"I swear, as soon as I get out of here, that house will be yours.

Karen Holt was younger than Charlotte expected — early forties, dark hair pulled back, a lanyard with a city ID clipped to her jacket.

She was waiting at a coffee shop two blocks from the Northfield building, with a notepad open on the table and a recorder beside it.

She stood when Charlotte came in.

"Mrs.

Miller.

Thank you for coming so quickly."

"Charlotte is fine." She sat down across from her.

Diane took the chair at the end of the table, slightly back, saying nothing.

Karen Holt looked at Diane briefly, then at Charlotte.

"Is this—"

"My sister-in-law," Charlotte said.

"She's here as support."

A small pause.

Karen Holt nodded and clicked the recorder on.

"I'll be straightforward with you," she said.

"The fire at the Maple Grove property has been classified as suspicious.

The point of origin was the kitchen — specifically, the area around the gas range.

The pattern is consistent with an accelerant, though we're still waiting on the lab confirmation."

Charlotte kept her expression neutral.

"We're speaking to everyone who had access to the property in the twenty-four hours before the fire," Karen Holt continued.

"You were the last confirmed occupant.

Neighbors place you leaving the house at approximately eight-thirty p.m.

The fire was reported at nine-seventeen."

"I was on the bus by nine," Charlotte said.

"The Route 12.

I boarded at the stop on Maple Grove and Cedar.

There are cameras at that stop and cameras on the bus."

"We've already pulled that footage." Karen Holt's voice was even.

"It confirms your boarding time at nine-oh-three."

"Then you know I wasn't in the house when the fire started."

"We know you weren't in the house," Karen Holt agreed.

"That's not the same thing as knowing you weren't involved."

Charlotte looked at her steadily.

"What are you asking me, Ms.

Holt?"

"I'm asking whether you know how the fire started."

"I don't."

"Did you leave anything on the stove?"

"No."

"Any candles burning?

Any electrical appliances that might have been left running?"

"No."

Karen Holt made a note.

"The gas range in the kitchen — was it in good working order?"

Charlotte thought for a moment.

"The left rear burner had a faulty igniter.

It had been clicking on and off for about three weeks.

I'd asked Frank to call the repair service.

He hadn't gotten to it."

Karen Holt wrote that down.

"A faulty igniter," she said.

"That's useful.

Thank you." She looked up.

"One more question.

The letter found on the front step — the one from the Northfield Oncology Center.

Can you tell me why that was left there?"

Charlotte was quiet for a moment.

"I left it for my husband to find," she said.

"I wanted him to read it."

"Why not simply give it to him?"

"Because I had already left."

Karen Holt looked at her.

The recorder sat between them, its small red light blinking.

"Mrs.

Miller — Charlotte.

I want to be honest with you.

The fire marshal's preliminary read is that the faulty igniter, combined with a grease buildup on the range hood that we found evidence of, is a plausible accidental cause.

The accelerant reading may turn out to be residue from cleaning products stored in the cabinet below." She paused.

"But the investigation is ongoing, and your name will remain in the file until it's closed."

"I understand."

"Is there anything else you'd like to tell me?

Anything that might be relevant?"

Charlotte looked at the recorder.

Then at Karen Holt.

"My husband was having an affair," she said.

"He had spoken to his legal agent about transferring the house title to the other woman.

I found out while I was recovering from surgery in the hospital.

I left the hospital early, returned to the house, collected my personal belongings, and left." She paused.

"I did not start the fire.

I don't know who did, if anyone did.

But I want that on record."

Karen Holt held her gaze.

"It's on record."

She clicked off the recorder.

"We'll be in touch if we need anything further." She stood and offered her hand.

"I hope your recovery goes well."

Charlotte shook it.

Karen Holt left.

Diane waited until the door had closed behind her.

"She believes you," Diane said.

"I think so."

"Do you know what caused the fire?"

Charlotte looked at her coffee cup.

"The igniter had been clicking for three weeks," she said.

"I told Frank about it twice.

He said he'd handle it." She paused.

"He didn't handle it."

Diane was quiet for a moment.

"So it was an accident."

"Almost certainly."

"But you left the letter on the step on purpose."

"Yes."

"Knowing the house might—"

"I didn't know the house would catch fire, Diane.

I left the letter on the step because I wanted Frank to find it before he went inside.

I thought he'd pick it up and read it in the driveway." Charlotte looked at the window.

"I didn't plan the fire.

I didn't cause the fire.

But I won't pretend I cried about it either."

Diane sat with that.

"Frank is going to find out about the investigation," she said.

"He probably already knows.

The investigators would have spoken to him this morning."

"He's going to want to talk to you."

"He can talk to my attorney."

Diane looked at her.

"You already have an attorney?"

Charlotte reached into her bag and produced a business card.

She set it on the table.

*Ellen Marsh, Family Law.

Minneapolis.*

"I called her from the motel last night," Charlotte said.

"We have a meeting tomorrow morning."

Diane picked up the card.

She looked at it for a long moment.

Then she set it down and looked at her sister-in-law across the table.

"You've been planning this," she said.

Not accusatory.

Just realizing.

"Not the fire," Charlotte said.

"But the rest of it — yes.

Since December." She folded her hands around her coffee cup.

"When you find out you might be dying, you start thinking very clearly about how you want to spend whatever time you have."

Outside, a bus went past on the street.

Charlotte watched it go.

"I spent twenty-two years making myself easy to leave," she said quietly.

"I don't intend to spend whatever comes next the same way."

Diane didn't say anything.

She didn't need to.

But when they left the coffee shop and walked out into the afternoon, she stayed close — close enough that their shoulders almost touched — and neither of them mentioned it.

They were halfway to the bus stop when Diane's phone rang.

She looked at the screen.

Frank.

She answered it.

"She's fine," Diane said, before he could speak.

"The appointment went well.

She's staying with me."

A pause on the line.

Then Frank's voice, low and careful: "Diane.

Samantha is here.

She showed up at the house — at what's left of it.

She's talking to the fire investigator."