The Marriage Lie(80)

“And? What’s it say?”

“Who the hell knows? It’s like reading something in Spanish. I only understand every fourth or fifth word. Anyway, take a look at it when you get a chance and call me back. Maybe between the two of us, we can translate all the police-speak.”

I look across the table at Evan, dragging a hunk of bread through the sauce on his plate. “I can do better than that.”

*

Evan agrees to take a look at the police report, but only if I show it to him on the laptop screen at my house. Though neither of us actually says it out loud, we both know the reason behind the ultimatum. Evan wants to be sure there’s no one lurking in the shadows of my empty rooms, and after today’s discoveries and my sprint through Corban’s backyard, I want to let him.

My house is a hulking black shadow against the nighttime sky, despite the lights casting a golden glow down at the street.

“I’m not going to lie,” I say, searching through my ring for the brass house key. “I feel better with you walking me in. It never occurred to me when I left this morning that I might not be home before dark.”

Evan shines his iPhone at my doorknob so I can see. “Yeah. It’s pretty spooky.”

I push open the door, and the system greets me with a long, shrill beep. I hurry to the pad and punch in the code while Evan pats around for the light switch. He finds it, and the hallway floods with light.

“Alarm’s on, which means there’s nobody here.” I gesture to one of the motion sensors, mounted high in the hallway corner. “Those things are in every room, and the guy who installed them told me they’re sensitive enough to work in the dark.”

Evan doesn’t look convinced. He peers around the corner into the front room, then swings his head the other way. “I’m still going to do a walk-through. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Actually, thank you. I’d appreciate it.” I flip the dead bolt on the door, reset the alarm and motion for him to follow me to the kitchen, turning on more lights along the way. “Can I get you something to drink? I’ve got soda and beer and wine, and stronger if you’d like.”

He opens the pantry door, shuts it. “I’d love a glass of wine, thanks.”

I let him wander around my house, peeking behind doors and rattling knobs and windows while I uncork a bottle of pinot noir. I carry it, along with two glasses, over to the counter and pull up the email from the Seattle Police Department on my laptop. A few minutes later, Evan reappears, looking a great deal more relaxed.

“All clear?”

“All clear.” He sinks onto a bar stool, frowns at the screen. “This looks like the incident report.”

I push a glass across the counter and lean closer so I can see around his shoulder. “Yeah, so?”

“So really, this isn’t telling us anything new. There was a fire that killed Will’s mom and a couple of neighbor kids, and the cops found accelerant in the apartment next door, but what happened next?”

I shrug. “What about the case officer? Will was assigned one. Dave and I thought maybe he would know more.”

Evan scans the file. “Wyatt Laurie. Does the name ring a bell?”

“No.”

“I’ll see if I can track him down tomorrow. Did you or your brother check court records?”

“No.”

“Those would paint the picture after the fire. If there were search warrants or criminal charges filed or, better yet, a case brought to court. That’s how we piece together the full story.”

Disappointment weights my bones, making my body feel heavy. “Oh.”

He glances over, butting my shoulder lightly with his. “Iris, this isn’t a bad thing. Police departments can be stingy and slow with their reports, but court records are public, and often they’re accessible online.” He clicks around with the mouse, and his big fingers punch at the keyboard. “Here we go, the US District Court for the Western District of Washington. What year did all this happen again?”

“1998 or ’99.”

“Hmm, digital records may not go back that far, but we should be able to find at least a hit or two. Summaries, most likely, but we should be able to come up with at least the outline of a story.” He fills in an online form, hits Submit. Two seconds later, the results pop onto the screen. “Bingo. Do you have a printer?”

*

Evan and I end up on opposite ends on the couch, stacks of printouts spread out on the cushions between us. There aren’t that many. A few court records, a handful of news articles on the fire and not much else. So far they’ve told us nothing new.

Part of the problem is that Evan was right; most of what we were able to find on the internet is incomplete, a paragraph or two summarizing what should be pages and pages of data.

The other part, a bigger part, is that the evidence against Will was sketchy at best. The gas can, purchased in 1997, couldn’t be connected to anyone at Rainier Vista. The apartment where the fire began, adjacent to Will’s, was unlocked and untenanted, and investigators found more DNA than they could identify. And it didn’t help that the investigating officer turned out to be a cokehead who was working his way through Rainier Vista’s lineup of hookers. The case was dismissed long before the jury could come to a decision.

I toss the sheet I’m reading onto the couch, the frustration rising swift and thick. “This feels like an exercise in futility. I mean, I began it wanting insight into Will’s past, but now... Now I’m not so sure. I mean, it’s not going to change anything that happened. I just don’t see the point.”