“Some truths don’t help anyone,” Father said.

His voice sounded older, stripped of its authority.

Mother looked up from her hands.

She was staring at me with a look of pure begging.

“Maya, she doesn’t know,” Mother whispered. “She was too young. She blocked it out.”

Chloe looked between us, her breathing getting faster.

“Blocked what out?” Chloe asked. “Maya, what are they talking about?”

I pulled the paper from my pocket.

It was dry.

The black text was perfectly clear.

“You always wondered why you didn’t get any scars, Chloe,” I said.

“Because I was near the window,” Chloe said, her voice shaking. “You told me you pushed me out first.”

“I did push you out,” I said. “But that is not why I got burned.”

The young officer took a step closer, watching us intently.

The rusted canister in his hand caught the afternoon sun.

“The fire didn’t start by itself,” I said.

Chloe shook her head. “What do you mean?”

I opened the paper.

“The investigator found a box of matches on the floor,” I said. “Right next to the knocked-over canister.”