21. Fran
— ? —
Fran
Detective Reyes arrives on a Tuesday.
I’ve been expecting her. We scheduled this formal interview a week ago, after I called to update her on my return.
It will supplement the initial phone statement and the casework that’s been building since the fire.
But there’s something surreal about seeing her in person, this woman who’s been a voice on the phone for three months, now standing in my farmhouse kitchen with a notepad and a recorder and an air of professional calm.
“Mrs. Davis.” She shakes my hand. “Thank you for doing this in person. I know it’s not easy.”
“Fran,” I correct automatically. “And it’s - I’m ready. I want to see this through.”
Logan is hovering near the door, uncertain of his place. I reminded him over tea what was happening today, and he cleared his whole day without being asked. He’s still sleeping on the farmhouse couch, but he’s been careful not to insert himself into the process.
“This is my husband,” I tell Detective Reyes. “He knows everything now. I’d like him nearby, if that’s all right - but I understand if you need to take our statements separately.”
“Actually, that’s standard procedure - independent accounts are more useful.” Detective Reyes nods to Logan. “Mr. Davis, I’ll start with you, if you don’t mind. We can use the porch.”
Logan glances at me, uncertain.
“It’s fine,” I tell him. “Go. I’ll be here when you’re done.”
He squeezes my shoulder once before following Detective Reyes outside. Through the window, I can see them settle into the porch chairs, Reyes’s recorder on the railing between them. I busy myself making tea, trying not to watch, trying not to wonder what he’s telling her about that night.
Gertrude, sensing the gravity of the situation, has positioned herself near the door like a feathered guard.
About twenty minutes later, the front door opens and Detective Reyes comes back inside alone. Through the window, I can see Logan on the porch, staying outside as instructed.
“Thank you for your patience,” Reyes says, settling across from me at the kitchen table. She places her recorder between us. “I’m going to record this. You can stop at any time if you need a break.”
“Okay.” I take a breath. “Where do you want me to start?”
“Let’s start with Sloane Vaughn. When did you first meet her?”
I tell her everything, from the beginning.
The dinner where Sloane appeared without warning.
The showcase where Logan dedicated the dressing table to her.
The bathroom confrontation with its three-day ultimatum.
The way Sloane’s presence grew and grew, filling the spaces in my marriage until there was no room left for me.
Detective Reyes takes notes, asks clarifying questions, circles back to details I might have glossed over. She’s thorough but not unkind.
“Now let’s talk about the night of the fire,” she says. “Walk me through everything you remember.”
It’s harder to tell than it was in my living room with Logan.
There, I had his face to watch. Here there’s a recorder with a red light, and a woman who needs the order of things exact.
So I give it to her in order. The third evening after the ultimatum.
The front door opening when Logan’s car wasn’t in the drive.
The footsteps on the stairs that were too light to be his.
The key turning from the hallway side, and the empty nightstand drawer where my spare should have been.
“And then?”
“She spoke to me through the door. She wanted me to know it was her.” My voice holds.
I’m oddly proud of that. “Then the smoke started. I called 911, and I broke the window with a stool when the sash wouldn’t open.
” I take a breath. “Logan pulled up while I was still trapped. I watched her send him the wrong way before he ever looked up. When he did, he came in after me and kicked the door down.”
Detective Reyes nods slowly. “Torres and I have been coordinating from the start. The forensic findings and the 911 timeline support your account. The damage to the bedroom door is consistent with what you’ve described, though we can’t prove which side the key was turned from.”
“You found evidence,” I say.
“A neighbor’s security camera captured Ms. Vaughn’s car arriving at your property that evening.
The footage shows her vehicle and the timestamps are clear.
” She pauses. “We’ve also now obtained text messages she sent to friends in the weeks before, telling people you were ‘unstable,’ that she was worried about ‘Logan’s situation.
’ One recipient came forward and provided the full thread.
The camera footage and these newly provided messages corroborate intent. ”
“So people would believe her when I died.”
“That appears to have been the intent.” Detective Reyes closes her notebook. “Combined with the arson determination, we believe we have enough to present to the prosecutor. I can’t guarantee the outcome of any trial, but the evidence is strong.”
She explains the next steps, the district attorney’s office, potential charges, the arrest and arraignment process. When she stands to leave, I walk her to the door.
“You’ve been very brave, Fran. A lot of people in your position wouldn’t have come forward at all.”
“I almost didn’t,” I admit. “But I have reasons to want this resolved.”
She nods and steps onto the porch, exchanging a few final words with Logan before heading to her car. I watch her drive away, then turn to find Logan standing in the doorway, waiting.
He comes inside and sits down across from me at the kitchen table, not saying anything for a long moment.
“You okay?” he finally asks.
“I think so.” I’m surprised to find it’s true. “Mostly I just feel… relieved.”
“You did something hard today. Something important.”
“You waited outside the whole time,” I say. “You didn’t try to come in, didn’t try to take over. Thank you. For being here. For not making it weird.”
“I wanted to make it weird.” He almost smiles. “I wanted to ask a hundred questions and track down every piece of evidence myself and probably do something stupid and counterproductive. But Dr. Warren says that’s a control issue I need to work on.”
“She sounds smart.”
“She’s annoyingly smart.” He reaches across the table and squeezes my fingers. “But she’s right. This is your thing to handle, not mine. I’m just glad you let me be here.”
We sit there for a while. Then Logan clears his throat.
“I was thinking,” he says, and there’s something almost shy in his voice. “You’ve been working so hard - with the farm, and the investigation, and everything else. And I know we’ve been spending time together, but it’s all been… functional. Work stuff. Serious conversations.”
“I want to take you on a real date.” He says it in a rush, like he’s afraid he’ll lose his nerve.
“Not fixing fences or pulling weeds or going through evidence. Just - something nice. I was thinking tomorrow night. Dinner, and then maybe we could watch the stars from the back forty. I’d pick you up, bring you flowers, the whole thing. ”
“You want to court me?”
“I want to do it right this time.” He meets my eyes.
“I spent our entire marriage treating you like a partner in a business arrangement. I never took you out, never romanced you, never did any of the things you’re supposed to do when you’re falling in love with someone.
And I’d like to fix that, if you’ll let me. ”
I think about it. A real date. Getting dressed up, going out, or in this case, going to our own meadow. The normal things that normal couples do.
“Flowers would be redundant,” I say finally. “I own a flower farm.”
“I’ll think of something else, then.” He’s smiling now, that rare full smile that transforms his whole face. “Is that a yes?”
“It’s a yes.” I smile back. “Tomorrow night. Don’t be late.”
We walk out onto the porch together, and the afternoon sun is warm on my face, and for the first time in months, the future doesn’t feel like something to be survived.
It feels like something to look forward to.