“What does that mean?”
Her mouth twists.
“You were supposed to die in the first one.”
Everything inside me stops.
“What?”
“In the fire.”
My pulse begins to hammer.
She lifts the gasoline can slightly.
“I thought it was finished.”
Understanding hits so hard I feel sick.
“You burned my house.”
“You ruined mine first.”
“I do not even know what you are talking about.”
“My husband.”
The words come out sharp and bitter.
“He always does this. Every time some young woman rents that house, suddenly there are repairs, phone calls, excuses to stop by.”
I stare at her.
“I called him because things were broken.”
“You called him constantly.”
“The lights were flickering. A drawer jammed. The house needed work.”
“Liar.”
“I am not lying.”
Her face tightens with fury.
“I saw your number on his phone.”
“Because he was my landlord.”
“He said that about the others too.”
The others.
My stomach turns.
Whatever her husband has done, she has taken every betrayal and built me into the newest version of it.
“That house has brought me nothing but trouble,” she says. “At least this way, I could get rid of both problems and collect the insurance.”
