“But how did the kerosene get inside?” Chloe asked. “Why was the cabin locked?”

The wind blew across the patio, rippling the surface of the pool.

The smell of chlorine was strong, mixing with the scent of wet paper and damp earth.

I looked at Chloe’s perfect, unblemished legs.

Then I looked down at the thick, red skin stretching across my own thigh, the puckered flesh that ran all the way up to my shoulder.

I had carried the weight of those scars for twelve years.

And I had carried the memory of that night, too.

“The door wasn’t locked from the outside, Chloe,” I said.

Chloe shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“The investigator’s report had another page,” I said. “The page that didn’t fall into the pool.”

I reached into my pocket.

My fingers brushed against a folded piece of white paper.

It was a copy of the final page I had taken from Father’s desk before the party.

Father saw my hand move.

His eyes widened.

“Maya, don’t,” Father said. “Please. You have done enough damage today.”

“The truth is damage?” I asked.