She pulled an orange thread from the sleeve of her jumpsuit. “I’m not scared of a trial. It isn’t like I tried to kill somebody. Nobody was in the house when I lit the match.” She was something of a surprise to John Wesley Weiderman, the level way she looked at him, her poise and confidence seemingly unshaken by the grubby experience of jail. For some reason he’d been expecting despondency or a teary plea for lenience. Instead Plover Chase came across as a strong, composed woman who’d just happened in a heartsick lapse of judgment to torch an unoccupied structure.
