Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10) - Lisa Gardner Page 0,57
for them. A test they thought they’d failed only to find they’d earned the A they always knew they could achieve.
You don’t become a teacher without having some level of optimism. And you don’t stay in the field if you don’t believe that everyone, from bitter teens to burnt-out administrators, can change.
I used to think that was one of the things Conrad loved about me.
“Fire chief declared the scene safe,” D.D. is saying now, taking up position beside me. “Still”—D.D. gestures to my bulging waist—“I would recommend you stay clear.”
“The fumes?” I ask.
“A lot of nasty stuff burns up in any house fire.”
I nod, well aware of the plastic pipes, glued laminates, cheap stains, fiberglass insulation, and metal appliances that went into home construction. Yesterday this scene would’ve been borderline toxic. Now … now it held the only hope I had of moving ahead.
“I smell gasoline,” I comment.
D.D. eyes me. “So did the arson investigator.”
I have to process this. “So someone killed my husband, then the next day, burned down our house?” My voice sounds surprisingly steady. Maybe because even as I say the words, I don’t really believe them. Conrad and I … A schoolteacher and a window salesman. Surely, this couldn’t have happened to us. This couldn’t be us. “Do you know why?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
“I didn’t do this. I’m not just a wife, I’m a mother.” I shake my head. “No mother would do this.”
D.D. simply stares at me. I lapse back into silence, but I am shivering slightly. Standing in front of the decimated remains of my life is no longer just sad; it’s scary. Because a person who would murder a man, burn down a house …
I don’t know what happened. Worse, I don’t know what will happen next.
The redhead has started working the piles of rubble, using the shovel to lift off charred pieces of sheetrock, collapsed two-by-fours. Mr. Delaney had told them what we were looking for: a fire-rated lockbox for personal papers. It’d been upstairs in our master closet. Given its weight, it had most likely crashed down as the fire devoured the floor from beneath it. The firemen hadn’t discovered it yesterday—but then again, they hadn’t really been worried about personal possessions.
“Arson investigator will be returning this morning,” Sergeant Warren says now, still studying me. “Di Lucca is one of the best. Do you know arsonists generally stick to the same MO? That we have a whole database of local firebugs and their preferred methods? It’s only a matter of time before Di Lucca identifies who did this.” She pauses, leaving the end of her sentence implied. And traces that person to you.
“Why in the world would I arrange to burn down my own home, especially with my cell phone, purse, and all personal possessions inside?”
“People do stupid things.”
“Then I must be a real idiot,” I finally snap, “to burn down my own home after already being discovered holding the gun that killed my husband.”
“Maybe you decided shooting the computer—what was it, twelve times?—wasn’t enough.”
Standing behind us, Mr. Delaney clears his throat. D.D. isn’t supposed to be asking questions about the shooting, and she knows it. She’s just trying to rattle me, see what she can shake loose.
“Maybe this isn’t about me,” I say finally. “Maybe this is about Conrad. All spouses have secrets. Just ask your husband.”
The redhead finishes clearing one pile, moves on to the next waist-high collection of rubble. At least the house didn’t have a basement, given the high water table in the area. Some of our neighbors did, and the constant flooding drove them insane. Conrad had liked this house particularly for its slab construction, plus the one-car garage. I had liked its cozy size, the charm of the hardwood floors, even if they’d been trashed at the time.
We’d been happy the day we signed the papers on this home. Bought a bottle of champagne, which I’d clutched to my chest as Conrad carried me over the threshold. I’d been laughing, demanding that he put me down. It all seemed so ridiculous and silly and … perfect. A great day for a young couple, with so many great days ahead.
D.D. is still watching me. I shouldn’t get emotional in front of her. I shouldn’t let her know that standing here right now, looking at the destroyed remains of so many dreams, hurts.
The redhead shouts her name. She gives me one last look, then jogs into the debris field toward her fellow detective.