“Don’t touch her,” I said.

My voice wasn’t loud, but it made Father pause.

He looked at me, his eyes full of a sudden, desperate hatred.

“This is what you wanted,” Father said to me.

“You wanted to ruin us,” he said.

“I wanted the truth,” I said.

“The truth doesn’t pay the mortgage,” Father spat.

“The truth doesn’t keep the lights on in a place like this.”

“I don’t care about this place,” Chloe screamed.

She grabbed a decorative glass bowl from the patio table and flung it.

It missed Father and smashed against the brick pillar behind him.

Blue glass beads poured out of it, rolling across the stone like marbles.

Down by the lawn, more guests were gathering, murmuring to one another.

I saw Mrs. Gable, our neighbor, holding her phone to her ear, her eyes wide as she watched us.

She was whispering rapidly into the receiver.

Chloe didn’t notice them; she was entirely focused on our parents.

“You made me accomplice to this,” Chloe said, her voice cracking with deep pain.

“I wore the dresses you bought me,” she said to Mother.