Proposal (The Mediator, #6.5)(21)

I could tell from Jesse’s expression that he, at least, was not fooled.

“I thought about cancelling the party,” Mrs. Farhat went on, her gaze downcast. “Perhaps I should have. But it’s always so popular, and raises so much money for charity—-”

“No need to apologize, ma’am,” the chief of police said. “We understand.” Having stooped to lift one of the photos of Jasmin, he now turned it over in his hand. It had become rain spattered, the edges torn from the battering it had received by the wind. “I can see the kids were very close.”

“Well, yes,” Dr. Farhat said, distractedly. He still seemed to be trying to make sense of what he was seeing and hearing, as if his youngest son was a heart he’d opened up on the operating table, only to find that it was diseased beyond repair. “As very young children. Not so close as they got older, of course, but—-”

“That’s your fault,” Zack sneered. “Maybe if you’d been more strict with her—-if her parents had, too—-she’d have done what she was supposed to, and said yes to marrying me instead of that—-”

He then said a word so foul, it caused every head in the room to turn sharply in his direction, particularly the chief prosecutor’s, since he, along with Mark Rodgers, happened to belong to the race it slandered.

That’s when Mrs. Farhat took two swift strides forward and slapped her son across the face. Now that the rain had stopped—-and the party downstairs had gone strangely quiet, as well—-the only ambient noise was the rhythmic pound of the ocean waves below, so the cracking sound the slap made was shockingly loud. It seemed to stun the -people in the room more than the word Zack had used.

“How dare you?” Mrs. Farhat demanded, her dark eyes fiery with rage. “How dare you use that word in my house?”

“But it’s true,” Zack insisted, his own eyes shining—-not because he was ashamed of himself, I knew, because he was incapable of shame. His tears were a mere physical reaction to the pain his mother had inflicted. “She was going to disgrace our family. She was going to humiliate us all—-especially me. She was going to humiliate me. Can’t you see that? Why can’t any of you see that?”

The chief of police and chief prosecutor saw something, that’s for sure. I know because of the sharp glance they exchanged. Then the chief of police cleared his throat.

“Um, excuse me, son,” he said, with elaborate nonchalance. “Do you happen to remember where you were the night your cousin died?”

“With your wife,” Zack replied with a sneer.

Dr. Farhat buried his face in hands. “Zakaria,” he murmured. “Oh, Zakaria.”

Mrs. Farhat had regained some of her color . . . and her maternal instinct. “My son is a fool, it’s true. But there’s no proof that he’s a murderer.”

“Actually, there is.” Jesse’s deep voice was gentle.

And before the boy could resist, Jesse pulled on one of the gold chains around Zack’s neck, until the object hanging from it popped out from beneath his shirt collar.

It was a ring. A diamond solitaire on a gold band.

The prosecutor was across the room in a split second flat, holding the ring in his strong fingers.

“This is the engagement ring the Rodgers kid gave to the girl,” he said, to no one in particular. He bent to examine it more closely, even as Zack squirmed to get away. But Jesse held on to him more tightly. “It’s got their initials on the band exactly as the boy described. MR and JA 4EVA.”

Mark, who’d finally moved away from the French doors toward the center of the room, mouthed the words along with him. Tears plainly glistened in his eyes behind the lenses of his glasses.

“I worked two jobs after school to pay for that ring,” he said. “It cost two thousand dollars. But Jasmin is worth it.” He choked a little. “Was worth it. Diamonds are supposed to be forever.”

He broke down, weeping.

“I suppose you have a good explanation as to where you found that ring, kid,” the police chief said, laying hold of Zack’s arm and giving Jesse a nod to make it clear that he’d be taking over from here.

“Perhaps your wife gave it to him,” quipped the prosecutor. “While they were in bed together the night of the accident.”

“That would be some feat,” the police chief said. “Seeing as how she was with me, watching the Lakers game.”

“Don’t worry, Zakaria,” Mrs. Farhat called, as her son was led away, struggling, by the two men. “We’ll get you the best attorney money can buy. Rashid”—-she punched her husband, who was looking dazed, in the arm—-“call your brother.” Glancing at me before she left the room—-almost as an afterthought—-she asked, “Are you really all right?”

Jesse had crossed the room to slide an arm around me. I probably could have stood unaided, but it was nice to have a strong, masculine arm to lean on—-especially one that was attached to such a tall, attractive body.

“I’m fine,” I said, though this was an exaggeration. I was going to be sore tomorrow . . . even sorer than I was now.

Still, she was a nice lady, and she had enough to worry about.

“I’m glad,” she said, and managed a smile that was at once both warm and regretful. “I’m so sorry about . . . about . . . well, about my son. I have another boy—-Zakaria’s older brother. He’s away at university, like your friend.” She glanced at Jesse, the smile turning into a beam. “We’re very proud of him. Only he's studying to be a concert pianist. He's very talented. But Zakaria—-” The smile faded. “Zakaria has always been a worry. And now . . .” The smile disappeared altogether. “Tell me . . . will you be pressing assault charges against my son? I’d understand it if you did. But I’d like . . . well, I’d like to be prepared.”