“You were six years old, Chloe,” I said gently. “You found the matchbox in the garage. You wanted to see the pretty light, just like the candles on our birthday cake.”

“I… I wanted a candle,” Chloe muttered.

A shadow of a memory seemed to cross her face.

Her eyes drifted toward the stone fireplace at the corner of the patio.

“You dropped the match,” I said. “It landed on the oil rag near the canister. The whole corner of the shed went up in seconds.”

“I ran,” Chloe whispered.

“You ran out,” I said. “And I was trapped behind the lawnmower.”

The backyard was so quiet I could hear the hum of the pool filter.

None of our guests moved.

Even the breeze seemed to have stopped.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Chloe turned to Father, her voice cracking. “Why did you let me think it was just an accident?”

Father finally looked up from his vibrating phone.

His eyes were cold, fixed on me.

“We did it to protect you,” Father said to Chloe. “You were fragile. The doctors said the guilt would destroy your development.”