The Marriage Lie(39)

As soon as we’re situated at a table near the window, I use the same strategy that got Coach Miller talking: honesty.

“Mr. Butler, I know you’d rather not go excavating the past, but whatever Will did as a teenager, it can’t be worse than what he did to me, his own wife.”

“You sure about that?”

I nod, because I know what he wants. Mr. Butler wants me to put myself on his team—a team separate from my husband. I push a chunk of stringy meat around with a cheap fork and gather the words I think he wants to hear.

“My husband—Will—we were married for seven years. He never told me anything about Seattle. I didn’t know he grew up here. I had no idea about his home situation. Maybe he was ashamed of his past, or maybe he was just trying to put everything behind him. I don’t know. But the thing is, I can’t reconcile the man I knew to the man Coach Miller told us about, and I need to do that in order to mourn my husband. I need to know all the parts of him—even the parts he kept hidden, the ugly parts—in order to move on.” I say the words, and a slow ache blooms inside my chest.

Something cracks in the old man’s demeanor, a slight softening around his eyes and mouth, and relief loosens my muscles. “You talked to Anthony Miller?”

“Yes.”

“He’s a good man. What did he tell you?”

“He said Will was mean and angry and his home situation was not pleasant. He said there was a fire, and that...” It takes me a second or two to muster up the words. “Will’s mom—Kat—died in it.”

The old man chews a meaty bite. “He told you about the fire, huh?”

I nod.

“I lost everything I owned in that fire, and I’m not just talking about clothes and furniture. I mean letters and baby pictures and the recipes my great-grandmama handed down. My wedding suit and the pearl earrings I gave to my wife, God rest her soul.”

I don’t bother asking if he was insured. The items he mentioned seem irreplaceable, and besides, after everything I’ve heard about Rainier Vista at the time, I’m guessing none of the residents were.

“I’m so sorry,” I say instead. “That must have been very hard.”

He nods, and his mouth settles into a thin line. “Did Anthony tell you who set the fire?”

My heart ticks like a bomb beneath the bones of my ribs. The fire was arson? I try to answer, but I can’t speak.

Dave does it for me. “No, who?”

For someone who didn’t want to talk, Mr. Butler sure seems to be enjoying the attention now. He leans back in his chair, gesturing out the window with his fork.

“I already told you, this place used to be the projects. Now, I don’t know where you folks are from, but by the looks of you, I’d wager neither of you have ever set foot in one. Let me assure you, it’s as bad as you think. Gangs, guns, prostitutes and drug runners on every corner. Suffice it to say, we had more than our fair share of troubled kids. But your husband stood out because he was smart. He was smart and he was sneaky, and both of those things together made him dangerous. You never knew he was on the verge of explosion until it was too late.”

My gaze flicks to Dave, whose expression is carefully blank. “What are you saying, exactly?”

“I think you know what I’m saying. The police could never prove Will set it, mind, but they were suspicious enough to assign him a case officer. And that fire killed more than just Kat. Two kids died that night, as well.”

Dave jerks, and my mouth fills with an all too familiar acid. I turn away from the table and try not to pant, calculating the number of steps to the garbage can in case I can’t swallow the sick down. Three, maybe four, tops, but only if I leap over another table. The distraction puts some distance between me and what this man is saying—that Will set a fire that ended the lives of not only two children, but also his own mother. That he was responsible for their deaths. I lean back in the chair and shake my head, a slow side to side.

Not possible.

The old man takes in my posture, reads my disbelief and lifts a lumpy shoulder in a suit yourself gesture. “When it came to his parents, your husband got the short end of the stick, that’s for certain. Kat and Lewis Griffith could barely take care of themselves, much less another human being.”

“Coach Miller suggested there was some violence in the home,” Dave says.

“Then he was lying, because there was a lot of violence. A lot. But even so, it didn’t take long for the fire department to rule it arson. Whoever set the fire used accelerant.”

Still.

“It could have been anybody,” I say.

My head aches, and I suddenly wish I was back home, letting Mom fuss over me. Why did I have to come out here and kick up this dramatic shit storm? I want to go back in time, unhear everything this man and Coach Miller have told me. It’s too much. I no longer want to know.

“True. But the fire occurred at around 2:00 a.m., after a particularly loud and vicious argument between Kat and Lewis ended in them both drinking themselves into a stupor. I’ll never forget the screaming and shouting from those two. Anyhow, a container of gasoline was found in the abandoned apartment next door. And Billy, who swore he was asleep in his bed at that time, somehow made it out without a scratch.”

I stare at Dave, who’s been taking in the news in a way that makes his face shut down. He swipes a palm over his chin and swallows. He doesn’t want to believe, but he might.