Chapter 2 - The house that burned without me
The woman hung up before I could ask her name.
Across the street, flames climbed behind the windows of the house where I had spent twenty-two years.
My first instinct was to run toward it.
My second was stronger.
Stay alive.
Firefighters arrived within minutes.
I told them the property should be empty and that I had shut off the gas.
That statement changed their questions immediately.
“Any recent electrical problems?”
“No.”
“Candles?”
“No.”
“Anyone else with a key?”
My husband.
Our housekeeper.
Victor’s business manager.
And, apparently, whoever Victor planned to give the house to.
I did not mention Rita yet.
Not because I wanted revenge.
Because I wanted facts.
By midnight, the fire was contained.
The living room and study were devastated.
The upstairs bedrooms survived.
So did the garage.
The fire marshal told me the origin looked suspicious but cautioned me not to draw conclusions.
I appreciated that.
Too many people in my life had already decided conclusions before evidence.
The next morning, my neighbor Teresa found me standing behind the temporary police barrier.
“Oh, Sarah.”
She hugged me carefully, mindful of my surgical wound.
“You lost everything.”
I looked at the blackened windows.
“No.”
She pulled back.
“I lost everything three days ago in a hospital room.”
Her face changed.
I said nothing more.
At 10:40, Victor called from the hospital.
Twenty-one times.
I answered the twenty-second.
“What the hell happened to the house?”
Interesting.
Not: Are you safe?
Not: Where are you?
The house.
“I don’t know.”
“You left?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I looked at my bare ring finger.
“Doctors discharged me.”
A lie by omission.
He knew immediately something was wrong.
“Sarah.”
“What?”
“Did you do something?”
There it was.
His first instinct was accusation.
“No.”
“Then why are you talking like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like a stranger.”
I almost told him that strangers receive more courtesy than wives who donate kidneys.
Instead:
“Get well, Victor.”
I ended the call.
Then another call arrived.
Boston Fire Investigation Unit.
They needed me downtown.
Not because they suspected me.
Because a camera across the street had captured someone entering the house fourteen minutes before the fire.
A woman.
Blonde.
Mid-forties.
Carrying a red leather handbag.
I knew the handbag.
Victor had charged it to our joint card last Christmas.
I had assumed it was a gift for a client.
The detective placed a still photograph on the table.
“Do you know her?”
I stared at Rita Bell.
“Yes.”
“How?”
I thought about Victor’s whisper behind the hospital curtain.
Then answered:
“I think she’s the woman my husband promised my house to.”
The detective leaned back.
But before he could ask another question, his partner entered carrying a clear evidence bag.
Inside was a partially burned document recovered from Victor’s study.
May you like
My signature was at the bottom.
Except I had never signed it.
