Chapter 9: The Charges
The DA's office was a plain room with a long table and bad coffee.
Assistant District Attorney Renata Sousa was direct, unhurried, and had clearly read everything before we arrived.
She set a single page on the table.
"We're filing four counts," she said.
"Arson in the first degree.
Two counts of attempted murder — one for each victim present in the locked room.
Criminal threat, based on the recorded call." She looked at me.
"The asset transfer case will run parallel through a separate financial crimes unit.
That's five to seven additional counts depending on how the forensic accounting develops."
I looked at the page.
Attempted murder.
Written plainly in a government font on a white page.
"When?" Grace said.
"We execute the warrant tomorrow morning.
His attorney has been notified that we are in an active investigation, which is standard.
He does not know the filing is imminent." Renata paused.
"We'd prefer he not know until the warrant is served."
"Understood," Grace said.
Renata looked at me.
"Mrs.
Hale-Mercer.
I want to be straightforward with you.
This case is strong.
The cooperating witness statement, the physical evidence, the recorded call — that combination is unusual.
Most cases don't come to us this complete." She paused.
"But trials are unpredictable.
I want you to be prepared for a process, not just an outcome."
"How long?" I said.
"Realistically?
Eighteen months to trial if he fights it.
He will fight it — he has resources.
But the recorded call is very difficult to argue around." She folded her hands.
"His attorney will push for a plea.
Probably within sixty days of arraignment."
"What kind of plea?"
"That's not my decision to make alone.
But given the charges and the evidence, I would not accept anything that doesn't include prison time." She said it without drama.
"I want you to know that."
I nodded.
"Is there anything you need from me before tomorrow?" I said.
"No.
You've given us everything." She stood.
"Go home to your daughter."
Grace and I walked out into the gray afternoon.
On the sidewalk, Grace stopped and looked at me.
"How are you?" she said.
Not as a formality.
I thought about it.
"I don't know yet," I said honestly.
"Ask me after tomorrow."
She nodded.
We walked to the car.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
I almost didn't answer.
I answered.
"Claire." Daniel's voice.
Low, controlled, stripped of everything — the softness, the calculation, all of it.
Just a voice I had known for fourteen years, emptied out.
"I know the warrant is coming."
I stopped walking.
Grace looked at me.
"Then you know there's nothing left to say," I said.
"I just want you to know—" He stopped.
Started again.
"I told myself it wasn't what it was.
For a long time.
I told myself the odds were fine.
That you'd get out.
That it would just be—" Another stop.
"I don't know when I became someone who could do that."
I stood on the sidewalk in the gray afternoon light.
"I don't know either," I said.
"I'm sorry, Claire." His voice broke on the last word.
Just slightly.
"For what it's worth."
"It's not worth much," I said.
"But I heard you."
I ended the call.
Grace was watching me.
"Are you all right?" she said.
I looked down the street — ordinary Boston afternoon, people moving past, a bus pulling away from a stop.
"Yes," I said.
And I was.
Not because it didn't hurt.
It did.
Fourteen years was fourteen years, and somewhere under the locked door and the fire and the four million dollars was a person I had once loved and a life I had once believed in.
But the hurt was clean.
It was the right kind of hurt — the kind that comes after, not during.
May you like
Grace touched my arm briefly.
We walked to the car.
