It was a quiet exodus of the wealthy and embarrassed.

Within ten minutes, the yard was empty.

Only the caterers remained, standing near the back door, unsure of what to do.

“Should we clean up, miss?” one of them asked.

He was a young guy, holding a tray of clean glasses.

“Yes,” I said. “Please.”

He nodded quickly and retreated into the kitchen.

Chloe turned to me, her face pale.

“I didn’t know,” she said.

Her eyes were pooling with tears.

“I swear to you, Maya, I didn’t know about the money.”

“I know,” I said.

“They told me your scars couldn’t be fixed,” she said.

She reached out, her fingers trembling as if she wanted to touch my sleeve.

“They said the skin was too damaged.”

“They lied about everything, Chloe,” I said.

I looked down at my right arm, covered by the heavy fabric of my sweater.

Underneath, the skin was tight, puckered, and red.

It was the physical record of the night our kitchen burned.

I had carried that record alone.

“Where did the money go?” Chloe asked, her voice shaking. “My school? My car?”