Chapter 3
The air in the ballroom left.
No one breathed.
Beatrice froze.
For half a second, I saw it.
The terror in her eyes.
The same terror I’d seen that night, reflected in the flames.
“What about the fire?” someone called out from a back table.
I kept my eyes locked on Beatrice.
“I was nineteen,” I said. “Working a double shift at the diner. Got home at two in the morning.”
My voice didn’t shake.
I’d told this story to Liam a hundred times.
To the therapist he’d made me see.
To the police, once, before they’d decided a scared, burned girl’s word didn’t matter against a respected businesswoman’s.
“The house was already on fire when I pulled up,” I said. “The whole front porch was in flames. Beatrice was standing on the lawn, holding Chloe’s overnight bag, watching it burn.”
Beatrice let out a strangled sound.
“I told you!” she screamed. “I tried to get in! I tried to save you! The smoke was too thick!”
“You were wearing your good coat,” I said. “Your hair was perfect. You didn’t have a single scratch on you. You didn’t even smell like smoke.”
I paused.
“Because you were never inside.”
The room erupted in murmurs.
“Lies!” Beatrice shrieked. “All lies! She’s been brain damaged since the fire! She doesn’t know what she’s saying!”
I held up a hand.
The room went quiet again.
“Three days after the fire,” I said, “I went back to what was left of the house. Looking for anything of my mom’s that survived.”
My throat tightened, just a little.
“I found a gas can. Buried under a pile of charred wood in the backyard. The kind you use for lawnmowers.”
Beatrice went completely still.
“Our lawnmower was electric,” I said.
I nodded at Mr. Henderson.
He opened his briefcase and pulled out a clear evidence bag.
Inside was a dented, rusted gas can.
“The police ran the prints last week,” I said. “They found two sets. Mine… and Aunt Beatrice’s.”
A woman in the front row gasped and dropped her fork.
Chloe stood up so fast her chair scraped loud across the floor.
“That doesn’t mean anything!” she yelled. “She probably touched it after! She’s framing us! Mom would never—”
She stopped.
Too late.
I saw the exact moment she realized what she’d said.
“Never what, Chloe?” I said, soft. “Never set a house on fire with her own niece inside?”
Tears spilled down Chloe’s face.
Panicked, messy tears.
“She said you were gone!” she sobbed. “She said you were staying at a friend’s house! She said the house was empty! I didn’t know! I swear I didn’t know!”
The room went dead silent.
Dead.
Chloe clapped both hands over her mouth.
But it was too late.
She’d just confessed.
For a long, terrible second, no one moved.
Then Beatrice screamed.
A raw, animal sound.
She lunged at Chloe, nails out, screaming that she was a stupid, ungrateful brat who’d ruined everything.
Two men from the nearest table jumped up and pulled her back.
She fought them.
Kicked. Screamed. Spit.
Called me every name she could think of.
Every name she’d ever called me when no one was listening.
Ugly.
Freak.
Waste of space.
I stood there, mic in hand, and let her scream.
For the first time in my life, her words didn’t hurt.
They didn’t cut.
They just sounded like what they were.
The raving of a woman who’d just lost everything.
Liam stepped up beside me.
Wrapped one arm tight around my waist.
“I think that’s enough,” he said, his voice carrying over the noise.
He took the mic from my hand.
May you like
Looked out over the room.
And dropped the last bomb.
