“Apologize for waiting,” I said.
His tears spilled.
“I’m sorry I waited.”
I nodded.
That was all I could give.
For months after, the town learned how ugly truth could be when it came wearing a respected man’s suit.
Richard Turner’s company had targeted old houses in neighborhoods he wanted cleared. Three fires over six years. No deaths. That was what his lawyers repeated, as if surviving made the crimes smaller. But one elderly man developed lung damage after the first fire. A family lost everything in the second. And in the third, a nine-year-old girl learned that mirrors could become enemies.
My case became evidence.
My face became evidence.
I hated that most.
Reporters stood outside our house twice before my mother threatened to spray them with the garden hose. People at school suddenly wanted to talk to me. Girls who had ignored me at prom messaged me hearts and crying emojis. One wrote, You’re so strong. Another wrote, I always knew something was special about you.
