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

Ellen Marsh's office was on the fourth floor of a building on Nicollet Mall, with a waiting room that smelled like fresh coffee and a receptionist who handed Charlotte a form on a clipboard without making her feel like a charity case.

Diane sat in the waiting room.

Charlotte went in alone.

Ellen Marsh was sixty-one years old, with silver hair cut short and reading glasses on a chain around her neck.

She had practiced family law in Minneapolis for thirty-two years.

Her desk had three stacks of files on it and a small framed photograph of a golden retriever.

She shook Charlotte's hand and gestured to the chair.

"Tell me everything," she said.

"Start from the beginning and don't leave anything out."

Charlotte told her everything.

It took forty minutes.

Ellen Marsh listened without interrupting, making occasional notes in a legal pad with a blue pen.

When Charlotte finished, she set the pen down and looked at her.

"The photograph," she said.

"Show me."

Charlotte handed over her phone.

Ellen Marsh looked at the image for a long time.

She zoomed in on the fuel container.

She checked the timestamp.

"This was taken at eight twenty-four," she said.

"Yes."

"And the fire was reported at nine seventeen."

"Yes."

"You were on the bus at nine-oh-three."

"The footage confirms it."

Ellen Marsh set the phone on the desk between them.

"This photograph," she said carefully, "establishes two things.

First, that an accelerant was present in the kitchen before you left the property.

Second, that you documented it and left without disturbing it." She paused.

"It also raises a serious question about who placed it there and when."

"Samantha had been to the house before," Charlotte said.

"Frank brought her there twice that I know of.

She knew the layout."

"Do you have any evidence of that?

Messages, photographs, witnesses?"

"Mrs.

Gable next door.

She saw a woman with Frank on two occasions when I was at school.

I can ask her."

Ellen Marsh wrote that down.

"The voicemail Samantha claims to have," Charlotte said.

"There isn't one.

I never called her."

"If she presents it to the investigators, we'll request the metadata — the originating number, the timestamp, the carrier records.

A fabricated voicemail leaves traces." Ellen Marsh looked at her steadily.

"She may be counting on the investigators not digging that deep."

"Can you make sure they dig that deep?"

"That's what you're paying me for." A pause.

"Now.

The divorce itself.

The house is in your name?"

"It was.

It's partially destroyed now.

But yes, the title is mine."

"And the pension liquidation — you have documentation of the wire transfer?"

"Everything is in the envelope I gave Frank.

He has the originals.

I have copies." Charlotte reached into her bag and produced a manila folder.

"These are the copies."

Ellen Marsh took the folder and opened it.

She went through the documents slowly — the pension statement, the withdrawal penalty notice, the wire transfer record, the holding account details.

She looked up.

"Two hundred and forty thousand dollars," she said.

"Yes."

"Transferred to save his business."

"Yes."

"And he accepted it believing it was an inheritance."

"Yes."

Ellen Marsh closed the folder.

"Charlotte," she said.

"I want to be honest with you.

In a divorce settlement, this money complicates things in your favor significantly.

You made a substantial financial contribution to the marital estate under false pretenses — but the contribution was real, the benefit to him was real, and the documentation is thorough." She paused.

"A judge will see this."

"I'm not looking to punish him financially," Charlotte said.

"I want what's fair.

I want the legal fees covered.

I want the process to be clean."

"What about the business?"

"I don't want the business."

"The house?"

"It's half destroyed.

I don't want to live there.

But I want its value acknowledged in the settlement."

Ellen Marsh nodded.

"That's reasonable.

What about medical costs — your cancer treatment, the post-surgical care?"

Charlotte paused.

"I hadn't thought about that."

"You should.

The treatment you're undergoing is ongoing.

The surgery you had was performed in the context of this marriage.

Your medical expenses going forward are a legitimate consideration."

Charlotte looked at the desk.

"All right," she said.

"Good." Ellen Marsh picked up her pen.

"Now.

I'm going to call Karen Holt's office this afternoon and arrange to have the photograph submitted formally as evidence.

I'm also going to request that the voicemail Samantha claims to have be verified through carrier records before it's given any weight in the investigation." She looked at Charlotte.

"Is there anything else I should know?"

Charlotte thought for a moment.

"Frank didn't answer Samantha's calls this morning," she said.

"He told Diane that.

I don't know if that means anything."

"It might mean something," Ellen Marsh said.

"It might mean nothing.

Either way, it's not your concern right now." She stood and offered her hand.

"Go rest.

Eat something.

Let your body heal.

I'll be in touch by end of day tomorrow."

Charlotte shook her hand.

"Thank you," she said.

"Don't thank me yet," Ellen Marsh said.

"But I think you're going to be all right."

Charlotte walked out of the office and back into the waiting room.

Diane stood up immediately.

"How did it go?"

"Well," Charlotte said.

They rode the elevator down in silence.

In the lobby, Charlotte's phone buzzed.

A text from Frank.

*The investigator spoke to me for an hour.

I told her everything — the title transfer, Samantha, all of it.

She asked me to come in tomorrow for a formal statement.

I'm going.*

Charlotte read it twice.

Then she typed back two words.

*Thank you.*

She put the phone in her pocket.

Outside, the evening was coming in cold and clear, and somewhere across the city, in what remained of a house on Maple Grove Drive, a fire investigator was still working through the evidence.