“I doubt it. This person put cameras in your house, hid them. He watched you and your husband for several weeks.”
“He…” The cup rattled before she set it down. “He watched. He … recorded us?”
“Christ, sick bastard,” Tish exploded, passing Mira tea.
“Daphne, I’d already concluded that Anthony Strazza abused you, battered you, raped you.”
“He was my husband. He gave me everything. I owed him—”
“That’s bullshit, Daphne.” Tish snapped out the words. “You know it’s bullshit.”
Daphne shook her head. “Please, Tish. He’s dead. He was my husband. I can’t say bad things about him. You shouldn’t expect me to.”
“I can expect you to tell me the truth.” Eve said it sharply enough to have Daphne’s head snapping up, to put just a hint of fear in her eyes. “He abused you. He struck you, and then treated your wounds so no one would see. He threatened to do worse if you told anyone, if you tried to leave. He raped you if you objected. He threatened your family in order to make you sever ties with them.”
“It doesn’t matter now,” Daphne began.
“It does. Record on. I’m going to read you your rights.”
“What!” Tish leaped to her feet. “What the fuck?”
“Quiet. Daphne Strazza, you have the right to remain silent.”
Eve read out the Revised Miranda, took a breath.
“I’m putting this on record, I’ve read you your rights because this is going to protect you. Do you understand your rights and obligations?”
“Yes, but—”
“Don’t lie. This will be harder for you, and for your family, if you lie. Remember, too, we have Knightly’s recordings. Did Anthony Strazza ever strike you?”
“Please don’t—”
“Did Anthony Strazza ever strike you?”
“Yes, yes, yes.” When she lowered her head, her long dark hair fell around her face like a curtain. “I would do stupid things or say the wrong things or—”
“Don’t be stupid now. Did he threaten you with physical harm?”
“Yes.” Daphne covered her face with a hand. “But—”
“Did he threaten to harm your sister, your parents?”
She dropped her hand as tears fell. “Not at first. Not at first, don’t you understand? He was so kind, so attentive, so romantic. He made me feel so special, he told me I was … I was perfection. Then I’d do something to upset him. He was sorry he struck out at me, he’d be so sorry.”
“Until he did it again.”
“Yes. He said my family wasn’t my family. He was all I needed. And they weren’t mine in any case. Just substitutes, just obligated to house and clothe me. I knew that was wrong, but he’d get so angry. Once, just once, I was so angry, too. Not shocked and afraid, but very angry. I slapped him and I tried to run. I shouted I was going to my family. And he … hurt me. More than he ever had before. He kept hitting me, and he broke my wrist, and he said if I ever tried to leave him he’d kill them. That he knew how so no one would know, and he’d kill them, and it would be my fault.”
“So you didn’t leave him.”
Daphne shook her head. “If I did what he wanted, he hardly ever got angry. If I wore the right dress, said the right thing, he could be very pleased with me. He could be kind, even gentle when he was pleased with me. I tried to make him pleased with me.”
“But sometimes he hurt you anyway.”
“It would be my fault if a man looked at me too long or said something my husband didn’t like. It was an insult to him, and I’d instigated it. I had to be punished, be reminded how to behave properly. If I begged him to stop or tried to crawl away, he’d hit me harder, longer. He would choke me until I passed out, and later I’d wake up.”
“There was a white silk cord and a white silk blindfold in his bedside drawer.”
Daphne’s face flushed; her breath released on choppy hitches. “He’d use the cord to tie me, and the blindfold. He’d rape me, and hurt me. But it wasn’t rape because I belonged to him. He said it wasn’t rape, but I knew it was. I knew, but I stayed. I didn’t know what to do. He was important, and everyone would believe him. He had the droids watch me. He knew everything I did. If I left the house, he knew. I couldn’t leave unless he said I could.”
“How long did this go on?”