Chapter 8: What Samantha Said
Charlotte's face didn't change.
Diane had her phone on speaker now, held between them at the bus stop, and Frank's voice came through thin and tight.
"She's showing them her phone," he said.
"She says she has a voicemail."
"There is no voicemail," Charlotte said.
Her voice was completely calm.
"Charlotte—"
"I have never spoken to Samantha.
I didn't know her last name until this morning.
I have never called her.
There is no voicemail."
A silence on the line.
"Frank," Diane said.
"Is the investigator still there?"
"Yes.
They're talking by the tape line.
Samantha's been here for about twenty minutes.
I don't know how she knew to come."
"You called her this morning," Charlotte said.
"When you were standing in front of the house.
Your phone rang and you didn't answer.
But she knew where you were."
Another silence.
"She must have tracked my location," Frank said.
He sounded like he was only now understanding what that meant.
"Call Karen Holt," Charlotte said.
"The fire investigator.
Tell her you want to be present when she reviews whatever Samantha is claiming.
Tell her you have information about the relationship and the property dispute that may be relevant."
"What information?"
"Tell her about the title transfer conversation.
Tell her you had already instructed a legal agent to move the house into Samantha's name.
Tell her that Samantha had a financial motive to see the house destroyed while it was still in my name — because if I had filed for divorce first, the house would have been part of the settlement."
The line was very quiet.
"Frank," Charlotte said.
"I did not start that fire.
But someone needs to make sure the investigation looks in the right direction."
She heard him breathe.
"All right," he said.
"Call Holt now.
Before Samantha finishes whatever she's telling her."
The line went d*ad.
Diane lowered the phone.
They stood at the bus stop.
A woman with a stroller went past.
A dog walker with three dogs crossed at the light.
"Do you think Samantha started it?" Diane asked.
Charlotte was quiet for a moment.
"I think Samantha knew the house was going to be transferred into her name," she said.
"I think she also knew that if I filed for divorce, that transfer would be challenged.
I think a house fire, with me as the obvious suspect, would have solved several problems at once." She paused.
"Whether she actually did it — I don't know.
But she had more reason than I did."
"The faulty igniter—"
"Is real.
I wasn't lying about that.
It's possible it was an accident." Charlotte looked down the road.
"It's also possible someone who knew about the igniter used it."
"How would Samantha know about a faulty burner?"
Charlotte looked at her.
Diane understood.
"Frank told her," Diane said.
"Frank tells Samantha a great deal, apparently."
The bus appeared at the far end of the block.
"What happens now?" Diane asked.
"Now Ellen Marsh earns her fee," Charlotte said.
"And we wait."
They got on the bus.
Charlotte found a seat near the window and looked out at the city moving past — the storefronts, the intersections, the ordinary afternoon going on around her as if nothing had happened.
Diane sat beside her.
"Are you scared?" Diane asked quietly.
Charlotte thought about it honestly.
"No," she said.
"I was scared in December.
I was scared on the surgery table.
I was scared when I heard Frank's voice through that curtain and realized everything I thought was real wasn't." She watched a traffic light change from red to green.
"I'm not scared anymore.
I'm just tired.
And tired is something I can work with."
Diane nodded.
They rode in silence for a while.
Then Diane said, "She's not going to get away with it.
If she did it."
"No," Charlotte agreed.
"She's not."
"How can you be so sure?"
Charlotte reached into her bag and took out her phone.
She opened the photos app and handed it to Diane.
Diane looked at the screen.
It was a photograph.
Time-stamped the previous evening at 8:24 p.m.
— six minutes before Charlotte had left the house for the last time.
The photo showed the kitchen.
The gas range.
The left rear burner with its faulty igniter.
The range hood above it.
The cabinet below with its door slightly open.
And in the cabinet, clearly visible, a red plastic fuel container that had not been there the last time Charlotte had cleaned under that sink.
Diane looked up.
"You saw it," she said.
"I saw it when I went to get my documents from the kitchen drawer.
I didn't touch it.
I didn't move it.
I took the photograph and I left."
"Why didn't you call the police?"
"Because I didn't know what it meant yet.
It could have been Frank's.
He keeps fuel for the lawnmower." Charlotte took the phone back.
"But Frank hasn't mowed the lawn since October.
And the container was new."
Diane stared at her.
"You've had this since last night," she said.
"Yes."
"And you didn't say anything."
"I was waiting to see what Samantha would do." Charlotte put the phone back in her bag.
"Now I know."
She looked out the window again.
"I'm sending it to Ellen Marsh tonight," she said.
"And to Karen Holt in the morning."
May you like
Diane sat back in her seat.
Outside, Minneapolis went past in the late afternoon light — ordinary and unhurried, completely indifferent to the fact that everything was about to change.
