“I wanted to talk, not catch pneumonia,” I say. “Why are we out here?”

“You don’t like it here?”

“No, not particularly. Not in the moment.”

“So you don’t know what’s special about this place, then.”

“Should I?”

She doesn’t answer. Instead, my sister says, “I think you want to be careful how you talk to my family. Willow told me what you said to her. You said things you had no right saying.”

If this is what she wants to talk about, I’m happy to engage, because my ammunition stockpile dwarfs hers. “You told her I killed Riley. And she was telling Max that while you were upstairs having sex.”

This catches her off guard, but only for a moment. “Did you like what you heard?”

“Don’t be disgusting.”

“He likes to be dominated, you know.” With her bright eyes gleaming in the amber streetlight, her smooth skin, perfect blond hair, and freckles of snow collecting on her baby-blue wool hat, Cora looks right out of an L.L. Bean Christmas catalog. “You wouldn’t think it,” she continues. “So tall. So strong. Confident. But he’s not happy unless he’s bleeding. You know, just a little.” She winks. “It’s a symbiotic relationship.”

“Your family is so messed up.”

“Our family,” she corrects.

I know my sister isn’t right. I’ve known that for a long time. She’s a broken toy glued and painted over so it still gleams from the outside, but if you were to shake her, you’d hear the loose parts rattle within. “Cora, did you really kill that dog?”

She looks me up and down, smiling. “Now why on earth would I do something like that?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

“I don’t have anything against Tasha. I mean, I hardly know her. It seems to me the only person who would want to threaten her is you, Little Sister.”

This was what I expected her to say and what I hoped she wouldn’t. I wipe a thin layer of melted snow out of my eyes. “You killed her dog so she’d suspect me. Everything you’re doing is to set me up. Make me look guilty for Riley.” I lean in, whispering in the absence of any others. “For Caleb. Jesus, Cora, after all I did for you. For all the secrets I’ve kept.”

“I don’t think you have anything to be afraid of,” she says. “Unless, of course, your prints are on a missing steak knife from Dad’s kitchen.”

This hits me with an unexpected right hook. “You used one of Dad’s knives and left it at the scene?”

“Oh, no. I’m sure whoever did such a terrible thing would’ve kept the knife as insurance. Ready to plant it at any time.”

“There’s a higher likelihood Dad’s prints are on there than mine.”

She shrugs. “All I know is mine aren’t on it.”

I take a small step back, almost expecting a flash of that same knife thrusting into my stomach. “You lured that animal out of its yard and slit its throat. You’re a monster.”