He held a small plastic evidence bag in his hand.

Inside the bag was a rusted metal canister.

My heart stopped.

I recognized that canister from the old cabin.

The young officer walked toward us, his boots clicking on the damp concrete.

My father stepped in front of him, trying to block his path.

“Officer, this is a private family matter,” Father said, his voice tight and low. “The guests are leaving.”

The officer did not look at the guests.

He looked at the canister in his hand, then at my mother.

“Mr. and Mrs. Vance,” the officer said. “We found this near the old cabin site.”

“The case was closed twelve years ago,” Father said, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.

The plastic bag crinkled as the officer held it up.

Inside, the red paint on the metal was peeling and scorched black.

I knew that canister.

It had held the kerosene my father used for the old heater.

Chloe ignored the officer.

She knelt by the edge of the pool, her blue party dress dragging in the puddle of water.