The back door of the SUV opened. A man edged in and took a seat behind Sarah. In the illumination provided by the dome light, she could tell he wore a suit and tie. However, the suit was wrinkled and the tie askew. He closed the door, brushed his dark hair out of his eyes, and rubbed his unshaven chin. “I’m so sorry this happened,” he said.
Sarah searched her memory. She knew this man. That is to say, she felt like she should know who he was. Then it came to her. She’d seen him at church, heard his name there. His name danced on the edge of her memory, and she found it at about the same time he held up a badge wallet and identified himself.
“You may not remember me, but we go to the same church. I’m Detective Bill Larson.”
“Why are you here? Are you part of some group at the church that ministers to people who’ve had a fire?” She did a double take. “Surely you’re not here as a policeman. This was just a fire in some oily rags in my garage,” Sarah said.
“No, I’m not here as a church member, although I’ll do anything I can to help,” Larson said. “And I’m very definitely here as a policeman. I’m sure the chief has already told you this was no ordinary fire.”
“No, it was just some oily rags burning,” she said.
“And where did those oily rags come from? They didn’t just materialize and set themselves ablaze.” Larson said. “Do you even keep such things in your garage?”
“No,” she said. “I’m careful about that. They could catch on . . . Oh!”
“That’s right,” Larson said. “That fire was set. This is arson.”
* * *
Bill Larson watched from the back seat of the fire chief’s SUV as firemen loaded their gear onto the truck. Sarah Gordon sat huddled in the front seat of the vehicle. Her dark hair was mussed, she wore no makeup, her eyes were red-rimmed. This was quite a different Sarah than the picture Larson had carried in his mind. Although she looked so miserable that he wanted to comfort her, the detective reminded himself that tonight he was here in his official capacity. To do his job properly he’d need to put aside any personal feelings.
He pulled a notebook from the inside pocket of his summer-weight suit coat, clicked a ballpoint pen into life, and said, “Sarah . . . Dr. Gordon, can you think of any reason someone would want to do this?”
She pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “No.”
Larson waited for her to expand on that answer, but she just sat silent, unmoving. He figured she was probably in shock, and it was unlikely he’d get any useful information from her right now. But he had to try. However, his assumption proved correct, as the answer to every question he put to her was the same—“I don’t know.”
Finally, Larson put his notebook back in his pocket. “Tell you what.” He looked at his watch. “Tomorrow—or rather, today—is Saturday. Why don’t I give you a call about mid-morning, and you can give me your statement then? Meanwhile, let the chief and me get you settled in with a friend or neighbor so you can get a few hours of sleep.”
The chief said, “Doctor, where would you—”
She turned to face him, and her expression—the set of her jaw—stopped him in mid-sentence. “I’m perfectly fine to be alone,” Sarah Gordon said. “I’m planning to spend the night—at least, what’s left of it—right here. You’ve told me there’s no structural damage to the house. Well, I can stand the smell of a little smoke. I’ve lived through much worse.” She swiveled to look at her home through the windshield of the vehicle. “Nothing and no one will force me out of that house.”
* * *
Despite what she’d said about her willingness to be alone in her house, when the front door closed behind the fire chief and the detective, Sarah felt depression and loneliness descend on her. She dragged herself up the stairs, entered her bedroom, and—still wearing her robe and slippers—threw herself across the bed and buried her face in a pillow. She spent the next half hour sobbing into that pillow. She’d managed to hold it together in front of the fire chief and Detective Larson, but now she let it all out, not just the emotions caused by the fire, but her sorrow at the loss of her husband and daughter, the struggle she’d had since their deaths. She thought she’d be over it by now, that she’d have moved on. But that’s not what had happened.
Come on, Sarah. You’re a grown woman. You’re a physician. Every day in the emergency room you make critical decisions. Why can’t you hold your personal life together?
That question had occupied Sarah for the past eight months, and she was pretty certain she had the answer. Before Harry’s death, she’d gotten into the habit of shedding her professional persona at the door. At home she and Harry shared responsibility. They had been a team. If she didn’t have an answer, Harry did. If one of them was unable to do something, the other one would. They could talk about things, make decisions jointly, lean on each other. But that changed with his death. Now she was alone, in every respect.
There was no more respite from responsibility when she came home from her work at the hospital. She simply moved into a different set of circumstances, another situation in which she had to make decisions. Wherever she was, whatever she was doing, it was all up to her. There were a few times when she thought she heard Harry’s voice whispering, “Go ahead, Sarah. You can do it. You’re strong.” But I don’t feel strong, especially when things keep coming at me.
And in addition to the burden she felt, Sarah was still subject to episodes of grief, interspersed with anger—at God and (although she hated to admit it) at Harry for leaving her so alone.
The hardest times, times that seemed to tear her apart, came in the middle of the night. That’s when she’d think she heard the sound of Jenny’s voice. Sarah would roll out of bed, still half-asleep, and head for the room where Jenny slept before realizing that room was empty—just like all the other rooms in the house. Sarah was no longer needed as a mother. Jenny was dead.
Tonight the smell of smoke was pervasive throughout the house, but she could tolerate that. Her depression at the loss of her family nipped at the edges of her consciousness, but with an effort of will she put that aside to consider something of more immediate importance. What she couldn’t get past was her fear that whoever set the fire would return. Every noise she heard seemed to represent footsteps on the stairs or movement in the next room.
Sarah wished she still had the pistol Harry kept in his bedside table. Right after they were married, she’d told him she felt uncomfortable with a gun in the house.
“I’m a nut about firearm safety,” he’d said. “I want to have it to protect us, but I’m careful. Believe me.”
After Jenny was born, Sarah renewed her objections. It wasn’t safe to have a pistol in the house where there was a child. She’d read about gun owners who shot a family member or were wounded or killed themselves. Finally, Harry had given in to her entreaties to get rid of the weapon. But now she wished she had it with her. More important, she wished she had Harry beside her.
They’d worked together—she, an ER doctor, and he, a surgeon—to mesh their schedules so they’d have time with each other and with Jenny. Things were going well. They’d even talked about trying for a little brother or sister for their daughter. But one afternoon, as Harry drove home from the day-care center with Jenny in the car seat, another driver crashed into them and snuffed out both their lives, as well as her own. And, so far as Sarah was concerned, her life ended at that moment as well.
Sarah told herself for the hundredth time there was no need to go over the past. Harry and Jenny were gone. She was still here, although she wasn’t sure just why, and she had to concentrate on moving ahead. That had been her priority since her loss: moving ahead, one day at a time, one step at a time, even if she had to force herself. This fire was simply another roadblock she had to get past. Harry, I’m trying. Really, I’m trying.
The