect her?

She doubted it. She had too many strikes against her—a mental patient as well as a thief and a known liar. No, she didn’t really believe the cops would help her, at least not the cops in New Orleans. She’d pinned her hopes on Dan Grayson. But even

if he’d still been alive, chances were he wouldn’t have come to her rescue, either.