He seemed to stare directly into the orange light, which was quickly fading and leaving a pale indigo shadow in its place. “She was sneaking away from school for the weekend—she’d forged herself a permission slip and she and her friends went to somebody’s lake house. I told her not to go. And then she fell off the dock and cut her foot, and the doctors think some weird bacteria got into her bloodstream. She came home so Mom could keep an eye on her, and she never got better. That was October . . . by the time I got home for Christmas, she was . . . like she is now.” He stared at the ground. “They said she’s lucky she didn’t lose her arms and legs—or die. But she lost plenty.”

I’ll say.

“I know it’s nothing compared to your life. And it sounds terrible to say it. But it’s like the sister I knew . . . died.” He sighed heavily. “I could have talked her out of it. I should have tried harder. She’s somebody else now, and it’s too late to say sorry.”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

He was quiet for a long time. He stared at Lily’s grave, but it was like he was seeing something else.

“I told her . . .” he said, and his voice wavered. “I told her she was just asking for something bad to happen.”

I didn’t say anything.

“And she said . . . ‘You probably want something bad to happen to me. So I can learn my lesson.’ But I didn’t. I swear I didn’t.”

“Of course you didn’t,” I said.

“But when she was getting sicker . . .” He stared at the ground. “Did she know? Did she know I didn’t really want something bad to happen to her? Or did she think I was glad?”

“She would never think that,” I said. “No sane person would ever think that.”

“And then . . . I left,” he said. “She was so sick at Christmas, and I still went back to school.”

“You had to. You couldn’t quit school.”

“But what if she’d died?”

“She’s not that sick.” I thought about Agatha. “She doesn’t seem sick at all, actually. Just zoned out.”

“I’ve abandoned her, though. I don’t think I realized that until I met you.” His eyes turned to meet mine reluctantly. “If I was rude to you in the beginning, that’s why. Because I’m . . . I’m ashamed. I’m a bad brother. And you being the way you are just makes it so much more obvious.”

“The way I am?” I asked, a little alarmed and hurt. “What am I doing wrong?”

“No, Margot,” he said, looking down at me. “I mean . . . you’re great.”

Oh, whispered my heart.

I looked up at him.