Husband Chose Turtle Over Wife

I clutched my small suitcase tighter as I approached the Crawford family home. Three days had passed since I'd been relegated to the guest room above the garage, and I'd come to collect the rest of my belongings. The house looked eerily normal—as if nothing had happened, as if my life hadn't been shattered by fire and betrayal.

I pushed open the front door, only to freeze at the threshold.

Winston stood in the entryway, his arms crossed over his chest. Beside him were three men I recognized from the fire station—Mike, Derek, and Tom. All of them wore their uniforms, as if they'd come straight from work. Their presence filled the hallway with a wall of muscle and intimidation.

"Olive." Winston's voice was cold. "What are you doing here?"

"I came for my things," I said, trying to keep my voice steady despite the fear crawling up my spine. "The rest of my clothes, my jewelry—"

"Those aren't yours anymore," Mike said, stepping forward. His massive frame blocked my path completely. "Winston says you're not welcome here."

I swallowed hard. "Those are my personal belongings. I have every right—"

"Right?" Derek laughed, the sound harsh in the quiet house. "After what you did?"

"What I did?" I whispered, confusion mixing with my fear.

Tom moved to stand beside Derek, effectively forming a human barrier between me and the staircase. "We heard about your little online tantrum. Threatening Reagan? That wasn't very nice."

From behind them, I caught a glimpse of movement. Reagan appeared at the top of the stairs, a delicate smile playing on her lips. She was holding my grandmother's pearl necklace—the one I'd worn on my wedding day.

"Oh, Olive," she said, her voice dripping with false concern. "I was just helping Winston sort through your things. Some of these clothes are so damaged from the fire..."

She held up a blouse I recognized—one of my favorites, now with a small scorch mark along the hem.

"That's still wearable," I said, taking a step forward only to be blocked again by Mike's broad chest.

Reagan tilted her head, her eyes gleaming with triumph as she fastened my necklace around her own throat. "I think this will look better on me anyway. Don't you?"

---

"The court will not look kindly on your refusal to sign these papers, Mrs. Crawford." The Crawford family lawyer—a thin man with cold eyes—slid the documents across the polished conference table.

I stared at the papers without touching them. "These would leave me with nothing."

"Given the circumstances, that's quite generous," Mr. Crawford said, his voice tight with controlled anger. "Considering you destroyed family property worth over two hundred thousand dollars."

I blinked in disbelief. "I didn't start the fire."

"The investigation is ongoing," the lawyer interjected smoothly, "but we have evidence suggesting you were negligent in maintaining a safe household."

Mrs. Crawford leaned forward, her perfectly manicured nails tapping impatiently on the table. "If you don't sign these papers today, we'll be forced to pursue additional charges."

"What charges?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

"Destroying family property, for one," Mr. Crawford said. "And we have witnesses who can attest to your mental instability."

The lawyer opened a folder and removed several sheets of paper. "We've collected statements from several individuals who can confirm your erratic behavior, financial irresponsibility, and history of emotional outbursts."

I scanned the documents—doctored emails, falsified bank statements, and testimonials from people I barely knew claiming to have witnessed my "unstable episodes."

"This is all fake," I whispered, my hands trembling as I pushed the papers away.

"Sign the documents, Olive," Winston said from across the table, his eyes meeting mine for the first time that day. "It's the only way this ends."

---

I sat alone in the small apartment Camille had helped me find, staring at the notes I'd been compiling about the fire. Something didn't add up.

According to the official report, the fire had started in the living room while everyone was in the kitchen. But I remembered Reagan leaving the dinner table early, claiming she needed to check on her turtle.

"She was alone in there for at least twenty minutes," I murmured to myself, writing down the timeline as I remembered it.

And there was something else—something that had been nagging at me since that night.

I flipped back through my notes to a conversation I'd overheard earlier that evening. Reagan had asked Winston about some cleaning supplies he kept in the garage.

"Are those accelerants still in the same place?" she'd asked casually, as if inquiring about dinner.

At the time, I hadn't thought anything of it. Now, I wondered.

Why had Reagan specifically asked about accelerants? And why had she been so interested in exactly where they were stored?

I stared at my notes, a chill running down my spine as the pieces began to form a disturbing picture. The fire hadn't started by accident.

Someone had planned it all along.