Delete this. Never put that in writing again.
The kitchen was silent except for the hum of the refrigerator.
I looked at Richard Turner.
He stared back.
No guilt.
No fear.
Only calculation.
“You set the fire,” I said.
His mouth tightened.
“That is a ridiculous accusation.”
“You set my house on fire.”
“I was never charged.”
“You burned my face.”
My voice cracked on the last word.
Finally, something moved in his eyes.
Not remorse.
I think it was annoyance.
“You have no idea what your mother cost people by refusing to sell that property.”
My mother stood.
The chair tipped behind her.
Vivian whispered, “Richard.”
He looked at my mother with contempt so pure it seemed practiced.
“That entire block was collapsing. We offered generous buyouts. Your house was worth nothing.”
“My daughter was in that house,” my mother said.
His eyes flicked toward me.
“A tragic accident.”
