THE FIRST THING THAT HITS me when I get out of my lawyer’s car is the smell. Charred wood, slightly smoky, and not unpleasant. It brings to mind Sunday afternoons cozied up before a nice fire, sipping tea, listening to the Pats game on TV.
I have to stand perfectly still before I can fully process that it’s not a barbecue in front of me, but the remains of my home.
Mr. Delaney lets me be. He answered my call in the middle of the night without hesitation. No doubt used to odd hours, given his job as a defense attorney. And no doubt understanding that it took that long for me to finally be free from my mom, who had to complete her nightly martini ritual before turning in for bed.
It’s seven thirty, the sky just starting to lighten given the short days this time of year. The temperature remains below freezing. We are both bundled up in wool coats, hats, and gloves. Half of my neighbors still have their Christmas lights on from the night before, twinkling borders around their roofs, windows, ornamental shrubs.
It gives the whole scene a surreal feel. Merry Christmas! P.S. All that remains of your life is a charred shell of collapsing wreckage.
Then the police arrive and it’s time to get the party started.
Sergeant Warren climbs out of the car first, bundled up in a puffy blue down coat, embroidered BPD on the chest. She finishes wrapping a lighter blue scarf around her neck, then pulls on black leather gloves and a knitted hat. She still shivers slightly as she waits for the driver, a younger detective with a shock of red hair, to untangle himself from the front seat. He heads straight for the trunk, removes a rake and a shovel before pulling on a pair of heavy workman’s gloves. Gotta love the Boston PD. Prepared for anything.
D.D. gives me a look, then heads for my lawyer. She addresses her opening comments to him, as if I’m nothing but a signpost. Posturing. As a high school teacher who spends my days working with teens, I’m unimpressed. She can only pretend I don’t matter, whereas I have dozens of students who for months at a time honestly believe I don’t. Till they fail their first test, of course.
“Your client understands that the terms of our initial search warrant still stand, meaning we have the legal right to seize any items relevant to the source of the fire, as well as any additional evidence the fire may have exposed relevant to the shooting which was missed the first time around,” D.D. is rattling off.
Mr. Delaney’s answer is equally crisp: “I’ve discussed the matter with my client. She understands that as owner of the property, she is entitled to anything that isn’t considered evidence in the case. Furthermore, the police bear the burden of proving an item is evidence. Otherwise, it goes to her.”
Mr. Delaney had walked me through it last night. I couldn’t just return to my former residence and search for Conrad’s firesafe filing box. The police would take exception and seize whatever I discovered as a matter of principle. So invite them over. Make a show of cooperating fully with the authorities. They would open the SentrySafe box, but the contents should belong to me. Not like the ignition source of the arson fire was in the middle of a fire-resistant safe.
All I wanted was our financial records, including the copy of the life insurance policy Conrad took out when he learned I was pregnant, as well as our homeowners’ policy. The box also contained our passports, which—in lieu of my now melted driver’s license—I could use as photo ID.
As I told myself last night, I might be sad, but I will not be helpless. I have my unborn child to consider, and my crazy-as-a-fox mother to outmaneuver.
The redheaded detective heads for the pile of charred wood, rake in hand. D.D. refers to him as Neil. He looks like he’s about twelve. Maybe the police are recruiting straight out of elementary school these days. I often thought about teaching the lower grades. My particular math skills, however, would be lost there. And for all my moments of sheer exasperation with high schoolers, every semester I have at least a few students whose potential comes to life. An equation that, for the first time, clicks 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.
I will have my papers soon enough, I think.
Except a heavy black SentrySafe is not what the redhead has discovered.
THIS LOCK BOX is thin. Maybe an inch tall with roughly the same dimensions as a pad of paper. At first glance, it looks like a tablet computer, which gives me an unsettling thought—I’d shot up a computer, but had I shot up the computer? I don’t know anymore, and this isn’t the time or place to wonder.
The outside of the box is covered in soot and charred along the edges. It doesn’t appear heavy-duty enough for a fire-resistant or waterproof rating; then again, I don’t recognize the box at all.
