I see the moment she realizes this very thing, because her gaze lowers to the ground and her arm goes limp. I let go of her wrist and she immediately takes a step back.

“We all know you were always the violent one, Rose.” Cora manages a feeble smirk.

“That’s not true at all.”

“Sure, it is. After all, you were the one who killed Caleb Benner.”

The name smashes into me, and I think it’s the first time I’ve heard it from my sister’s mouth in at least ten years. I turn my head to see if anyone is in eavesdropping range, but no one is. Still, what a foolish thing to say out loud. Foolish, and a lie.

“You know that’s not true,” I say. “You were the one.”

Now the feeble smirk blossoms into a hearty smile. “That’s not how I remember it. And that’s not the way I’m going to describe it to the police once they come asking questions after your book comes out.” She must be certain I’m not going to attack, because she takes a step closer. “You’re the one putting us all at risk,” she adds. “I need to take measures to protect myself.”

The desire to hurt my own sister almost overpowers me, and for a moment, I see our similarities more than our differences. I resist my primal urges but stand my ground. Then I lean in closer, because I want her to smell the fury on me.

“How goddamn dare you,” I whisper. “What you did that night has bled onto every part of my life. Every decision I’ve made since then has been influenced by what you did. You think I studied criminal justice on a whim? That I became a mystery writer because I love plotting out fictional murders? That I came home because I missed my morally bankrupt family? Every fucking thing I do in this world is done to either avoid or confront my past, but I can never just be. All I want to do is just be, and I can’t. That’s what you’ve done to me. I know you don’t understand because you have no conscience, much less a soul. I can’t change the past, but I sure as hell won’t let you change the story about what happened that night. No. Fucking. Way.”

Max comes up again, startling me to the point that I almost scream. I look down at him, not even getting the satisfaction of seeing Cora’s reaction to my words.

“I want to go home,” he says, tugging my arm.

“Max, quit pulling on me.” My voice is harsher than I want it to be, but I’m not in a gentle space right now.

“I don’t like it here,” he says.

“You just started. What’s wrong?”

“Everything is stupid.”

His plastic teeth are missing, likely spit onto someone’s lawn. And nothing’s stupid. It’s a code word he uses when he’s uncomfortable, overwhelmed, or scared. The brief joy he had at trick-or-treating has vanished.