The sun showed every detail of her smooth, golden skin.

“I wish I were lying, Chloe,” I said.

“But I didn’t do it,” she said, her voice rising. “I remember the fire. I remember the smoke. I was outside.”

“You were inside the tool shed,” I said.

“No,” she said, shaking her head quickly. “No, I was by the swings.”

“That is what they told you,” I said.

I pointed to our mother, who had covered her face with her hands.

“Ask her,” I said.

Chloe turned to Mother, her eyes wide with sudden terror.

“Mom?” Chloe asked. “What is she talking about?”

Mother did not look up.

Her shoulders shook as she sobbed into her palms.

“We had to do it,” Mother wept. “You don’t understand, Chloe. You wouldn’t stop screaming.”

“What?” Chloe whispered.

“You were hysterical,” Mother said, her voice muffled. “For weeks after the hospital, you couldn’t sleep. You kept saying you wanted to burn the bad things.”

I watched my sister absorb the words.

It was like watching a glass ornament crack from the inside.