The redhead detective clutches it tightly against his stomach. I’d sent the detectives for a file cabinet. They’d discovered a small lockbox. All parties are equally confused—and equally suspicious.
D.D. starts the negotiations: “You got a key?”
“Of course not. I don’t even have a fucking cell phone.”
If the profanity bothers them, no one says anything. “The key was kept in the lock,” I lie eventually. “Dig a layer deeper. You’ll find it.”
“Neil,” D.D. orders, taking the box from him.
The twelve-year-old returns to the blackened debris field, rake in hand.
“You said you were looking for a fireproof safe,” D.D. states shrewdly. “You know, like one of heavily reinforced boxes discovered in airplane wreckages.”
I ignore her, keep my eyes on the redhead: where he’s digging, his approximate location in the house . . . He’s standing under Conrad’s office, I determine. Which leads me to my next thought: all those wooden filing cabinets, chock-full of boring customer files. What if it wasn’t the files that had mattered? What if beneath them had sat this flat, nondescript box?
I want to believe I would’ve seen it. On my many, many missions, working through the cabinets, shoving manila folder after manila folder aside in sheer frustration. Then again, a container this thin could’ve been tucked beneath one of the filing cabinets itself; I’d never thought to lift an entire thing. Given the size and weight of the broad, double-drawer units, I’m not even sure I could’ve. But Conrad, fit and muscular . . .
Would I have noticed the disruption? A slight change in positioning of the cabinet, a fresh scratch on the old hardwood? Or maybe I had, which is why I’d kept coming back. Because just like Conrad had sensed the disturbance in his locked office every time he returned, I’d also sensed something had changed every time I returned. And around and around we’d spun.
Secrets.
Had my husband ever loved me? Or had he married me because once he knew the true story behind my father’s death, he’d assumed I would be the type to forgive and forget?
Shouting. The redhead Neil is now attacking a pile of rubble with renewed vigor, clearly having spotted something. Slowly but surely, I make out the compact shape of a fireproof safe. The filing box is not huge, but it is heavy as hell, as I can relate from personal experience. Dragging it out of the master closet was like dragging a boulder, only to stick in a few insurance docs, then—several deep breaths later—heave it back into place.
Neil tosses aside the rake and shovel. He’s cleared the area around the box. Now he has both arms around it. Two or three staggering steps later, he’s on the move, having to carefully navigate his way through the ruins with the bulky SentrySafe clutched against his chest.
As he approaches, I can tell the fireproof, waterproof safe has lived up to its heavily warrantied reputation. There’s barely a scratch on it. In comparison to the flat metal lock box, the SentrySafe still has a key dangling from the front lock. The key is now black and singed, but a key is a key.
Neil drops the box on the driveway in front of us, breathing heavily. D.D. squats down beside it, also out of breath, but in her case, solely from anticipation.
“That looks like a file box,” she says, gesturing to the SentrySafe. “So what’s this other thing?” She has the charred lockbox at her feet.
“Overflow,” I state without hesitation.
She gives me a look. I stare at her right back. This is what happens when you take the blame for your father’s death at sixteen. After that, all mistruths are relative. I might have been honest once, even a Goody Two-shoes. But after what I saw, what happened next . . . Really, what’s the point?
The SentrySafe has a key, so we start with it first. D.D. does the honors. Strictly speaking, anything recovered at the scene the BPD gets to inspect first, before passing it on to the rightful homeowner. I’m not nervous. I know this box. I’ve added to it many times. As the wife of a husband who traveled often, the business of personal finances and monthly paperwork was more my bailiwick than his. I’m grateful for that now. I’m not some helpless female who has suddenly lost her husband and has no idea how to hook up cable or find the life insurance policy.
Conrad was equally organized. His parents had died when he was in college, and though he never talked about it much, clearly he’d handled the estate. A family wasn’t just a collection of love and well wishes. It was a physical asset to be protected and preserved. Auto insurance, homeowners’ insurance, life insurance—he’d believed in all of it.
