My father followed her, his shoulders hunched, his eyes fixed on the handcuffs chaining his wrists to his belt.

Then came Melanie.

She looked pale, her skin sallow under the harsh fluorescent lights of the courtroom.

She glared at me as she took her seat, her lips curling into a silent snarl.

I kept my expression neutral, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.

Judge Thomas, a stern man with wire-rimmed glasses, took the bench.

The trial lasted four agonizing days.

The prosecutor played the recording of the emergency call I made from the basement.

The sound of my own panicked breathing echoed through the silent courtroom.

I watched the jurors wince as they heard me pleading for help while the cellar filled with fumes.

Arthur Bennett took the stand on the second afternoon.

He was dressed in his best Sunday suit, his hands trembling slightly as he placed them on the Bible.

“I saw Melanie Davis lock that cellar door,” Arthur testified, his voice carrying clearly through the room.

“She knew her sister was down there.”