Chapter 10 - The Husband I Buried

Now

I nodded, as if something low in my chest hadn’t tightened with recognition.

I’d heard versions of this before. From clients. From witnesses. From women who didn’t realize they were describing the slow narrowing of their own lives. Nothing Rebecca had said crossed a legal line, but it put doubt there.

It made it seem like she might have a reason to stop him.

What might someone do to escape a controlling husband?

My job was to pull away from the emotional gravity of the story. I needed to bring it back to who else Brad had shown this side of himself to. If he treated his wife this way, there were probably other people he’d mistreated. People with as much motive as she had.

The notes Carl had sent through didn’t include a police report.

Rebecca hadn’t been arrested, which meant no formal disclosure yet. It would make getting our hands on the report more difficult, but my team were good at that kind of thing. I sent Carl a quick message under the table, keeping my face neutral.

Need the police report as soon as it’s filed. Full narrative, not summary.

Rebecca clearly believed she was going to be arrested eventually. Her sense of the inevitable was why she’d come to me now, before anything official happened. Before she lost control of the story.

‘Listen,’ she said suddenly, her eyes darting, as if unnerved by how quiet I’d gone. She leaned forward, wiped her palm down the side of her skirt, and cleared her throat. ‘Everything about this points to me.’

‘Why do you think that?’ I asked, watching her carefully.

‘I wasn’t supposed to be home that night,’ she said. ‘Brad thought I was staying with a friend. I told him I needed space.’

‘How did he react to that?’ I asked.

Her mouth tightened. ‘He said I was being dramatic. That I was overreacting, but that things would be fine.’ She paused. ‘He always did that.’

Control disguised as concern. Gaslighting.

‘I left the house just after seven,’ she continued. ‘I drove around for a while. Parked by the pond. I needed to clear my head.’

‘Did you come back later?’ I asked.

She hesitated.

‘Yes. But not for long.’

‘What time?’

‘I don’t know. Late. After midnight.’

People remember things more clearly when it’s something jolting, something out of their routine. Even when they don’t want to.

‘What happened when you got there?’ I asked.

‘The house was already on fire,’ she said, almost defensively. ‘There was smoke everywhere. Flames coming from the bedroom window.’

‘You didn’t go inside?’

Her eyes flicked up to mine. ‘No. I couldn’t do it.’

‘Did you call emergency services?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I figured someone else must have already called. I heard sirens. . .’

Another pause between us. Thin and fragile.

‘Did you see Brad?’ I asked.

She shook her head.

‘Did you hear him?’

‘No.’

‘But you’re certain he was inside?’

‘Yes.’

‘How?’

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her gaze dropped to the table.

‘He always went to bed early during the week,’ she said finally. ‘He hated when I stayed out late. Said it disrupted his routine. He usually left early for work.’

‘So you left,’ I said. ‘While the house was burning.’

‘Yes.’ She swallowed. ‘I panicked.’

‘Why, Rebecca? Why wouldn’t you come forward?’

‘Because I knew how it would look,’ she said. ‘The wife conveniently absent while her rich husband burns in their bed. If I went back, it would look like I set the fire.’

Her hands tightened around the mug.

‘Brad was a very structured person.’ She frowned. ‘He believed appearances were important.’

That word again: ‘structured’. ‘And what do you believe?’ I asked, skimming the foam off the top of my latte with a spoon, needing the small, mechanical motion to steady myself.

‘I think people should be accepted for who they are,’ she said. ‘And shouldn’t have to put on an act for the people closest to them, who are supposed to love them regardless.’

The words struck deeper than I expected.

For the people who were supposed to love them regardless.

‘Isn’t that what Brad wanted for you?’ I asked gently.

She scoffed. ‘He didn’t really mean it. He only wanted me to be “myself” if it matched how he wanted me to be.’

So Brad’s love had felt conditional?

Now wasn’t the time to explore that. I set my coffee aside and brought us back to the case.

‘Is there anything else you think I should know about that night?’ I asked. ‘Anything that might compromise a court case, if it comes to that?’

She opened her mouth. ‘I—’

‘Did Brad ever hurt you?’ I asked.

‘Not in the way people think,’ she said quickly. ‘Not often. He just . . . corrected me. Constantly. He tried to make me into exactly what he wanted.’

She exhaled, her shoulders dropping. ‘We argued about it that night. It’s why I left.’

‘Rebecca,’ I said gently. ‘Can anyone verify where you were? Did you end up visiting your friend, or maybe someone else?’

She stared into her coffee cup, her voice pitching slightly higher. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No one.’

If she had seen someone that night, she wasn’t ready to say it.

‘And you said you drove around for a while?’

‘I parked in the lot by the pond,’ she said. It was consistent with what she’d already told me, but that didn’t make it true.

‘Rebecca,’ I said, lowering my voice. ‘Did you start the fire?’

Her eyes filled, but her voice stayed steady. ‘No.’

‘Did you expect Brad to die that night?’ I asked.

She didn’t answer right away.

When she did, her voice was quiet. ‘I expected things to change.’

I closed my notebook.

‘OK,’ I said. ‘For now, this is what we’re going with.’

She nodded, relief flooding her face. ‘I knew you could help me. He said you would.’

The words snagged. Maybe she’d been referred by a previous client.

‘He?’

She nearly dropped her mug, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim. ‘Just . . . a friend,’ she said, too quickly. ‘I can’t even remember who.’

I passed her a napkin, watching as she dabbed carefully at the coffee spots on her arm.

She hadn’t called for help.

She’d known he was inside. And she was speaking less like someone who’d escaped something, and more like someone who’d justified it. If she hadn’t killed him directly, she hadn’t tried very hard to save him, either.

But why?

She leaned over, tossing the napkin on the table that sat between us. Her bag tilted beside her, spilling onto the floor.

‘Shoot,’ she said, quickly scooping up the contents. A purse, some mints, a lip gloss, and what looked like a brochure for a wellness center.

She saw me looking at the brochure, allowing myself a brief fantasy about a long overdue massage I wouldn’t be getting any time soon.

‘I was going to book a day spa,’ she said, stuffing the brochure back into the bag. ‘Maybe I should, before—’

She didn’t need to finish the sentence. Before she couldn’t.

Rebecca collected her belongings and zipped up her bag with a decisive ‘zzzt’.

My phone beeped. Another message from Carl.

The report is in. I already took a look. You’re not going to believe what I found.

I looked up at Rebecca, already halfway turned toward the door, her posture lighter now that she’d handed the weight over to me.