“Because the fire wasn’t an accident,” I said.

The patio seemed to go completely silent, though the music was still playing.

My mother let out a small, choked sob and covered her mouth with both hands.

My father didn’t deny it. He just stared at me, his eyes hard as flint.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, his voice a flat line. “You’re a child. You don’t understand how the world works.”

“I understand that you burned down our home for money,” I said. “And I understand that I was asleep in my bed when you did it.”

Chloe’s cup slipped from her fingers, clattering onto the flagstones.

The water and ice splashed over her bare feet.

“Dad?” she whispered, looking at him. “Is that true?”

“Of course not,” my father said, though his voice lacked its usual strength. “The investigators cleared us. It was an electrical issue in the basement.”

“Because you paid them off with the money from the Clara Thomas account,” I said. “The account that is still active today.”

My mother looked down at the stone floor.