Father’s jaw clenched so hard I could see the muscles pulsing under his skin.

“Sarah, you are a guest in our home,” Father said, his tone dripping with fake warmth.

“You do not understand the dynamics of this family.”

“I think we understand enough,” the older officer said, stepping between Father and the rest of us.

He looked at Chloe, then his eyes drifted to me.

I stood there in my sleeveless dress, the red, puckered burn scars on my shoulder and arm fully visible in the harsh sunlight.

The officer’s eyes lingered on the damaged tissue for a long moment.

“Are you Maya?” the officer asked me.

“Yes,” I said.

“And you are Chloe?” he asked, looking at my sister.

“Yes,” Chloe said.

“Did your father lay hands on either of you just now?” the officer asked.

“He tried to,” Chloe said.

“He tried to stop me from telling the truth.”

Father made a small, frustrated sound in his throat.

“This is ridiculous,” Father said.

“My daughter is emotional.”

“She has had too much to drink at her party,” Father added, though there was no cup in Chloe’s hand.