D.D. turns the key. It’s one of those circular ones, distinct for safes. It takes a bit of jiggling, then gives. The lid of the box won’t lift, however. The detective frowns, whacks the box, frowns some more. I finally squat impatiently, earning raised eyebrows from all. I grab both sides of the top of the box and shimmy hard, thinking the heat might have warped it. Whether my assumption is valid or not, the technique works. I lift the heavy lid, giving both the detectives a superior stare, before I rise to standing.
D.D. immediately goes to work, flipping through the manila folders labeled Auto Insurance, Property Insurance, Mortgage, Passports, Life Insurance, CDs, Savings Account. All the important papers you’d never want to lose in a fire.
Nothing terribly exciting, and yet my best hope of trying to figure out the next few months of my life. Or how to escape my mother’s clinging grasp in the least amount of time possible—depending on your point of view.
D.D. removes each file, flips through the contents—not much, just the latest statements, policies, et cetera—replaces them in the box. When she gets to life insurance, she pauses.
“Million dollars?” She gives me a look. “This appears to be a brand-new policy. Seriously?”
“He took it out when we discovered I was pregnant. According to the insurance rep, it should be enough to pay off the mortgage of the house, cover eighteen years of the average costs of raising a child, plus four years of college.”
“In other words, a million motives for shooting your husband.”
“If I wanted a million dollars,” I inform the detective, “all I have to do is phone home. Or better yet, move in.”
She gives me a fresh look. “Which you just did.”
“Yeah, and why don’t you ask Call Me Phil what that’s like?”
The redhead glances up. “‘Call Me Phil’?” Abruptly, he breaks into a smile. “That’s what he was talking about yesterday. We should get him a T-shirt.”
Now D.D. and I both scowl at him. He shrinks back, holds up a black, warped object. “I think I found the key to the other lockbox not far from this one.”
“Hang on,” I say. I look at Mr. Delaney. “I see personal papers and financial files. No source of arson fire. Nothing that rises to the level of evidence.”
“Agreed,” Mr. Delaney states. He stares hard at D.D.
“I want a copy of the life insurance.”
“Snap a photo with your phone,” I suggest. Because I’m taking the policy home with me. I need it.
“My client is being more than reasonable,” my lawyer seconds.
Clearly, D.D. isn’t happy. But she photographs the doc, closes up the file, sticks it back in the box. The SentrySafe has done its job admirably, saving its contents, surviving to tell its tales. Now Mr. Delaney picks it up, grunting slightly from the weight as he carries it to the trunk of his car.
Which leaves us with the thin metal lockbox. I have no idea what it is, but I won’t admit to that because I’m dying to see what’s inside. It probably doesn’t matter anymore, but it might be what I was searching for all along.
The black key is warped. The redhead tries jiggling. D.D. tries jangling. I take it from them both, me, the experienced homeowner who must certainly know the quirks of this lockbox as well as I did the fireproof safe.
It still takes several tries. I coax, beg, plead. Please, after all this time of looking for you, don’t you want to talk to me, too?
Then: click.
Just like that, the lock gives. The lid doesn’t pop open, clearly warped along the edges. But I can feel the box relax, preparing to surrender its secrets.
I place it on the ground before us. I don’t know what to expect. Ashes, charred ruins. The heat inside a house fire must be so extreme. And while Conrad clearly meant to keep these contents hidden, he didn’t necessarily care if they were safe. An interesting distinction in its own right.
D.D. has to force the lid. Black flakes float down.
Inside the box, the metal is cool and gray, untouched. The first evidence that the contents came through unscathed. Then:
“What the hell?” D.D. stares at me.
The redheaded detective is already digging through the contents, equally mesmerized.
I don’t have words. I don’t have moisture in my mouth. Of all the things I thought I might see. Of all the secrets I knew Conrad had to have.
I’m staring at bundles of cash. Still in original wrappings, which is suspicious enough. But more than that, I’m staring at piles of plastic cards. Various drivers’ licenses, covering half a dozen states.
All with Conrad’s photo. All bearing different names.
“You need to start talking and you need to start talking now,” D.D. orders intently.
Except I have nothing to say.